Now Mr. Sluys looked as if he would've been content to drink champagne and gaze ‘pon Eliza's navel until any number of fat ladies sang (which actually would not have been long in coming), but some sort of very rude commotion, originating from this very box, forced him to glance aside. Eliza turned to see that young French nobleman – the son of the Duc d'Arcachon – at the railing of the box, where he was being hugged, passionately and perhaps even a little violently, by a bald man with a bloody nose.