l face and slender, almost childlike figure,
which appeared still more so above the wide hoops and draped panniers of
the fashions of Moliere's time.

Whether she was beautiful or not the young man hardly knew. Measured
by certain standards, she certainly was not so, for her mouth was not
small, and her nose anything but classical in outline. But the eyes
were brown, and they had that half-veiled look in them--shaded with long
lashes that seemed to make a perpetual tender appeal to the masculine
heart: the lips, too, were full and moist, and the teeth dazzling white.
Yes!--on the whole we might easily say that she was exquisite, even
though we did not admit that she was beautiful.

Painter David has made a sketch of her; we have all seen it at the Musee
Carnavalet, and all wondered why that charming, if irregular, little
face made such an impression of sadness.

There are five acts in "Le Misanthrope," during which Celimene is almost
constantly on the stage. At the end of the fourth act de Batz said
casually to his friend:

"I have the honour of personal acquaintanceship with Mlle. Lange. An you
care for an introduction to her, we can go round to the green room after
the play."

Did prudence then whisper, "Desist"? Did loyalty to the leader murmur,
"Obey"? It were indeed difficult to say. Armand St. Just was not
five-and-twenty, and Mlle. Lange's melodious voice spoke louder than the
whisperings of prudence or even than the call of duty.

He thanked de Batz warmly, and during the last half-hour, while the
misanthropical lover spurned repentant Celimene, he was conscious of a
curious sensation of impatience, a tingling of his nerves, a wild, mad
longing to hear those full moist lips pronounce his name, and have those
large brown eyes throw their half-veiled look into his own.

CHAPTER IV. MADEMOISELLE LANGE

The green-room was crowded when de Batz and St. Just arrived there after
the performance. The older man cast a hasty glance through the open
door. The crowd did not suit his purpose, and he dragged his companion
hurriedly away from the contemplation of Mlle. Lange, sitting in a far
corner of the room, surrounded by an admiring throng, and by innumerable
floral tributes offered to her beauty and to her success.

De Batz without a word led the way back towards the stage. Here, by the
dim light of tallow candles fixed in sconces against the surrounding
walls, the scene-shifters were busy moving drop-scenes