The curtain rose, and I left the box.
I returned to my seat.
They began "The Bear and the Pacha."
This burlesque did not bring a smile to Madame de Fersen's countenance, but her husband applauded frantically, and I must confess I shared the general merriment.
One of those loudest in laughter was a man seated just in front of me, and of whom I could only see the thick, gray, curly locks.
I had never heard such ringing, joyous laughter,—at times it became almost convulsive. At these times the man clung with both hands to the barrier dividing the stalls from the orchestra, and, strengthened by this prop, gave full scope to his hilarity.
Nothing is more contagious than laughter; the witticisms of the play had already excited my risible faculties, and, in spite of myself, the wild uproariousness of this man so affected me that I soon was nothing more than his echo, and to each of his immoderate bursts I responded with a no less boisterous explosion of laughter.
In short, I had not noticed that Madame de Fersen had left the theatre.
The curtain fell, and I rose.
The man who had yielded to such boisterous mirth also rose, turned towards me as he put on his hat, and exclaimed, with a return of joyful glee: "What a buffoon that Odry is!"