“Oh! but—­you must hear Szmera.”

A handsome young fellow, stoutly built, with heavy eyebrows, a hooked nose, a quantity of hair growing low upon his forehead, and lips that were too red, the perfect type of a Hungarian gypsy, began a piece of his own composition, which had all the ardor of a mild ‘galopade’ and a Satanic hunt, with intervals of dying sweetness, during which the painted skeleton they called the Countess declared that she certainly heard a nightingale warbling in the moonlight.

This charming speech was forthwith repeated by her “umbra” in all parts of the room, which was now nearly filled with people, a mixed multitude, some of whom were frantic about music, others frantic about Wanda Strahlberg.  There were artists and amateurs present, and even respectable women, for Madame d’Avrigny, attracted by the odor of a species of Bohemianism, had come to breathe it with delight, under cover of a wish to glean ideas for her next winter’s receptions.

Then again there were women who had been dropped out of society, like Madame de Versanne, who, with her sunken eyes and faded face, was not likely again to pick up in the street a bracelet worth ten thousand francs.  There was a literary woman who signed herself Fraisiline, and wrote papers on fashion—­she was so painted and bedizened that some one remarked that the principal establishments she praised in print probably paid her in their merchandise.  There was a dowager whose aristocratic name appeared daily on the fourth page of the newspapers, attesting the merits of some kind of quack medicine; and a retired opera-singer, who, having been called Zenaide Rochet till she grew up in Montmartre, where she was born, had had a brilliant career as a star in Italy under the name of Zina Rochette.  La Rochette’s name, alas! is unknown to the present generation.

In all, there were about twenty persons, who made more noise with their applause than a hundred ordinary guests, for enthusiasm was exacted by Madame Strahlberg.  Profiting by the ovation to the Hungarian musician, Jacqueline made a movement toward the door, but just as she reached it she had the misfortune of falling in with her old acquaintance, Nora Sparks, who was at that moment entering with her father.  She was forced to sit down again and hear all about Kate’s marriage.  Kate had gone back to New York, her husband being an American, but Nora said she had made up her mind not to leave Europe till she had found a satisfactory match.

“You had better make haste about it, if you expect to keep me here,” said Mr. Sparks, with a peculiar expression in his eye.  He was eager to get home, having important business to attend to in the West.

“Oh, papa, be quiet!  I shall find somebody at Bellagio.  Why, darling, are you still in mourning?”

She had forgotten that Jacqueline had lost her father.  Probably she would not have thought it necessary to wear black so long for Mr. Sparks.  Meantime, Madame Strahlberg and her sister had left the room.