But while he still stood gazing disconsolately in the direction that she must have taken, a little page, dressed in a dark brown livery, and with his cap pulled down over his eyes, suddenly appeared beside him, and accosted him politely in a high childish treble, which he vainly strove to render more manly.  “Are you M. Leander? the one who played Lygdamon a while ago?”

“Yes, I am,” answered Leander, amused at the pretentious airs of his small interlocutor, “and pray what can I do for you, my little man?”

“Oh! nothing for me, thank you,” said the page, with a significant smile, “only I am charged to deliver a message to you—­if you are disposed to hear it—­from the lady of the mask.”

“From the lady of the mask!” cried Leander.  “Oh I tell me quickly what it is; I am dying to hear it.”

“Well, here it is, then, word for word,” said the tiny page jauntily.  “If Lygdamon is as brave as he is gallant, he will go at midnight to the open square in front of the church, where he will find a carriage awaiting him; he will enter it without question, as without fear, and go whither it will take him.”

Before the astonished Leander had time to answer, the page had disappeared in the crowd, leaving him in great perplexity, for if his heart beat high with joy at the idea of a romantic adventure, his shoulders still reminded him painfully of the beating he had received in a certain park at dead of night, and he remembered with a groan how he had been lured on to his own undoing.  Was this another snare spread for him by some envious wretch who begrudged him his brilliant success that evening, and was jealous of the marked favour he had found in the eyes of the fair ladies of Poitiers?  Should he encounter some furious husband at the rendezvous, sword in hand, ready to fall upon him and run him through the body?  These thoughts chilled his ardour, and had nearly caused him to disregard entirely the page’s mysterious message.  Yet, if he did not profit by this tempting opportunity, which looked so promising, he might make a terrible mistake; and, if he failed to go, would not the lady of the mask suspect him of cowardice, and be justified in so doing?  This thought was insupportable to the gallant Leander, and he decided to venture, though low be it spoken—­in fear and trembling.  He hastened back to the hotel, scarcely touched the substantial supper provided for the comedians—­his appetite lost in his intense excitement—­and retiring to his own chamber made an elaborate toilet; curling and perfuming his hair and mustache, and sparing no pains to make himself acceptable to the lovely lady of the mask.  He armed himself with a dagger and a sword, though he did not know how to use either; but he thought that the mere sight of them might inspire awe.

When he was all ready at last, he drew his broad felt hat well down over his eyes, threw the corner of his cloak over his shoulder, in Spanish fashion, so as to conceal the lower part of his face, and crept stealthily out of the hotel—­for once being lucky enough to escape the observation of his wily tormentor, Scapin, who was at that moment snoring his loudest in his own room at the other end of the house.