I arrested my progress in a hall where the French square dance was being performed, and suddenly there appeared a masquer disguised in the Venetian style.  The costume was so complete that I at once set him down as a fellow-countryman, for very few strangers can imitate us so as to escape detection.  As it happened, he came and stood next to me.

“One would think you were a Venetian,” I said to him in French.

“So I am.”

“Like myself.”

“I am not jesting.”

“No more am I.”

“Then let us speak in Venetian.”

“Do you begin, and I will reply.”

We began our conversation, but when he came to the word Sabato, Saturday, which is a Sabo in Venetian, I discovered that he was a real Venetian, but not from Venice itself.  He said I was right, and that he judged from my accent that I came from Venice.

“Quite so,” said I.

“I thought Bernadi was the only Venetian besides myself in St. Petersburg.”

“You see you are mistaken.”

“My name is Count Volpati di Treviso.”

“Give me your address, and I will come and tell you who I am, for I cannot do so here.”

“Here it is.”

After leaving the count I continued my progress through this wonderful hall, and two or three hours after I was attracted by the voice of a female masquer speaking Parisian French in a high falsetto, such as is common at an opera ball.

I did not recognize the voice but I knew the style, and felt quite certain that the masquer must be one of my old friends, for she spoke with the intonations and phraseology which I had rendered popular in my chief places of resort at Paris.

I was curious to see who it could be, and not wishing to speak before I knew her, I had the patience to wait till she lifted her mask, and this occurred at the end of an hour.  What was my surprise to see Madame Baret, the stocking-seller of the Rue St. Honor& My love awoke from its long sleep, and coming up to her I said, in a falsetto voice,—­

“I am your friend of the ‘Hotel d’Elbeuf.’”

She was puzzled, and looked the picture of bewilderment.  I whispered in her ear, “Gilbert Baret, Rue des Prouveres,” and certain other facts which could only be known to herself and a fortunate lover.

She saw I knew her inmost secrets, and drawing me away she begged me to tell her who I was.

“I was your lover, and a fortunate one, too,” I replied; “but before I tell you my name, with whom are you, and how are you?”

“Very well; but pray do not divulge what I tell you.  I left Paris with M. d’Anglade, counsellor in the Court of Rouen.  I lived happily enough for some time with him, and then left him to go with a theatrical manager, who brought me here as an actress under the name of de l’Anglade, and now I am kept by Count Rzewuski, the Polish ambassador.  And now tell me who you are?”