In the mad intensity of my
      devotion, I forgot everything but the presence and the majestic
      loveliness of the vision which confronted my gaze. Watching my
      opportunity, when I thought the audience were fully engaged with
      the opera, I at length caught the eyes of Madame Lalande, and,
      upon the instant, made a slight but unmistakable bow. She blushed very deeply—then averted her eyes—then slowly and
      cautiously looked around, apparently to see if my rash action had
      been noticed—then leaned over toward the gentleman who sat by her
      side. I now felt a burning sense of the impropriety I had committed,
      and expected nothing less than instant exposure; while a vision
      of pistols upon the morrow floated rapidly and uncomfortably
      through my brain. I was greatly and immediately relieved,
      however, when I saw the lady merely hand the gentleman a
      play-bill, without speaking; but the reader may form some feeble
      conception of my astonishment—of my profound amazement—my
      delirious bewilderment of heart and soul—when, instantly
      afterward, having again glanced furtively around, she allowed her
      bright eyes to set fully and steadily upon my own, and then, with
      a faint smile, disclosing a bright line of her pearly teeth, made
      two distinct, pointed, and unequivocal affirmative inclinations
      of the head. It is useless, of course, to dwell upon my joy—upon my
      transport—upon my illimitable ecstasy of heart. If ever man was
      mad with excess of happiness, it was myself at that moment. I
      loved. This was my first love—so I felt it to be. It was love
      supreme—indescribable. It was “love at first sight;” and at first
      sight, too, it had been appreciated and returned. Yes, returned. How and why should I doubt it for an instant. What
      other construction could I possibly put upon such conduct, on the
      part of a lady so beautiful—so wealthy—evidently so
      accomplished—of so high breeding—of so lofty a position in
      society—in every regard so entirely respectable as I felt assured
      was Madame Lalande? Yes, she loved me—she returned the enthusiasm
      of my love, with an enthusiasm as blind—as uncompromising—as
      uncalculating—as abandoned—and as utterly unbounded as my own! These delicious fancies and reflections, however, were now
      interrupted by the falling of the drop-curtain. The audience
      arose; and the usual tumult immediately supervened. Quitting
      Talbot abruptly, I made every effort to force my way into closer
      proximity with Madame Lalande. Having failed in this, on account
      of the crowd, I at length gave up the chase, and bent my steps
      homeward; consoling myself for my disappointment in not having
      been able to touch even the hem of her robe, by the reflection
      that I should be introduced by Talbot, in due form, upon the
      morrow. This morrow at last came, that is to say, a day finally dawned
      upon a long and weary night of impatience; and then the hours
      until “one” were snail-paced, dreary, and innumerable. But even
      Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end, and there came an end to
      this long delay. The clock struck. As the last echo ceased, I
      stepped into B——’s and inquired for Talbot. “Out,” said the footman—Talbot’s own. “Out!” I replied, staggering back half a dozen paces—“let me tell
      you, my fine fellow, that this thing is thoroughly impossible and
      impracticable; Mr. Talbot is not out. What do you mean?”

      “Nothing, sir; only Mr. Talbot is not in, that’s all. He rode
      over to S——, immediately after breakfast, and left word that he
      would not be in town again for a week.”

      I stood petrified with horror and rage. I endeavored to reply,
      but my tongue refused its office. At length I turned on my heel,
      livid with wrath, and inwardly consigning the whole tribe of the
      Talbots to the innermost regions of Erebus. It was evident that
      my considerate friend, il fanatico, had quite forgotten his
      appointment with myself—had forgotten it as soon as it was made. At no time was he a very scrupulous man of his word. There was no
      help for it; so smothering my vexation as well as I could, I
      strolled moodily up the street, propounding futile inquiries
      about Madame Lalande to every male acquaintance I met. By report
      she was known, I found, to all—to many by sight—but she had been
      in town only a few weeks, and there were very few, therefore, who
      claimed her personal acquaintance. These few, being still
      comparatively strangers, could not, or would not, take the
      liberty of introducing me through the formality of a morning
      call. While I stood thus in despair, conversing with a trio of
      friends upon the all-absorbing subject of my heart, it so
      happened that the subject itself passed by. “As I live, there she is!” cried one. “Surprisingly beautiful!” exclaimed a second. “An angel upon earth!” ejaculated a third. I looked; and in an open carriage which approached us, passing
      slowly down the street, sat the enchanting vision of the opera,
      accompanied by the younger lady who had occupied a portion of her
      box. “Her companion also wears remarkably well,” said the one of my
      trio who had spoken first. “Astonishingly,” said the second; “still quite a brilliant air,
      but art will do wonders. Upon my word, she looks better than she
      did at Paris five years ago. A beautiful woman still;—don’t you
      think so, Froissart?—Simpson, I mean.”

      “_Still!_” said I, “and why shouldn’t she be? But compared with
      her friend she is as a rush-light to the evening star—a glow-worm
      to Antares.”

      “Ha! ha! ha!—why, Simpson, you have an astonishing tact at making
      discoveries—original ones, I mean.” And here we separated, while
      one of the trio began humming a gay _vaudeville_, of which I
      caught only the lines—

      Ninon, Ninon, Ninon à bas—
      A bas Ninon De L’Enclos! During this little scene, however, one thing had served greatly
      to console me, although it fed the passion by which I was
      consumed. As the carriage of Madame Lalande rolled by our group,
      I had observed that she recognized me; and more than this, she
      had blessed me, by the most seraphic of all imaginable smiles,
      with no equivocal mark of the recognition. As for an introduction, I was obliged to abandon all hope of it
      until such time as Talbot should think proper to return from the
      country. In the meantime I perseveringly frequented every
      reputable place of public amusement; and, at length, at the
      theatre, where I first saw her, I had the supreme bliss of
      meeting her, and of exchanging glances with her once again. This
      did not occur, however, until the lapse of a fortnight.