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Updated: June 20, 2025
She spread out her tiny gloved hands appealingly, with a delightful little shrug of her shoulders, and again Angela laughed. "He is good-looking, certainly," she said, "He is very like Miraudin. They might almost be brothers." "Miraudin, ce cher Miraudin!" exclaimed the Comtesse gaily, "The greatest actor in Europe! Yes, truly!
Returning to his hotel he saw the letter that he had written to Sylvie lying on the table, and he at once posted it. Then he began to prepare for his encounter with Miraudin.
She paused a moment then forced herself to speak again. "How did it happen?" In brief, concise words Ruspardi gave the account of the quarrel with Miraudin, and Sylvie shrank back as though she had received a blow when she heard that her name had been the cause of the dispute. "And this morning, hearing no news," continued Ruspardi, "I made enquiries at the theatre.
"Is this your care of me?" she cried, "Mon Dieu! What a thing is a man! Here am I alone in a strange country and you endanger your life for some quarrel of which I know nothing, yet you pretend to love me! Nom de Jesus! What is your love!" "You do well to ask," said Miraudin, laughing carelessly, "What is my love! A passing fancy, chere petite! We actors simulate love too well to ever feel it!
The untimely deaths of the Marquis Fontenelle and the actor Miraudin in the duel over her name, had caused so much malicious and cruel gossip, that she had withdrawn herself almost entirely from Roman society, which had, with one venomous consent, declared that she was only marrying Aubrey Leigh to shield herself from her esclandre with the late Marquis.
Out of the way, jou-jou! Your life will be amusing so long as you keep a little beaute de diable. After that the lodging-house!" He pushed her aside, but she still clung pertinaciously to his arm. "Victor! Victor!" she wailed, "Will you not look at me will you not kiss me!" Miraudin wheeled round, and stared at her amazed. "Kiss you!" he echoed, "Pardieu! Would you care! Jeanne! Jeanne!
And he went back to the obscure hotel where he had chosen temporarily to reside in a meditative mood, and as he entered, was singularly annoyed to see a flaring poster outside, announcing the arrival of Miraudin and his whole French Company in Rome for a few nights only. The name "MIRAUDIN" glared at him in big, fat, red letters on a bright yellow ground; and involuntarily he muttered,
Was he, Guy Beausire de Fontenelle no better, no nobler, no higher, in his desires and ambitions than Miraudin? What was he doing with the three lilies emblazoned on his escutcheon? He thought with a certain fretful impatience of Sylvie, of her captivating grace, her tender eyes, her sweet laughter, and sweeter smile.
Better to fight with you, beau sire, than with destiny! I am ready!" Fontenelle at once dismounted, and tied his horse to the knotted bough of a half-withered tree. Taking his pistols out of their holder he proffered them to Miraudin. "Choose!" he said curtly, "Or use your own if you have any, but mine are loaded, take care yours are! Play no theatrical tricks on such a stage as this!
Little did the austere Abbess, who was the chief mourner at these obsequies, guess that the actor Miraudin, whose grave had been hastily dug in Rome, had also a right to be laid in the same marble vault; proud and cold and stern as her heart had grown through long years of pain and disappointment, it is possible that had she known this, her sufferings might have been still more poignant.
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