“That’s charming!” the soubrette exclaimed.  “I see that you two are just the same good old souls as ever, and that you have missed your little Zerbine.”

Several servants now came in, carrying trunks, boxes, portmanteaus, packages, no end of baggage, which Zerbine counted over and found correct; and when they had gone she opened two or three of the larger chests with the keys she had on a small silver ring.  They were filled with all sorts of handsome things—­silks and velvets, laces and jewels—­and among the rest a long purse, crammed as full as it could hold of gold pieces, which Zerbine poured out in a heap on the table; seeming to take a childish delight in looking at and playing with her golden treasure, while laughing and chattering merrily all the time.

“Serafina would burst with rage and envy if she should see all this money,” said she gaily, “so we will keep it out of her sight.  I only show it to you to prove that I didn’t need to return to my profession, but was actuated by a pure love of my art.  As to you, my good old friends, if your finances happen to be not just as you could wish, put your paws into this and help yourselves; take just as much as ever they will hold.”

The two actors thanked her heartily for her generous offer, but assured her that they were very well off, and in need of no assistance.

“Ah well!” said Zerbine, “it will be for another time then.  I shall put it away in my strong box, and keep it for you, like a faithful treasurer.”

“But surely you haven’t abandoned the poor marquis,” said Blazius, rather reproachfully.  “Of course I know there was no question of his giving you up; you are not one of that sort.  The role of Ariadne would not suit you at all; you are a Circe.  Yet he is a splendid young nobleman-handsome, wealthy, amiable, and not wanting in wit.”

“Oh!  I haven’t given him up; very far from it,” Zerbine replied, with a saucy smile.  “I shall guard him carefully, as the most precious gem in my casket.  Though I have quitted him for the moment, he will shortly follow me.”

“Fugax sequax, sequax fugax,” the pedant rejoined; “these four Latin words, which have a cabalistic sound, not unlike the croaking of certain batrachians, and might have been borrowed, one would say, from the ‘Comedy of the Frogs,’ by one Aristophanes, an Athenian poet, contain the very pith and marrow of all theories of love and lovemaking; they would make a capital rule to regulate everybody’s conduct—­of the virile as well as of the fair sex.”

“And what under the sun do your fine Latin words mean, you pompous old pedant?” asked Zerbine.  “You have neglected to translate them, entirely forgetting that not everybody has been professor in a college, and knight of the ferule, like yourself.”

“Their meaning,” he replied, “may be expressed in this little couplet:  ’If you fly from men, they’ll be sure to pursue, But if you follow them, they will fly from you.”