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.

I could bear it no longer. I longed to be alone and to ponder over this
strange adventure at my ease, and to think about my visit to Therese at
seven o'clock the next morning. I felt the most intense curiosity to see
what the husband would do when he recognized me, and he was certain to do
so, for he had looked at me attentively as he spoke. I felt that my old
flame for Therese was rekindled in my heart, and I did not know whether I
was glad or sorry at her being married.

I left the opera-house and told my footman to call my carriage.

"You can't have it till nine o'clock, sir; it was so cold the coachman
sent the horses back to the stable."

"We will return on foot, then."

"You will catch a cold."

"What is the prima donna's name?"

"When she came here, she called herself Lanti, but for the last two
months she has been Madame Palesi. She married a handsome young man with
no property and no profession, but she is rich, so he takes his ease and
does nothing."

"Where does she live?"

"At the end of this street. There's her house, sir; she lodges on the
first floor."

This was all I wanted to know, so I said no more, but took note of the
various turnings, that I might be able to find my way alone the next day.
I ate a light supper, and told Le Duc to call me at six o'clock.

"But it is not light till seven."

"I know that."

"Very good."

At the dawn of day, I was at the door of the woman I had loved so
passionately. I went to the first floor, rang the bell, and an old w