"Why, that is not my opera glass that you have, Monsieur Callé; it's my foot," said the pretty blonde, laughing.
"Are you sure, madame?"
"Oh! yes, I can feel. But where are you looking, Monsieur Callé? my glass isn't there; I can feel it with my foot."
Callé decided at last, albeit with regret, to take his head from under the seat; he had the opera glass, and presented it to the young lady with a trembling hand. She was deeply moved, so much so that, in trying to take it, she dropped it again. That time it fell in her lap, however; so Callé resumed his seat; but after that, when Éléonore turned to speak to him, she sometimes leaned upon him, perhaps unconsciously; ladies often venture upon trifling familiarities like that, which give great hopes to him with whom they indulge in them. The young man was as red as a cherry, and his eyes were always somewhere else than on the stage.
The act came to an end, and Madame Dubotté, turning to her escort, asked him what he thought of the play.
"I don't know, madame," he faltered; "I didn't hear a word of it."
"What! didn't you listen?"
"I beg pardon—I listened, but I didn't hear. I was so distraught by—— Did your opera glass fall again, madame?"
"Why, no—it's here in my lap."
"Oh! that's a pity!"