wise; he suffers agonies from the smallest
contrarieties. I returned to Paris in a state of dejection almost beyond
belief.

Well, one evening, by way of enlivening my spirits, I went to the
Comedie, where they were playing _Bajazet_, one of Racine's excellent
pieces. I was particularly struck by the charm and beauty, no less than
the originality and talent, of the actress who took the part of Roxane.
She expressed with a delightful naturalness the passion animating that
character, and I shuddered as I heard her declaim in accents that were
harmonious and yet terrible the line:

Ecoutez Bajazet, je sens que je vous aime.{*}

* "Hearken, Bajazet, I feel I love you."

I never wearied of gazing at her all the time she occupied the stage,
and admiring the beauty of her eyes that gleamed below a brow as pure
as marble and crowned by powdered locks all spangled with pearls. Her
slender waist too, which her hoop showed off to perfection, did not
fail to make a vivid impression on my heart. I had the better leisure to
scrutinize these adorable charms as she happened to face in my direction
to deliver several important portions of her role. And the more I
looked, the more I felt convinced I had seen her before, though I found
it impossible to recall anything connected with our previous meeting. My
neighbour in the theatre, who was a constant frequenter of the Comedie,
told me the beautiful actress was Mademoiselle B------, the idol of the
pit. He added that she was as great a favourite in society as on the
boards, that M. le Duc de La ------ had made her the fashion and that
she was on the highroad to eclipse Mademoiselle Lecouvreur.

I was just leaving my seat after the performance when a "femme de
chambre" handed me a note in which I found written in pencil the words:

"_Mademoiselle Roxane is waiting for you in her coach at the theatre
door_."

I could not believe the missive was intended for me; and I asked the
abigail who had delivered it if she was not mistaken in the recipient.

"If I _am_ mistaken," she replied confidently, "then you cannot be
Monsieur de Tournebroche, that is all."

I ran to the coach which stood waiting in front of the House, and inside
I recognized Mademoiselle B------, her head muffled in a black satin
hood.

She beckoned to me to get in, and when I was seated beside her:

"Do you not," she asked me, "recognize Sophie, whom you rescued from
drowning on the banks of the Seine?"