with the fanciful creations of
hope, and full of happiness, to be disturbed by his comrades. His love
was so intense and so ingenuous, that he had to undergo the innocent
scruples with which we are assailed when we love for the first time. As
he began to realize that he would soon be required to bestir himself, to
intrigue, to ask where La Zambinella lived, to ascertain whether she had
a mother, an uncle, a guardian, a family,--in a word, as he reflected
upon the methods of seeing her, of speaking to her, he felt that his
heart was so swollen with such ambitious ideas, that he postponed those
cares until the following day, as happy in his physical sufferings as in
his intellectual pleasures."

"But," said Madame de Rochefide, interrupting me, "I see nothing of
Marianina or her little old man in all this."

"You see nothing but him!" I cried, as vexed as an author for whom some
one has spoiled the effect of a _coup de theatre_.

"For some days," I resumed after a pause, "Sarrasine had been so
faithful in attendance in his box, and his glances expressed such
passionate love, that his passion for La Zambinella's voice would have
been the town-talk of Paris, if the episode had happened here; but in
Italy, madame, every one goes to the theatre for his own enjoyment,
with all his own passions, with a heartfelt interest which precludes all
thought of espionage with opera-glasses. However, the sculptor's frantic
admiration could not long escape the notice of the performers, male and
female. One evening the Frenchman noticed that they were laughing at
him in the wings. It is hard to say what violent measures he might
have resorted to, had not La Zambinella come on the stage. She cast at
Sarrasine one of those eloquent glances which often say more than women
intend. That glance was a complete revelation in itself. Sarrasine was
beloved!

"'If it is a mere caprice,' he thought, already accusing his mistress of
too great ardor, 'she does not know the sort of domination to which she
is about to become subject. Her caprice will last, I trust, as long as
my life.'

"At that moment, three light taps on the door of his box attracted the
artist's attention. He opened the door. An old woman entered with an air
of mystery.

"'Young man,' she said, 'if you wish to be happy, be prudent. Wrap
yourself in a cloak, pull a broad-brimmed hat over your eyes, and be
on the Rue du Corso, in front of the Hotel d'Espagne, about ten o'clock
to