Soon the fair one moved forward toward her bed, sat down in a very low armchair, in which she stretched herself out at her ease, and remained for some moments, with her hands clasped over her head and her limbs extended.  Just then midnight struck; we saw her take her right leg slowly and cross it over her left, when we perceived that she had not yet removed her shoes and stockings.

But what is the use of asking any more about it?  These recollections trouble me, and, although they have fixed themselves in my mind-very firmly indeed, I can assure you—­I feel an embarrassment mingled with modesty at relating all to you at length.  Besides, at the moment she turned down the clothes, and prepared, to get into bed, the light went out.

On the morrow, about ten o’clock in the evening, we all five again found ourselves at Paul’s, four of us with opera-glasses in our pockets.  As on the previous evening, the fair songstress sat down at her piano, then proceeded slowly to make her night toilette.  There was the same grace, the same charm, but when we came to the fatal moment at which on the preceding night the candle had gone out, a faint thrill ran through us all.  To tell the truth, for my part, I was nervous.  Heaven, very fortunately, was now on our side; the candle continued to burn.  The young woman then, with her charming hand, the plump outlines of which we could easily distinguish, smoothed the pillow, patted it, arranged it with a thousand caressing precautions in which the thought was suggested, “With what happiness shall I now go and bury my head in it!”

Then she smoothed down the little wrinkles in the bed, the contact with which might have irritated her, and, raising herself on her right arm, like a horseman, about to get into the saddle, we saw her left knee, smooth and shining as marble, slowly bury itself.  We seemed to hear a kind of creaking, but this creaking sounded joyful.  The sight was brief, too brief, alas! and it was in a species of delightful confusion that we perceived a well-rounded limb, dazzlingly white, struggling in the silk of the quilt.  At length everything became quiet again, and it was as much as we could do to make out a smooth, rose-tinted little foot which, not being sleepy, still lingered outside and fidgeted with the silken covering.

Delightful souvenir of my lively youth!  My pen splutters, my paper seems to blush to the color of that used by the orange-sellers.  I believe I have said too much.

I learned some time afterward that my friend De K. was about to be married, and, singularly enough, was going to wed this beautiful creature with whom I was so well acquainted.

“A charming woman!” I exclaimed one day.

“You know her, then?” said someone.

“I?  No, not the least in the world.”

“But?”

“Yes-no, let me see; I have seen her once at high mass.”

“She is not very pretty,” some one remarked to me.