The reader may guess my delight and surprise when I recognised in the prima donna Therese, the false Bellino, whom I had left at Rimini in the year 1744; that charming Therese whom I should certainly have married if M. de Gages had not put me under arrest.  I had not seen her for seventeen years, but she looked as beautiful and ravishing as ever as she came forward on the stage.  It seemed impossible.  I could not believe my eyes, thinking the resemblance must be a coincidence, when, after singing an air, she fixed her eyes on mine and kept them there.  I could no longer doubt that it was she; she plainly recognized me.  As she left the stage she stopped at the wings and made a sign to me with her fan to come and speak to her.

I went out with a beating heart, though I could not explain my perturbation, for I did not feel guilty in any way towards Therese, save in that I had not answered the last letter she had written me from Naples, thirteen years ago.  I went round the theatre, feeling a greater curiosity as to the results of our interview than to know what had befallen her during the seventeen years which seemed an age to me.

I came to the stage-door, and I saw Therese standing at the top of the stair.  She told the door-keeper to let me pass; I went up and we stood face to face.  Dumb with surprise I took her hand and pressed it against my heart.

“Know from that beating heart,” said I, “all that I feel.”

“I can’t follow your example,” said she, “but when I saw you I thought I should have fainted.  Unfortunately I am engaged to supper.  I shall not shut my eyes all night.  I shall expect you at eight o’clock to-morrow morning.  Where are you staying?”

“At Dr. Vannini’s.”

“Under what name?”

“My own.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Since yesterday.”

“Are you stopping long in Florence?”

“As long as you like.”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“Cursed be that supper!  What an event!  You must leave me now, I have to go on.  Good-bye till seven o’clock to-morrow.”

She had said eight at first, but an hour sooner was no harm.  I returned to the theatre, and recollected that I had neither asked her name or address, but I could find out all that easily.  She was playing Mandane, and her singing and acting were admirable.  I asked a well-dressed young man beside me what that admirable actress’s name was.

“You have only come to Florence to-day, sir?”

“I arrived yesterday.”

“Ah! well, then it’s excusable.  That actress has the same name as I have.  She is my wife, and I am Cirillo Palesi, at your service.”

I bowed and was silent with surprise.  I dared not ask where she lived, lest he might think my curiosity impertinent.  Therese married to this handsome young man, of whom, of all others, I had made enquiries about her!  It was like a scene in a play.