At that period _ballets d’action_ were in great repute. They generally occurred between the middle acts of the opera and were, as I considered, an unreasonable interruption, in every sense of the word. Besides, I wearied of the constant repetition of the same insipid pantomime; and the invariable story of the “Two Rivals” was commonplace in the highest degree. One evening I turned to a gentleman who sat beside me, and expressed my impatience, finding fault in rather an irritable tone with the _prima ballerina_ for killing herself, and, “Why does she not rather kill her rival?” I asked of him. My companion was a matter-of-fact personage, and after gazing at me for some time with an expression of disapprobation: “Comment, Mademoiselle,” he exclaimed, “sous une chevelure ainsi blonde vous cachez des passions ainsi violentes?” I have often thought that we blondes labour under a great responsibility, as we are generally supposed (in fiction at least) to be mild and virtuous, calm and placable. I can recall most vividly an amusing evening spent at the Veglione. My eldest brother tried to persuade us to go to the masquerade that night, but we (my mother, my sister and myself) were very deceitful, complained of sleepiness and disinclination for the task to which he was looking forward. In the meantime we had surreptitiously made assignations with three of our friends to meet us at the door of the theatre and be our escort for the night. Our hotel was situated on the port, and we had, therefore, to pass through several of the narrow streets _en route_ for San Carlo, which could only be traversed by sedan chairs.