“Sir,” replied I, “your request is not disagreeable. Show me the way—I will follow you.” We walked for some time along subterranean damp galleries until we arrived in the “_coulisses_” of the Opera. The decorator showed me his work, and I had nothing but praise to offer him; it was in the most exquisite Chinese taste. There was a soft whispering near us of sweet and girlish voices, which caused me to turn suddenly. It was a group of young _danseuses_, who profited by the interval to gossip a little to relieve themselves, like mutes delivered from a _régime forcé_. A blaze of light made me close my eyes—Mademoiselle Alexandrine was there. I looked for my friend the decorator to keep me in countenance, but he had disappeared. I invoked the spirits of my glorious ancestors, and asked of them courage and calmness of mind, those two virtues so necessary in love and war. Mademoiselle Alexandrine had the carriage of a queen; her well-rounded and graceful person was sustained solely by her left foot, upon which she stood proudly, while the right one undulated from right to left, the heel and toe only touching the floor. My eyes followed that wonderful foot and never left it. Imagine my astonishment when I heard the mellifluous voice of Mademoiselle addressing me with a boldness worthy of a captain in our Imperial Tiger Guard. “Will you do us the honor, sir, to assist at the first representation of the _Ballet Chinois_?” I quitted the foot to look up at the face of the _danseuse_, and answered with a well imitated Parisian accent, “I should be delighted to be there, Mademoiselle, to put my eyes at your feet.” Mademoiselle Alexandrine took me caressingly by the arm, and made me promenade with her behind the scene. “So it seems, sir, that China really exists, and that the Yellow river is not a fable? Tell me, are not all Chinamen made of porcelain? Do they really walk and talk like you and me? I did not know that there were any other Chinamen than our Auriol de Franconi—do you know Auriol?” All these questions were asked so rapidly as to defy answer. At her last word, the _danseuse_, called upon the stage by a signal, quitted suddenly my arm, and bounded away with the grace and springiness of a gazelle, humming the air to which she was to dance. I awaited her return to answer her questions; but when she again took my arm, she had apparently forgotten them; her gayety had disappeared—care contracted her brow. “Have you noticed how cold the audience is this evening?” said she at length. “Is there an Opera in your country?” “No, Mademoiselle.” “What a miserable country! Without an Opera! What do you do, then?” “One is miserable _s’ennuie_, Mademoiselle, because you are not there!”