The ladies were Mademoiselle de Tonnay-Charente and Mademoiselle de Montalais.
"Did you hear what the Comte de Guiche said ?" the princess inquired.
"No." "It really is very singular," she continued, in a compassionate tone, "how exile has affected poor M.de Guiche's wit." And then, in a louder voice, fearful lest her unhappy victim might lose a syllable, she said,--"In the first place he danced badly, and afterwards his remarks were very silly." She then rose, humming the air to which she was presently going to dance.

De Guiche had overheard everything.

The arrow pierced his heart and wounded him mortally.

Then, at the risk of interrupting the progress of the _fete_ by his annoyance, he fled from the scene, tearing his beautiful costume of Autumn in pieces, and scattering, as he went along, the branches of vines, mulberry and almond trees, with all the other artificial attributes of his assumed divinity.

A quarter of an hour afterwards he returned to the theater; but it will be readily believed that it was only a powerful effort of reason over his great excitement that enabled him to go back; or perhaps, for love is thus strangely constituted, he found it impossible even to remain much longer separated from the presence of one who had broken his heart.