A gentle, loving remonstrance from Isabelle, as she held de Sigognac’s hands, all hot and trembling with suppressed rage, between her own soft, cool palms, and caressingly interlaced her slender white fingers with his, did more to pacify him than all the rest, and he finally yielded to her persuasions; promising to keep quiet himself, and allow, things to go on just as usual.

Meantime the representations of the troupe had met with splendid success.  Isabelle’s modest grace and refined beauty, Serafina’s more brilliant charms, the soubrette’s sparkling vivacity and bewitching coquetry, the superb extravagances of Captain Fracasse, the tyrant’s majestic mien, Leander’s manly beauty, the grotesque good humour of the pedant, Scapin’s spicy deviltries, and the duenna’s perfect acting had taken Paris by storm, and their highest hopes were likely to be realized.  Having triumphantly won the approbation of the Parisians, nothing was wanting but to gain also that of the court, then at Saint Germain, and a rumour had reached their ears that they were shortly to be summoned thither; for it was asserted that the king, having heard such favourable reports of them, had expressed a desire to see them himself.  Whereas Herode, in his character of treasurer, greatly rejoiced, and all felt a pleasant excitement at the prospect of so distinguished an honour.  Meanwhile the troupe was often in requisition to give private representations at the houses of various people of rank and wealth in Paris, and it quickly became the fashion among them to offer this very popular style of entertainment to their guests.

Thus it befell that the tyrant, being perfectly accustomed to that sort of thing, was not at all surprised, or suspicious of evil, when one fine morning a stranger, of most venerable and dignified mien, presented himself at the hotel in the Rue Dauphine, and asked to speak with him on business.  He appeared to be the major-domo, or steward, of some great nobleman’s establishment, and, in effect, announced to Herode that he had been sent to consult with him, as manager of the troupe, by his master, the Comte de Pommereuil.

This highly respectable old functionary was richly dressed in black velvet, and had a heavy gold chain round his neck.  His face was slightly sunburnt; the wavy hair that fell upon his shoulders, his thick, bushy eyebrows, heavy mustache, and long, sweeping beard were all white as snow.  He had the most patriarchal, benevolent air imaginable, and a very gentle, yet dignified manner.  The tyrant could not help admiring him very much, as he said, courteously, “Are you, sir, the famous Herode I am in quest of, who rules with a hand as firm as Apollo’s the excellent company of comedians now playing in Paris?  Their renown has gone abroad, beyond the walls of the city, and penetrated even to my master’s ears, on his estate out in the country.”

“Yes, I have the honour to be the man you seek,” the tyrant answered, bowing very graciously.