As has been said, it was a brilliant entertainment and the Baroness de Simonie might well be content with it; for though the hostess she had also been its queen.  Every one, French as well as Austrians, Russians and Italians, Hungarians and Poles, had offered her enthusiastic homage; had expressed in glowing encomiums their greatful thanks for the magnificent festival she had given.

She had been radiant, too, in grace and beauty yesterday evening.  The gayest jests were throned upon her scarlet lips, the proudest light had sparkled in her large black eyes, the most radiant roses of youth had bloomed on her delicate cheeks, and the long black tresses which, with wonderful luxuriance, encircled her high white brow, had been to many the Armida nets in which their hearts were prisoned.

But to-day, on the morning after this festival, all that was left of the brilliant queen of the ball was a pale, exhausted young woman, who lay on the divan with a sorrowful expression in her eyes, while ever and anon deep sighs of pain escaped from her breast.

She was in her boudoir, whose equipments displayed French luxury and taste.  Everything about her bore the appearance of wealth, happiness, and pleasure, yet her face was sad—­yet Leonore de Simonie sighed—­yet her lips sometimes murmured words of lamentation, satiety, even bitter suffering.  But suddenly a ray of delight flitted over her face; a happy smile brightened her pale features; and this was when, among the many letters the servant had just brought to her, she discovered the little note which she had just read and then, with passionate impetuosity, pressed to her lips.

“He will come, oh, he will come; he will be with me in an hour!” she whispered, again glancing over the note with beaming, happy eyes, and then thrusting it into her bosom.

“This is mine,” she said softly; “my property; no one shall dispute it with me, and—­”

A tremor ran through every limb, a burning blush crimsoned her cheeks, then yielded to a deep pallor—­she had heard steps approaching in the drawing-room outside, recognized the voice which called her name.

“He is coming!” she murmured.  “It is he!  My executioner is approaching to begin the tortures of the rack afresh.”

At that moment the door which led into the apartment really did open, and a little gentleman, daintily and fashionably attired, entered.

“May I venture to pay my respects to Baroness de Simonie?” he asked, pausing at the door and bowing low, with a smiling face.

Leonore did not answer.  She lay motionless on the divan, her beautiful figure outstretched at full length, her face calm and indifferent, her large eyes uplifted with a dreamy expression to the ceiling.

“Madame la Baronne does not seem to have heard me,” said the gentleman, shrugging his shoulders.  “I ventured to ask the question whether I could pay my respects to you.”