“Does she know you?” asked Josephine.

“I—­I—­probably—­that is to say—­I have met her in society.”

“And who is the gentleman?”

That was just what I was wondering.  It was not Delaroche.  It was no one whom I had ever seen before.  It was a short, fat, pale man, with a bald head, and a ribbon in his button-hole.

“Is he her husband?” pursued Josephine.

The suggestion flashed upon me like a revelation.  Had I not heard that M. de Marignan was coming home from Algiers?  Of course it was he.  No doubt of it.  A little vulgar, fat, bald man....  Pshaw, just the sort of a husband that she deserved!

“How she looks at me!” said Josephine.

I felt myself blush, so to speak, from head to foot.

“Good Heavens! my dear girl,” I exclaimed, “take your elbows off the front of the box!”

Josephine complied, with a pettish little grimace.

“And, for mercy’s sake, don’t hold your head as if you feared it would tumble off!”

“It is the flowers,” said she.  “They tickle the back of my neck, whenever I move my head.  I am much more comfortable in my cap.”

“Never mind.  Make the best of it, and listen to this song.”

It was the great tenor ballad of the evening.  The house was profoundly silent; the first wandering chords of a harp were heard behind the scenes; and Duprez began.  In the very midst of one of his finest and tenderest sostenuto passages, Josephine sneezed—­and such a sneeze! you might have heard it out in the lobbies.  An audible titter ran round the house.  I saw Madame de Marignan cover her face with her handkerchief, and yield to an irrepressible fit of laughter.  As for the tenor, he cast a withering glance up at the box, and made a marked pause before resuming his song.  Merciful powers! what crime had I committed that I should be visited with such a punishment as this?

“Wretched girl!” I exclaimed, savagely, “what have you done?”

“Done, mon ami!” said Josephine, innocently.  “Why, I fear I have taken cold.”

I groaned aloud.

“Taken cold!” I muttered to myself.  “Would to Heaven you had taken prussic acid!”

“Qu’est ce que c’est?" asked she.

But it was not worth while to reply.  I gave myself up to my fate.  I determined to remonstrate no more.  I flung myself on a seat at the back of the box, and made up my mind to bear all that might yet be in store for me.  When she openly ate a stick of sucre d’orge after this, I said nothing.  When she applauded with both hands, I endured in silence.  At length the performance came to a close and the curtain fell.  Madame de Marignan had left before the last act, so I ran no danger of encountering her on the way out; but I was profoundly miserable, nevertheless.  As for Josephine, she, poor child, had not enjoyed her evening at all, and was naturally out of temper.  We quarrelled tremendously in the cab, and parted without having made it up.  It was all my own fault.  How could I be such a fool as to suppose that, with a few shreds and patches of finery, I could make a fine lady of a grisette?