“What do you think, my lord, of all these wonderful events?” said the tyrant, after a long silence, to de Sigognac, beside whom he was riding.  “It all ends up like a regular tragi-comedy.  Who would ever have dreamed, in the midst of the melee, of the sudden entrance upon the scene of the grand old princely father, preceded by torches, and coming to put a little wholesome restraint on the too atrociously outrageous pranks of his dissolute young son?  And then the recognition of Isabelle as his daughter, by means of the ring with a peculiar device of his own engraved upon it; haven’t you seen exactly the same sort of thing on the stage?  But, after all, it is not so surprising perhaps as it seems at the first glance—­since the theatre is only a copy of real life.  Therefore, real life should resemble it, just as the original does the portrait, eh?  I have always heard that our sweet little actress was of noble birth.  Blazius and old Mme. Leonarde remember seeing the prince when he was devoted to Cornelia.  The duenna has often tried to persuade Isabelle to seek out her father, but she is of too modest and gentle a nature to take a step of that kind; not wishing to intrude upon a family that might reject her, and willing to content herself in her own lowly, position.”

“Yes, I knew all about that,” rejoined de Sigognac, “for Isabelle told me some time ago her mother’s history, and spoke of the ring; but without attaching any importance to the fact of her illustrious origin.  It is very evident, however, from the nobility and delicacy of her nature, without any other proof, that princely blood flows in her veins; and also the refined, pure, elevated type of her beauty testifies to her descent.  But what a terrible fatality that this cursed Vallombreuse should turn out to be her brother!  There is a dead body between us now—­a stream of blood separates us—­and yet, I could not save her honour in any other way.  Unhappy mortal that I am!  I have myself created the obstacle upon which my love is wrecked, and killed my hopes of future bliss with the very sword that defended the purity of the woman I adore.  In guarding her I love, I have put her away from me forever.  How could I go now and present myself to Isabelle with blood-stained hands?  Alas! that the blood which I was forced to shed in her defence should have been her brother’s.  Even if she, in her heavenly goodness, could forgive me, and look upon me without a feeling of horror, the prince, her father, would repulse and curse me as the murderer of his only son.  I was born, alas! under an unlucky star.”

“Yes, it is all very sad and lamentable, certainly,” said the tyrant; “but worse entanglements than this have come out all right in the end.  You must remember that the Duke of Vallombreuse is only half-brother to Isabelle, and that they were aware of the relationship but for a few minutes before he fell dead at our feet; which must make a great difference in her feelings.  And besides, she hated that overbearing nobleman, who pursued her so cruelly with his violent and scandalous gallantries.  The prince himself was far from being satisfied with his wretched son—­who was ferocious as Nero, dissolute as Heliogabalus, and perverse as Satan himself, and who would have been hanged ten times over if he had not been a duke.  Do not be so disheartened! things may turn out a great deal better than you think now.”