“My name is Count Volpati di Treviso.”
“Give me your address, and I will come and tell you who I am, for I cannot do so here.”
“Here it is.”
After leaving the count I continued my progress through this wonderful hall, and two or three hours after I was attracted by the voice of a female masquer speaking Parisian French in a high falsetto, such as is common at an opera ball.
I did not recognize the voice but I knew the style, and felt quite certain that the masquer must be one of my old friends, for she spoke with the intonations and phraseology which I had rendered popular in my chief places of resort at Paris.
I was curious to see who it could be, and not wishing to speak before I knew her, I had the patience to wait till she lifted her mask, and this occurred at the end of an hour. What was my surprise to see Madame Baret, the stocking-seller of the Rue St. Honor! My love awoke from its long sleep, and coming up to her I said, in a falsetto voice,—
“I am your friend of the ‘Hotel d’Elbeuf.’”
She was puzzled, and looked the picture of bewilderment. I whispered in her ear, “Gilbert Baret, Rue des Prouveres,” and certain other facts which could only be known to herself and a fortunate lover.
She saw I knew her inmost secrets, and drawing me away she begged me to tell her who I was.
“I was your lover, and a fortunate one, too,” I replied; “but before I tell you my name, with whom are you, and how are you?”