“You’ll have what my friend Rooney calls a chronic bronchitis for this, these three weeks,” said I, “that’s one comfort,” as I bowed my way back to the “practicable” door, through which I made my exit, with the thousand faces of the parterre shouting my name, or, as fancy dictated, that of one of “my” operas.  I retreated behind the scenes, to encounter very nearly as much, and at closer quarters, too, as that lately sustained before the audience.  After an embrace of two minutes duration from the manager, I ran the gauntlet from the prima donna to the last triangle of the orchestra, who cut away a back button of my coat as a “souvenir.”  During all this, I must confess, very little acting was needed on my part.  They were so perfectly contented with their self-deception, that if I had made an affidavit before the mayor—­if there be such a functionary in such an insane town—­they would not have believed me.  Wearied and exhausted at length, by all I had gone through, I sat down upon a bench, and, affecting to be overcome by my feelings, concealed my face in my handkerchief.  This was the first moment of relief I experienced since my arrival; but it was not to last long, for the manager, putting down his head close to my ear, whispered—­

“Monsieur Meerberger, I have a surprise for you—­such as you have not had for some time, I venture to say”—­

“I defy you on this head,” thought I.  “If they make me out king Solomon now, it will not amaze me”—­

“And when I tell you my secret,” continued he, “you will acknowledge I cannot be of a very jealous disposition.  Madame Baptiste has just told me she knew you formerly, and that—­she—­that is, you—­were—­in fact, you understand—­there had been—­so to say—­a little ‘amourette’ between you.”

I groaned in spirit as I thought, now am I lost without a chance of escape—­the devil take her reminiscences.

“I see,” continued le bon mari, “you cannot guess of whom I speak; but when I tell you of Amelie Grandet, your memory will, perhaps, be better.”

“Amelie Grandet!” said I, with a stage start.  I need not say that I had never heard the name before.  “Amelie Grandet here!”

“Yes, that she is,” said the manager, rubbing his hands; “and my wife, too”—­

“Married!—­Amelie Grandet married!  No, no; it is impossible—­I cannot believe it.  But were it true—­true, mark me—­for worlds would I not meet her.”

“Comment il est drole,” said the manager, soliloquising aloud; “for my wife takes it much easier, seeing they never met each other since they were fifteen.”

“Ho, ho!” thought I, “the affair is not so bad either—­time makes great changes in that space.”  “And does she still remember me?” said I, in a very Romeo-in-the-garden voice.

“Why, so far as remembering the little boy that used to play with her in the orchard at her mother’s cottage near Pirna, and with whom she used to go boating upon the Elbe, I believe the recollection is perfect.  But come along—­she insists upon seeing you, and is this very moment waiting supper in our room for you.”