Madame de Fersen arrived about nine o'clock, with her husband and the Duchess of ----. They took their places in a proscenium box, of which the lattices were half raised. Catherine saw me, and gave me a gracious bow. I found her pale and changed. I have no recollection of the piece they played, and on the fall of the curtain I went to Madame de Fersen's box. She was not well. I was looking at her attentively, when the prince said: "Be our umpire; you rarely see Madame de Fersen, and can better than any one notice a change; do you not find she has fallen away very much?" I said I did not think so; that Madame de Fersen seemed to me in perfect health. The prince proclaimed me an impudent flatterer, etc. The curtain rose, and I left the box. I returned to my seat. They began "The Bear and the Pacha." This burlesque did not bring a smile to Madame de Fersen's countenance, but her husband applauded frantically, and I must confess I shared the general merriment. One of those loudest in laughter was a man seated just in front of me, and of whom I could only see the thick, gray, curly locks. I had never heard such ringing, joyous laughter,--at times it became almost convulsive. At these times the man clung with both hands to the barrier dividing the stalls from the orchestra, and, strengthened by this prop, gave full scope to his hilarity. Nothing is more contagious than laughter; the witticisms of the play had already excited my risible faculties, and, in spite of myself, the wild uproariousness of this man so affected me that I soon was nothing more than his echo, and to each of his immoderate bursts I responded with a no less boisterous explosion of laughter. In short, I had not noticed that Madame de Fersen had left the theatre. The curtain fell, and I rose. The man who had yielded to such boisterous mirth also rose, turned towards me as he put on his hat, and exclaimed, with a return of joyful glee: "What a buffoon that Odry is!" Amazed, I leaned on the back of my stall. I had recognised the pirate of Porquerolles, the pilot of Malta. I remained riveted to my seat, which was the end one of the orchestra. His seat was in front of mine, no one had to pass by us, and the spectators were slowly filing out. It was indeed he! It was his look, his bony, bronzed face, his thick, black eyebrows, his sharp teeth pointed and divided, as I could see, for he smiled with his strange smile, as he gazed at me audaciously. The footlights were lowered, and the theatre became dark. "It is you!" I cried, at length coming out of my stupor, and as if my chest had thrown off an enormous weight. "Yes, certainly 'tis I. You remember me, then? Porquerolles and Malta! that is the password." "Wretch!" I exclaimed.