"Le Monsieur de la Petite Dame"

It was Madame who first entered the box, and Madame was bright with youthful bloom, bright with jewels, and, moreover, a beauty. She was a little creature, with childishly large eyes, a low, white forehead, reddish-brown hair, and Greek nose and mouth.
“Clearly,” remarked the old lady in the box opposite, “not a Frenchwoman. Her youth is too girlish, and she has too petulant an air of indifference.”
This old lady in the box opposite was that venerable and somewhat severe aristocrat, Madame de Castro, and having gazed for a moment or so a little disapprovingly at the new arrival, she turned her glasses to the young beauty’s companion and uttered an exclamation.
It was at Monsieur she was looking now. Monsieur had followed his wife closely, bearing her fan and bouquet and wrap, and had silently seated him self a little behind her and in the shadow.
“ Ciel! ” cried Madame de Castro, “what an ugly little man!”
It was not an unnatural exclamation. Fate had not been so kind to the individual referred to as she might have been—in fact she had been definitely cruel. He was small of figure, insignificant, dark, and wore a patient sphynx-like air of gravity. He did not seem to speak or move, simply sat in the shadow holding his wife’s belongings, apparently almost entirely unnoticed by her.
“I don’t know him at all,” said Madame de Castro; “though that is not to be wondered at, since I have exiled myself long enough to forget and be forgotten by half Paris. What is his name?”
The gentleman at her side—a distinguished-looking old young man, with a sarcastic smile—began with the smile, and ended with a half laugh.
“They call him,” he replied, “Le Monsieur de la petite Dame. His name is Villefort.”
“Le Monsieur de la petite Dame,” repeated Madame, testily. “That is a title of new Paris—the Paris of your Americans and English. It is villainously ill-bred.”
M. Renard’s laugh receded into the smile again, and the smile became of double significance.