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248 of interest and amusement. At last I took up a ring which I had never before observed. It was of modern workman ship—a good-sized and remarkably fine sapphire of a lustrous deep azure hue in a setting of black enamel, a style in which I had frequently seen diamonds mounted, but never before any other precious stone. Portions of the enamel were cracked, and other portions partly fused, and the whole ornament, apart from the sapphire itself, looked as though it had once been subjected to the action of fire. I examined it for some moments in silence, then turning to the count, who was still busied with his new purchase, I laid it before him.

"Might I, without indiscretion, seek to learn the history attached to this ring?" I asked.

He took it up with a slight but perceptible start. "I did not know that this sapphire was here," he said, after a moment's pause. "Well, I will tell you its story. It is a tragic one, but I feel in a gossiping mood to-night, and not ill inclined to wander back amid the scenes and personages of the past. So, if you will pardon in advance any possible prolixity or garrulousness on my part (remember, my friend, that I am an old man), I will recall for your benefit the history of this sapphire ring.

"You know how often I have smiled at the enthusiastic admiration which the charms of our Parisian actresses have aroused in your breast. One evening you go to the Gymnase, and you come to me the next day raving about the piquant loveliness of Céline Montaland, the blonde beauty of Blanche Pierson, the splendid eyes of Madame Pasco, and the virginal charms of Mademoiselle Delaporte. Next you visit La Lyrique, and words fail you wherein to express your admiration for that beauty compounded of snow and moonlight, Christine Nilsson. You might be petri fied or frozen by this admiration did you not go on the following evening to La Gaieté, where the faultless forms of Mesdemoiselles Colombier and Thesée claim your attention and call forth your enthusiasm. It is well that in the multitude of counsel there is safety, or I might long ere this have seen you sighing forth your soul at the feet of one of these superb but not unapproachable divinities."

I only laughed. I was by this time pretty well accustomed to the badinage of my old friend, and it was not the first time that he had rallied me on this subject.

"If you had been familiar with our stage some years ago, even so late as 1854, your admiration would have been more intelligible and more excusable. Madame Doche was then in all the brilliancy of those unrivaled charms which combined the threefold lustre of beauty, genius and rare distinction of manners. You saw her, I believe, in Les Parasites at the Odeon the other night, and you pronounced her to be the most distinguished-looking woman you had yet seen in Europe, with the one exception of the empress of Austria. Can you picture to yourself what she must have been years ago, when all Paris was in tears over La Dame aux Comélias? Then at the Français there were Madeleine Brohan, in those days beau tiful as a poet's dream; her fascinating sister Augustine; charming Delphine Fix, and Judith of the snowy complex ion and velvety black eyes; while imperious and splendid Cruvelli at the Opera, lovely Rose Cheri at the Gymnase, and the two goddesses of the dance, Rosati and Cerito, disputed the palm of loveliness elsewhere. Those were the palmy days of our theatres, when Rachel acted and Cruvelli sang and Rosati danced; when a première danseuse was an artist and ballet-dancing indeed the poetry of motion; and when Madame Allan drew crowds to the Franqais to weep over her acting in La Joie fait Peur. What replaces these great artists to-day? Instead of Cruvelli we have Schneider; instead of Rachel, Theresa; instead of Cerito, we have the corps de ballet of the Biche aux Bois; instead of the elegance, the grace, the genius of Doche, we are called upon to admire the unveiled