Chapter XXVI

  You will proceed in pleasure and in pride,
    Beloved, and loving many; all is o’er
  For me on earth, except some years to hide
    My shame and sorrow deep in my heart’s core.

  Don Juan.

I paid little attention to the performance; for the moment I came to the house, my eyes were rivetted on an object from which I found it impossible to remove them.  “It is,” said I, “and yet it cannot be; and yet why should it not?” A young lady sat in one of the boxes; she was elegantly attired, and seemed to occupy the united attentions of many Frenchmen, who eagerly caught her smiles.

“Either that is Eugenia,” thought I, “or I have fallen asleep in the ruins of St Jago, and am dreaming of her.  That is Eugenia, or I am not Frank.  It is her, or it is her ghost.”  Still I had not that moral certainty of the identity, as to enable me to go at once to her, and address her.  Indeed, had I been certain, all things considered, the situation we were in would have rendered such a step highly improper.

“If that be Eugenia,” thought I, again, “she has improved both in manner and person.  She has a becoming embonpoint, and an air de bon societe which, when we parted, she had not.”

The more intensely I gazed, the more convinced was I that I was right; the immovable devotion of my eyes attracted the attention of a French officer, who sat near me.

“C’est une jolie femme, n’est-ce pas, monsieur?”

“Vraiment” said I.  “Do you know her name?”

“Elle s’appelle Madame de Rosenberg.”

“Then I am wrong, after all,” said I to myself.  “Has she a husband, Sir?”

“Pardonnez-moi, elle est veuve, mais elle a un petit garcon de cinq ans, beau comme un ange.”

“That is her,” said I again, reviving.  “Is she a Frenchwoman?”

“Du tout, Monsieur, elle est une de vos compatriottes; c’est un fort joli exemplaire.”

She had only been three months at Bordeaux, and had refused many very good offers in marriage.  Such was the information I obtained from my obliging neighbour; and I was now convinced that Madame de Rosenberg could be no other than Eugenia.  Every endeavour to catch her eye proved abortive.  My only hope was to follow the carriage.

When the play was over, I waited with an impatience like that of a spirited hunter who hears the hounds.  At last, the infernal squalling of the vocalists ceased, but not before I had devoutly wished that all the wax candles in the house were down their throats and burning there.  I saw one of the gentlemen in the box placing the shawl over her shoulders, with the most careful attention, while the bystanders seemed ready to tear him in pieces, from envy.  I hurried to the door, and saw her handed into her carriage, which drove off at a great pace.  I ran after it, jumped up behind, and took my station by the side of the footman.