The minuet having ended, the orchestras were resting, and the crowd began to rapidly fill the gallery.

The sudden faintness of Mme. Fauvel had passed off unnoticed save by a few, who attributed it to the heat of the room.  M. Fauvel had been sent for; but when he came hurrying in, and found his wife composedly talking to Madeleine, his alarm was dissipated, and he returned to the card-tables.

Not having as much control over his temper as Raoul, M. de Clameran angrily said: 

“In the first place, monsieur, I would like to know who you are.”

The clown determined to answer as if he thought the question were a jest, replied in the bantering tone of a buffoon: 

“You want my passport, do you, my lord doge?  I left it in the hands of the city authorities; it contains my name, age, profession, domicile, and every detail—­”

With an angry gesture, M. de Clameran interrupted him.

“You have just committed a gross insult!”

“I, my lord doge?”

“Yes, you!  What do you mean by telling this abominable story in this house?”

“Abominable!  You may call it abominable; but I, who composed it, have a different opinion of it.”

“Enough, monsieur; you will at least have the courage to acknowledge that your performance was a vile insinuation against Mme. Fauvel?”

The clown stood with his head thrown back, and mouth wide open, as if astounded at what he heard.

But anyone who knew him would have seen his bright black eyes sparkling with malicious satisfaction.

“Bless my heart!” he cried, as if speaking to himself.  “This is the strangest thing I ever heard of!  How can my drama of the Mandarine Li-Fo have any reference to Mme. Fauvel, whom I don’t know from Adam or Eve?  I can’t think how the resemblance——­unless——­but no, that is impossible.”

“Do you pretend,” said M. de Clameran, “to be ignorant of M. Fauvel’s misfortune?”

The clown looked very innocent, and asked: 

“What misfortune?”

“The robbery of which M. Fauvel was the victim.  It has been in everyone’s mouth, and you must have heard of it.”

“Ah, yes, yes; I remember.  His cashier ran off with three hundred and fifty thousand francs.  Pardieu!  It is a thing that almost daily happens.  But, as to discovering any connection between this robbery and my play, that is another matter.”

M. de Clameran made no reply.  A nudge from Lagors had calmed him as if by enchantment.

He looked quietly at the clown, and seemed to regret having uttered the significant words forced from him by angry excitement.

“Very well,” he finally said in his usual haughty tone; “I must have been mistaken.  I accept your explanation.”

But the clown, hitherto so humble and silly-looking, seemed to take offence at the word, and, assuming a defiant attitude, said: