The chariot started on its way again as he spoke, at rather a better pace than the lumbering old ox-cart.  They were travelling through a part of the country now which was a great contrast to the desolate Landes.  To the Baron de Sigognac, who had never been beyond their desolate expanse before, it was a revelation, and he could not sufficiently admire the richness and beauty of this region.  The productive, red soil was highly cultivated—­not an inch of ground neglected—­comfortable, often handsome, stone houses scattered along their route at frequent intervals, and surrounded by large, luxuriant gardens, spoke of a well-to-do population.  On each side of the broad, smooth road was a row of fine trees, whose falling leaves lay piled upon the ground in yellow heaps, or whirled in the wind before de Sigognac and Isabelle, as they walked along beneath their spreading branches, finding the exercise a welcome relief after sitting for a long time in the chariot in rather a cramped position.  One day as they were walking thus side by side, de Sigognac said to his fair companion, “I wish you would tell me, Isabelle, how it has happened that you, with all the characteristics of a lady of lofty lineage in the innate modesty and dignity of your manners, the refinement and purity of your language, the incomparable grace of your carriage, the elevation of your sentiments upon all subjects, to say nothing of the delicate, aristocratic type of your beauty—­should have become a member of a wandering band of players like this—­good, honest people no doubt, but not of the same rank or race as yourself.”

“Don’t fancy that I am a princess in disguise, or a great lady reduced to earn my living in this way,” she replied, with an adorable smile, “merely because of some good qualities you think you have discovered in me.  The history of my life is a very simple, uneventful one, but since you show such kind interest in me I will gladly relate it to you.  So far from being brought down to the station I occupy by some grievous catastrophe or romantic combination of adverse circumstances, I was born to the profession of an actress—­the chariot of Thespis was, so to say, my birthplace.  My mother, who was a very beautiful woman and finished actress, played the part of tragic princess.  She did not confine her role to the theatre, but exacted as much deference and respect from those around her when off the stage, as she received upon it, until she came to consider herself a veritable princess.  She had all the majesty and grace of one, and was greatly admired and courted, but never would suffer any of the gallants, who flutter about pretty actresses like moths around a candle, to approach her—­holding herself entirely above them, and keeping her good name unsullied through everything.  An account of this unusual conduct on the part of a beautiful young actress chanced to reach the ears of a certain rich and powerful prince, who was very much struck and interested by it, and