"Vraiment" said I. "Do you know her name?"
"Elle s'appelle Madame de Rosenberg."
"Then I am wrong, after all," said I to myself. "Has she a husband,
Sir?"
"Pardonnez-moi, elle est veuve, mais elle a un petit garçon de cinq ans, beau comme un ange."
"That is her," said I again, reviving. "Is she a Frenchwoman?"
"Du tout, Monsieur, elle est une de vos compatriottes; c'est un fort joli exemplaire."
She had only been three months at Bordeaux, and had refused many very good offers in marriage. Such was the information I obtained from my obliging neighbour; and I was now convinced that Madame de Rosenberg could be no other than Eugenia. Every endeavour to catch her eye proved abortive. My only hope was to follow the carriage.
When the play was over, I waited with an impatience like that of a spirited hunter who hears the hounds. At last, the infernal squalling of the vocalists ceased, but not before I had devoutly wished that all the wax candles in the house were down their throats and burning there. I saw one of the gentlemen in the box placing the shawl over her shoulders, with the most careful attention, while the bystanders seemed ready to tear him in pieces, from envy. I hurried to the door, and saw her handed into her carriage, which drove off at a great pace. I ran after it, jumped up behind, and took my station by the side of the footman.
"Descendez donc, Monsieur," said the man.
"I'll be d——d if I do," said I.