"Then I am wrong, after all," said I to myself. "Has she a husband, Sir?"
"Pardonnez-moi, elle est veuve, mais elle a un petit garcon de cing ans, beau comme un ange."
"That is her," said I again, reviving."Is she a Frenchwoman?"
"Du tout, Monsieur, elle est une de vos compatriottes; cest une forte jolie exemplaire."
She had only been three months at Bordeaux, and had refused many very good offers in marriage. Such was the information I obtained from my obliging neighbour; and I was now convinced that Madame de Rosenberg could be no other than Eugenia. Every endeavour to catch her eye proved abortive. My only hope was to follow the carriage.
When the play was over, I waited with an impatience like that of a spirited hunter who hears the hounds. At last, the infernal squalling of the vocalists ceased, but not before I had devoutly wished that all the wax candles in the house were down their throats and burning
