“Mademoiselle, will you kindly tell me how you came by this ring, which recalls very dear and sacred memories to me?  Has it been long in your possession?”

“I have had it ever since my infancy; it is the only thing that my poor mother left me,” Isabelle replied, with gentle dignity.

“And who was your mother?  Will you, tell me something about her?” continued the prince, with increasing emotion.

“Her name was Cornelia, and she was an actress, belonging to the same troupe that I am a member of now.”

“Cornelia! then there is no possible doubt about it,” murmured the prince to himself, in great agitation.  “Yes, it is certainly she whom I have been seeking all these years—­and now to find her thus!”

Then, controlling his emotion, he resumed his usual calm, majestic demeanour, and turning back to Isabelle, said to her, “Permit me to keep this ring for the present; I will soon give it back to you.”

“I am content to leave it in your lordship’s hands,” the young actress replied, in whose mind the memory of a face, that she had seen long years ago bending over her cradle, was growing clearer and more distinct every moment.

“Gentlemen,” said the prince, turning to de Sigognac and his companions, “under any other circumstances I might find your presence here, in my chateau, with arms in your hands, unwarranted, but I am aware of the necessity that drove you to forcibly invade this mansion, hitherto sacred from such scenes as this—­I know that violence must be met with violence, and justifies it; therefore I shall take no further notice of what has happened here to-night, and you need have no fears of any evil consequences to yourselves because of your share in it.  But where is the Duke of Vallombreuse? that degenerate son who disgraces my old age.”

As if in obedience to his father’s call, the young duke at that moment appeared upon the threshold of the door leading into what had been Isabelle’s apartment, supported by Malartic.  He was frightfully pale, and his clinched hand pressed a handkerchief tightly upon his wounded chest.  He came forward with difficulty, looking like a ghost.  Only a strong effort of will kept him from falling—­an effort that gave to his face the immobility of a marble mask.  He had heard the voice of his father, whom, depraved and shameless as he was, he yet respected and dreaded, and he hoped to be able to conceal his wound from him.  He bit his lips so as not to cry out or groan in his agony, and resolutely swallowed down the bloody foam that kept rising and filling his mouth.  He even took off his hat, in spite of the frightful pain the raising of his arm caused him, and stood uncovered and silent before his angry parent.