I had no time to dine; so I despatched a cup of coffee and a roll on my way home, and went hungry to the theatre.
Josephine was got up with immense splendor for this occasion; greatly to her own satisfaction and my disappointment. Having hired a small private box in the least conspicuous part of the theatre, I had committed the cowardly mistake of endeavoring to transform my grisette into a woman of fashion. I had bought her a pink and white opera cloak, a pretty little fan, a pair of white kid gloves, and a bouquet. With these she wore a decent white muslin dress furnished out of the limited resources of her own wardrobe, and a wreath of pink roses, the work of her own clever fingers. Thus equipped, she was far less pretty than in her coquettish little every-day cap, and looked, I regret to say, more like an ouvrière than ever. Aggravating above all else, however, was her own undisguised delight in her appearance.
"Are my flowers all right? Is my dress tumbled? Is the hood of my cloak in the middle of my back?" were the questions she addressed to me every moment. In the ante-room she took advantage of each mirror we passed. In the lobby I caught her trying to look at her own back. When we reached our box she pulled her chair to the very centre of it, and sat there as if she expected to be admired by the whole audience.
"My dear Josephine," I remonstrated, "sit back here, facing the stage. You will see much better--besides, it is your proper seat, being the only lady in the box."
"Ah, mon Dieu! then I cannot see the house--and how pretty it is! Ever so much prettier than the Gaiété, or the Porte St. Martin!"
"You can see the house by peeping behind the curtain."
"As if I were ashamed to be seen! Par exemple!"
"Nay, as you please. I only advise you according to custom and fashion."
Josephine pouted, and unwillingly conceded a couple of inches.
"I wish I had brought the little telescope you gave me last Sunday," said she, presently. "There is a gentleman with one down there in the stalls."