She was dressing her hair before a low glass as we came in, and scarcely turned at our approach; but in an instant, as if some sudden thought had struck her, she sprung fully round, and looking at me fixedly for above a minute--a very trying one for me--she glanced at her husband, whose countenance plainly indicated that she was right, and calling out, "C'est lui--c'est bien lui," threw herself into my arms, and sobbed convulsively.
"If this were to be the only fruits of my impersonation," thought I, "it is not so bad--but I am greatly afraid these good people will find out a wife and seven babies for me before morning." Whether the manager thought that enough had been done for stage effect, I know not; but he gently disengaged the lovely Amelie, and deposited her upon a sofa, to a place upon which she speedily motioned me by a look from a pair of very seducing blue eyes.
"Francois, mon cher, you must put off La Chaumiere.

I can't play to-night." "Put it off! But only think of the audience, ma mie--they will pull down the house." "C'est possible," said she, carelessly.

"If that give them any pleasure, I suppose they must be indulged; but I, too, must have a little of my own way.

I shall not play." The tone this was said in--the look--the easy gesture of command--no less than the afflicted helplessness of the luckless husband, showed me that Amelie, however docile as a sweetheart, had certainly her own way as wife.
While Le cher Francois then retired, to make his proposition to the audience, of substituting something for the Chaumiere--the "sudden illness of Madame Baptiste having prevented her appearance,"-- we began to renew our old acquaintance, by a thousand inquiries from that long-past time, when we were sweethearts and lovers.
"You remember me then so well ?" said I.
"As of yesterday.

You are much taller, and your eyes darker; but still--there is something.