Well, one evening, by way of enlivening my spirits, I went to the Comédie, where they were playing _Bajazet_, one of Racine’s excellent pieces. I was particularly struck by the charm and beauty, no less than the originality and talent, of the actress who took the part of Roxane. She expressed with a delightful naturalness the passion animating that character, and I shuddered as I heard her declaim in accents that were harmonious and yet terrible the line: Écoutez Bajazet, je sens que je vous aime.{*} * “Hearken, Bajazet, I feel I love you.” I never wearied of gazing at her all the time she occupied the stage, and admiring the beauty of her eyes that gleamed below a brow as pure as marble and crowned by powdered locks all spangled with pearls. Her slender waist too, which her hoop showed off to perfection, did not fail to make a vivid impression on my heart. I had the better leisure to scrutinize these adorable charms as she happened to face in my direction to deliver several important portions of her rôle. And the more I looked, the more I felt convinced I had seen her before, though I found it impossible to recall anything connected with our previous meeting. My neighbour in the theatre, who was a constant frequenter of the Comédie, told me the beautiful actress was Mademoiselle B------, the idol of the pit. He added that she was as great a favourite in society as on the boards, that M. le Duc de La ------ had made her the fashion and that she was on the highroad to eclipse Mademoiselle Lecouvreur. I was just leaving my seat after the performance when a “femme de chambre” handed me a note in which I found written in pencil the words: “_Mademoiselle Roxane is waiting for you in her coach at the theatre door_.” I could not believe the missive was intended for me; and I asked the abigail who had delivered it if she was not mistaken in the recipient. “If I _am_ mistaken,” she replied confidently, “then you cannot be Monsieur de Tournebroche, that is all.” I ran to the coach which stood waiting in front of the House, and inside I recognized Mademoiselle B------, her head muffled in a black satin hood. She beckoned to me to get in, and when I was seated beside her: “Do you not,” she asked me, “recognize Sophie, whom you rescued from drowning on the banks of the Seine?” “What! you! Sophie--Roxane--Mademoiselle B------, is it possible?--” My confusion was extreme, but she appeared to view it without annoyance. “I saw you,” she went on, “in one corner of the pit. I knew you instantly and played for you. Say, did I play well? I am so glad to see you again!--” She asked me news of M. l’Abbé Coignard, and when I told her my good master had just perished miserably, she burst into tears. She was good enough to inform me of the chief events of her life: