ixth polka. It was no great
help with me in talking to Annette, that I knew she was a fool. I won
no thanks from Frank or Angelina when I manoeuvred that they should
have a little flirtation in the library. For some reason they were
determined that their engagement should not be apparent, and I was
reproached afterwards by Frank for my clumsiness, and received, in
return, no confidences to make up for the reproach.

On the whole I passed a disagreeable evening. I had a feeling all the
time that I was in the presence of smothered volcanoes, and a
consciousness that I had the advantage of the rest of the world in
knowing all its secret history. This became, at last, almost
insupportable.

There was no opera this night. The next day it was announced that
Mademoiselle ---- would take her accustomed place in the performance.
I went early to the theatre, and found, to my amazement, there had
been some changes made in the orchestra; the prompter's box had been
enlarged, and my newly-discovered niche had been rendered inaccessible
and almost entirely filled in! In vain did I attempt to find some
other position that might correspond to it. I only attracted the
attention of the early comers to the theatre. I was obliged to return
to my old position of an outside observer of life, and see, quite
unoccupied, that centre of all observation which I had enjoyed myself
so much two nights before; over which the leader of the orchestra was
unconsciously waving his baton.

I made some inquiries for Marie. One day I went down the quiet,
secluded street, where they told me she lived. I walked up and down
before the house. It was very tantalizing to feel that I had no excuse
for approaching her. Of all the figures that had assembled around me
that night, hers had remained the most distinct upon my memory. For,
through the whole, she had retained an outward bearing which had
corresponded with what I could see of her inward self. Even when she
threw herself most earnestly into her part, she had scarcely seemed to
lose herself. She had always remained a simple, self-devoted girl.

I longed to see more of her. I wanted to see her in that quiet home.
While I was wandering up and down, I abused the forms of society which
would make my beginning an acquaintance with her so difficult. I saw
Franz, brother Franz, the flute-player, leave the house. Scarcely
conscious of what I was doing, I went, as soon as he had left the
street, to the door whic