The first time I ever saw her was in the Place de la Bourse, outside Susse’s; an open carriage was stationed there, and a woman dressed in white got down from it. A murmur of admiration greeted her as she entered the shop. As for me, I was rivetted to the spot from the moment she went in till the moment when she came out again. I could see her through the shop windows selecting what she had come to buy. I might have gone in, but I dared not. I did not know who she was, and I was afraid lest she should guess why I had come in and be offended. Nevertheless, I did not think I should ever see her again. She was elegantly dressed; she wore a muslin dress with many flounces, an Indian shawl embroidered at the corners with gold and silk flowers, a straw hat, a single bracelet, and a heavy gold chain, such as was just then beginning to be the fashion. She returned to her carriage and drove away. One of the shopmen stood at the door looking after his elegant customer’s carriage. I went up to him and asked him what was the lady’s name. “Mademoiselle Marguerite Gautier,” he replied. I dared not ask him for her address, and went on my way. The recollection of this vision, for it was really a vision, would not leave my mind like so many visions I had seen, and I looked everywhere for this royally beautiful woman in white. A few days later there was a great performance at the Opera Comique. The first person I saw in one of the boxes was Marguerite Gautier. The young man whom I was with recognised her immediately, for he said to me, mentioning her name: “Look at that pretty girl.” At that moment Marguerite turned her opera-glass in our direction and, seeing my friend, smiled and beckoned to him to come to her. “I will go and say ‘How do you do?’ to her,” he said, “and will be back in a moment.” “I could not help saying ‘Happy man!’” “Why?” “To go and see that woman.” “Are you in love with her?” “No,” I said, flushing, for I really did not know what to say; “but I should very much like to know her.” “Come with me. I will introduce you.” “Ask her if you may.” “Really, there is no need to be particular with her; come.” What he said troubled me. I feared to discover that Marguerite was not worthy of the sentiment which I felt for her. In a book of Alphonse Karr entitled _Am Rauchen_, there is a man who one evening follows a very elegant woman, with whom he had fallen in love with at first sight on account of her beauty. Only to kiss her hand he felt that he had the strength to undertake anything, the will to conquer anything, the courage to achieve anything. He scarcely dares glance at the trim ankle which she shows as she holds her dress out of the mud. While he is dreaming of all that he would do to possess this woman, she stops at the corner of the street and asks if he will come home with her. He turns his head, crosses the street, and goes sadly back to his own house.