Grand concert and a great crowd — and great sorrow, always for the same reason.

Robenson — the Pointed but pretty American — is driving about in a closed carriage. I feel something particular on seeing her.

No sign of the unknown — not the slightest trace. Olga walks with us. On the Promenade one no longer sees the Nice people from the summer — they are hiding goodness knows where; even Saëtone does not appear.

The Sapogenikoffs have a box for this evening — none of them are going; only Giro, and we go to the Opera. Mignon — but I listened little: Fiouloulou came, then Pépino, who was rather entertaining since he was imitating Audiffret.

"I have a mind to pose like this," I say, advancing my right leg and resting my hand on my knee — just as the Surprising One does.

"Oh! Mademoiselle," says Gautier, "don't do that — it is Napoleon's pose."

"Really?"

"Yes — look: here is Napoleon at Trocadero; here is Napoleon pensive; there is Napoleon preoccupied; there is Napoleon content; and there is Napoleon bored."

And as he spoke he performed, one after another, and in a remarkable fashion, the poses of the Surprising One. The last especially was striking, and we burst out laughing.

Bueno is not far from us — she has a very original face.

The boxes of Léon and the Surprising One are empty; we exchange a glance with Olga — and my aunt rises to leave. Instead of following her, we run upstairs, summon the usherette (bewildered by our frenzy), order her to open box no. 1, and from there, all trembling and animated, we watch the audience evacuate the auditorium.

Giro is in ecstasy before the little sofa on which her beloved sits.

"I say," she says, when we have rejoined my aunt and Dina, "I say — I have lost my bouquet!"

She has left it in her Émile's box. Poor creature!

I sup with Dina on cold turkey. It is like last winter. For me, the opera, cold turkey, and Audiffret are three inseparable things.