That is Eugenia, or I am
not Frank. It is her, or it is her ghost." Still I had not that moral
certainty of the identity, as to enable me to go at once to her, and
address her. Indeed, had I been certain, all things considered, the
situation we were in would have rendered such a step highly improper.
"If that be Eugenia," thought I, again, "she has improved both in
manner and person. She has a becoming _embonpoint_, and an air _de bon
societe_ which, when we parted, she had not."
The more intensely I gazed, the more convinced was I that I was right;
the immovable devotion of my eyes attracted the attention of a French
officer, who sat near me.
"_C'est une jolie femme, n'est-ce pas, monsieur_?"
"_Vraiment_" said I. "Do you know her name?"
"_Elle s'appelle Madame de Rosenberg_."
"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 cinq
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; c'est un fort
joli 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.
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