At these glorious reminiscences de Sigognac raised his head proudly, and held it high; he felt the pure blood of his ancestors throbbing in his veins, and his heart beat tumultuously.  Zerbine, who was watching him, was surprised at the strange inward beauty—­if the expression may be allowed—­that seemed to shine through the young baron’s ordinarily sad countenance, and illuminate it.  “These nobles,” she said to herself, “are certainly a race by themselves; they look as if they had sprung from the side of Jupiter, not been born into the world like ordinary mortals.  At the least word their pride is up in arms, and transforms them, as it does the Baron de Sigognae now.  If he should make love to me, with eyes like those, I simply could not resist him; I should have to throw over my marquis.  Why, he fairly glows with heroism; he is god-like.”

Meantime de Sigognac, in blissful ignorance of this ardent admiration, which would have been so distasteful to him, was saying to the marquis, “Such being your opinion of my family, you will not, I fancy, object to carry a challenge from me to the Duke of Vallombreuse.”

“Assuredly I will do it for you,” answered the marquis, in a grave, measured way, widely different from his habitual good-natured, easy carelessness of manner and speech; “and, moreover, I offer my own services as your second.  To-morrow morning I will present myself at the duke’s night in your behalf; there is one thing to be said in his favour—­that although he may be, in fact is, very insolent, he is no coward, and he will no longer intrench himself behind his dignity when he is made acquainted with your real rank.  But enough of this subject for the present; I will see you to-morrow morning in good season, and we will not weary poor Zerbine any longer with our man’s talk of affairs of honour.  I can plainly see that she is doing her best to suppress a yawn, and we would a great deal rather that a smile should part her pretty red lips, and disclose to us the rows of pearls within.  Come, Zerbine, fill the Baron de Sigognac’s glass, and let us be merry again.”

The soubrette obeyed, and with as much grace and dexterity as if she had been Hebe in person; everything that she attempted to do she did well, this clever little actress.

The conversation became animated, and did not touch upon any other grave subject, but was mainly about Zerbine’s own acting—­the marquis overwhelming her with compliments upon it, in which de Sigognac could truthfully and sincerely join him, for the soubrette had really shown incomparable spirit, grace, and talent.  They also talked of the productions of M. de Scudery—­who was one of the most brilliant writers of the day—­which the marquis declared that he considered perfect, but slightly soporific; adding that he, for his part, decidedly preferred the Rodomontades of Captain Fracasse to Lygdamon et Lydias—­he was a gentleman of taste, the marquis!