"Come in, and sit down," said my uncle, pointing out to me a chair behind him. Once more I obeyed him, bowing politely to the lady, whose features I could not clearly distinguish. I was hardly seated when I recognised the fair heroine of the fainting fit last week. Exquisitely attired in a perfectly ravishing costume, Madame Jean Bonaffe replied to my compliments by a charming smile, and a pretty glance from her fine Spanish eyes, which showed me clearly that she was troubled by no remnants of that sudden indisposition which the too unexpected encounter with my uncle had produced. Our conversation turned upon the play. As she spoke French rather badly (although she understood it very well), she asked my uncle from time to time to tell her the words she was in need of. This he did, pronouncing them with grammatical deliberation, and then leaving us to talk alone, while he surveyed the audience like one superior to such frivolities as feminine smalltalk. My companion was very gay, and was crunching bonbons all the time. I, as you may be sure, was gallant and attentive, and I followed her example with the bonbons. My former aunt, Christina de Portero, is at the happy age of between twenty-eight and thirty. Or, possibly, she is as old as thirty-two. Her figure is slender and supple, with those bold expansions of the hips which, in dancing the fandango, make short work of the skirt. Add to these fascinating details the accurate information with which I have already supplied you on the subject of her exuberant bust, and you can picture her very well for yourself. She has a fine erect head, clear and singularly expressive features, a warm complexion, a Grecian nose, with quivering nostrils, and a mouth adorned with pearly teeth, with a soft, black, downy growth on her upper lip. She is an Andalusian, overflowing with life and spirits, whose exuberance, however, is tempered by her graceful and truly refined demeanour. One can guess what a fire of passion smoulders within her. My uncle was in perfection that evening. From time to time he discarded his philosophic calm in order to take a look at us and reply in Spanish to his fair friend's questions. He addressed her as "querida," in that indulgent tone which is peculiar to him, like a pasha who is signifying his approbation. During the course of our conversation I discovered that things had gone on like this between them since the day after that famous scene at Villebon, whose lively incidents had doubtless conduced to this friendly reconciliation. How had my uncle managed to get round the ferocious native of Toulon? That I could never discover. However this may have been, after the play was over, we went off, all three of us, to the Cafe Anglais.