d 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 she, 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 bonne
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 she," said I, again reviving. "Is she a French woman?"

"_Du tout, monsieur, elle est une de vos compatriotes; et en 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.

"_Descendez donc, monsieur_!" said the man.

"I'll be damned