Towards the end of the act the sound of an opening door drew his attention. He saw a light appear in one of the side boxes, then a vague uncertain form appeared in its velvet frame. The door closed again, the background again darkened, and a woman, clothed in white, _décolleté_, and wearing a necklace of beautiful pearls, came to the front of the box. As her face was turned away from Marcel he could not distinguish her features. Still, what relation could there be between this vigorous brunette and the blonde and languishing Anetta? Strength, where he had found grace. No. This could not be the one. As the curtain fell amidst a tempest of cheers, and the artists reappeared on the stage to bow their acknowledgments, the lady turned round, in such a way as to face Marcel, who, stupefied, recognized the look of the one he loved. He might have been mistaken in everything else, but not in the languishing look which formed so delightful a contrast with that mocking smile and imperious brow. He examined her attentively, without her being aware that she was observed. But what grief he felt at being obliged to recognize her in such a disguise! Was not the very fact of this metamorphosis, the most complete of confessionals? Why, if not to disarm curiosity, these changes, in head-dress, in the colour of the hair, and the expression of the face? What was this comedy she was playing, and when? Was it at Ars that she was painted and disguised, or at the opera? Marcel arose. All around him were leaving their seats. Madame Vignola was no longer in front of the box. Marcel counted the number of boxes. This one was the fourth after the passage. Standing behind a column, he kept watch. This self-imposed waiting seemed interminable to him. The passers-by irritated him, he replied to a few bows, but avoided shaking hands with any one. Finally, the door of the box opened, and Agostini and an elderly man, wearing the rosette of the Legion d’Honneur, appeared. The count and his companion made their way towards the grand staircase, before Marcel, who had his back turned to them, and disappeared. Then the young man opened the door of the box, and entered. The spectator was seated on the sofa. Marcel closed the door, and walked up to her. Turning her head, she looked at the intruder, and said, without the faintest agitation— “You are in the wrong box, sir.” He replied ironically— “No, madame, there is no mistake, if I am in the presence of Madame Vignola, unless you are the Baroness Grodsko.” At these words, the young woman’s face appeared frightfully agitated. Her eyes turned pale, and her lips trembled. “Whose name is that you have uttered?” she murmured, in unsteady accents. “Evidently one of your own! So far as I can judge, you change names, according to circumstances, just as you change faces, according to the men you associate with.” “I do not understand what you mean. Once more I say, you are mistaken, retire.”