It is hardly necessary to say, that Adrienne’s letter had not been delivered to the prince, and that he had not gone to pass the day in the country with Marshal Simon.  During the three days in which Montbron had not seen Djalma, Faringhea had persuaded him, that, by affecting another passion, he would bring Mdlle. de Cardoville to terms.  With regard to Djalma’s presence at the theatre, Rodin had learned from her maid, Florine, that her mistress was to go in the evening to the Porte-Saint Martin.  Before Djalma had recognized her, Adrienne, who felt her strength failing her, was on the point of quitting the theatre; the man, whom she had hitherto placed so high, whom she had regarded as a hero and a demi-god and whom she had imagined plunged in such dreadful despair, that, led by the most tender pity, she had written to him with simple frankness, that a sweet hope might calm his grief—­replied to a generous mark of sincerity and love, by making himself a ridiculous spectacle with a creature unworthy of him.  What incurable wounds for Adrienne’s pride!  It mattered little, whether Djalma knew or not, that she would be a spectator of the indignity.  But when she saw herself recognized by the prince, when he carried the insult so far as to look full at her, and, at the same time, raise to his lips the creature’s bouquet who accompanied him, Adrienne was seized with noble indignation, and felt sufficient courage to remain:  instead of closing her eyes to evidence, she found a sort of barbarous pleasure in assisting at the agony and death of her pure and divine love.  With head erect, proud and flashing eye, flushed cheek, and curling lip, she looked in her turn at the prince with disdainful steadiness.  It was with a sardonic smile that she said to the marchioness, who, like many others of the spectators was occupied with what was passing in the stage-box:  “This revolting exhibition of savage manners is at least in accordance with the rest of the performance.”

“Certainly,” said the marchioness; “and my dear uncle will have lost, perhaps, the most amusing part.”

“Montbron?” said Adrienne, hastily, with hardly repressed bitterness; “yes, he will regret not having seen all.  I am impatient for his arrival.  Is it not to him that I am indebted for his charming evening?”

Perhaps Madame de Morinval would have remarked the expression of bitter irony, that Adrienne could not altogether dissemble, if suddenly a hoarse and prolonged roar had net attracted her attention, as well as that of the rest of the audience, who had hitherto been quite indifferent to the scenes intended for an introduction to the appearance of Morok.  Every eye was now turned instinctively towards the cavern situated to the left of the stage, just below Mdlle. de Cardoville’s box; a thrill of curiosity ran through the house.  A second roar, deeper and more sonorous, and apparently expressive of more irritation than the first, now rose from the cave, the mouth of which was half-hidden by artificial brambles, made so as to be easily put on one side.  At this sound, the Englishman stood up in his little box, leaned half over the front, and began to rub his hands with great energy; then, remaining perfectly motionless, he fixed his large, green, glittering eyes on the mouth of the cavern.