“Surprisingly beautiful!” exclaimed a second.
“An angel upon earth!” ejaculated a third.
I looked; and in an open carriage which approached us, passing slowly down the street, sat the enchanting vision of the opera, accompanied by the younger lady who had occupied a portion of her box.
“Her companion also wears remarkably well,” said the one of my trio who had spoken first.
“Astonishingly,” said the second; “still quite a brilliant air; but art will do wonders. Upon my word, she looks better than she did at Paris five years ago. A beautiful woman still;—don’t you think so, Froissart?—Simpson, I mean.”
“ Still! ” said I, “and why shouldn’t she be? But compared with her friend she is as a rushlight to the evening star—a glowworm to Antares.”
“Ha! ha! ha!—why, Simpson, you have an astonishing tact at making discoveries—original ones, I mean.” And here we separated, while one of the trio began humming a gay vaudeville, of which I caught only the lines—
Ninon, Ninon, Ninon à bas— À bas Ninon De L’Enclos!
During this little scene, however, one thing had served greatly to console me, although it fed the passion by which I was consumed. As the carriage of Madame Lalande rolled by our group, I had observed that she recognized me; and more than this, she had blessed me, by the most seraphic of all imaginable smiles, with no equivocal mark of the recognition.
As for an introduction, I was obliged to abandon all hope of it until such time as Talbot should think proper to return from the country. In the