“He would not disclose her name to me.  He confessed her to be a dear friend of his.”

She startled him by laughing, and her laugh was not pleasant.

“A very dear friend, you may be sure, you simpleton.  What name do you bear?”

He restrained his own rising indignation to answer her question calmly:  “Moreau.  It was given me, so I am told, from the Brittany village in which I was born.  But I have no claim to it.  In fact I have no name, unless it be Scaramouche, to which I have earned a title.  So that you see, my dear,” he ended with a smile, “I have practised no deception whatever.”

“No, no.  I see that now.”  She laughed without mirth, then drew a deep breath and rose.  “I am very tired,” she said.

He was on his feet in an instant, all solicitude.  But she waved him wearily back.

“I think I will rest until it is time to go to the theatre.”  She moved towards the door, dragging her feet a little.  He sprang to open it, and she passed out without looking at him.

Her so brief romantic dream was ended.  The glorious world of fancy which in the last hour she had built with such elaborate detail, over which it should be her exalted destiny to rule, lay shattered about her feet, its debris so many stumbling-blocks that prevented her from winning back to her erstwhile content in Scaramouche as he really was.

Andre-Louis sat in the window embrasure, smoking and looking idly out across the river.  He was intrigued and meditative.  He had shocked her.  The fact was clear; not so the reason.  That he should confess himself nameless should not particularly injure him in the eyes of a girl reared amid the surroundings that had been Climene’s.  And yet that his confession had so injured him was fully apparent.

There, still at his brooding, the returning Columbine discovered him a half-hour later.

“All alone, my prince!” was her laughing greeting, which suddenly threw light upon his mental darkness.  Climene had been disappointed of hopes that the wild imagination of these players had suddenly erected upon the incident of his meeting with Aline.  Poor child!  He smiled whimsically at Columbine.

“I am likely to be so for some little time,” said he, “until it becomes a commonplace that I am not, after all, a prince.

“Not a prince?  Oh, but a duke, then — at least a marquis.”

“Not even a chevalier, unless it be of the order of fortune.  I am just Scaramouche.  My castles are all in Spain.”

Disappointment clouded the lively, good-natured face.

“And I had imagined you... "

“I know,” he interrupted.  “That is the mischief.”  He might have gauged the extent of that mischief by Climene’s conduct that evening towards the gentlemen of fashion who clustered now in the green-room between the acts to pay their homage to the incomparable amoureuse.  Hitherto she had received them with a circumspection compelling respect.  To-night she was recklessly gay, impudent, almost wanton.