he said, with grotesque tenderness; "you look
hungry. In the sacred name of humanity, I
offer you some lunch!" The organ-grinder
piteously put in his claim to a penny from the
benevolent stranger. The Count shrugged his
shoulders contemptuously—and passed on.

We reached the streets and the better class
of shops, between the New-road and Oxford-
street. The Count stopped again, and entered
a small optician's shop, with an inscription in
the window, announcing that repairs were neatly
executed inside. He came out again, with an
opera-glass in his hand; walked a few paces
on; and stopped to look at a bill of the Opera,
placed outside a music-seller's shop. He read
the bill attentively, considered a moment, and
then hailed an empty cab as it passed him.
"Opera-box-office," be said to the man—and
was driven away.

I crossed the road, and looked at the bill in
my turn. The performance announced was
"Lucrezia Borgia," and it was to take place that
evening. The opera-glass in the Count's hand,
Lis careful reading of the bill, and his direction
to the cabman, all suggested that he proposed
making one of the audience. I had the means
of getting an admission for myself and a friend,
to the pit, by applying to one of the scene-
painters attached to the theatre, with whom I
had been well acquainted in past times. There
was a chance, at least, that the Count might be
easily visible among the audience, to me, and to
any one with me; and, in this case, I had the
means of ascertaining whether Pesca knew his
countryman, or not, that very night.

This consideration at once decided the
disposal of my evening. I procured the tickets,
leaving a note at the Professor's lodgings on the
way. At a quarter to eight, I called to take
him with me to the theatre. My little friend
was in a state of the highest excitement, with
a festive flower in his button-hole, and the
largest opera-glass I ever saw hugged up under
his arm.

"Are you ready?" I asked.

"Right-all-right," said Pesca.

We started for the theatre.

                               III.

THE last notes of the introduction to the
opera were being played, and the seats in the
pit were all filled, when Pesca and I reached the
theatre.

There was plenty of room, however, in the
passage that ran round the pit, which was
precisely the position best calculated to answer the
purpose for which I was attending the performance.
I went first to the barrier separating us
from the stalls; and looked for the Count in
that part of the theatre. He was not there.
Returning along the passage, on the left hand
side from the stage, and looking about me
attentively, I discovered him in the pit. He occupied
an excellent place, some twelve or fourteen seats
from the end of a bench, within three rows of
the stalls. I placed myself exactly on a line with
him; Pesca standing by my side. The
Professor was not yet aware of the purpose for
which I had brought him to the theatre, and he
was rather surprised that we did not move nearer
to the stage.

The curtain rose, and the opera began.

Throughout the whole of the first act, we
remained in our position; the Count, absorbed by
the orchestra and the stage, never casting so
much as a chance glance at us. Not a note of
Donizetti's delicious music was lost on him.
There he sat, high above his neighbours, smiling,
and nodding his great head enjoyingly, from
time to time. When the people near him
applauded the close of an air (as an English
audience in such circumstances always will
applaud), without the least consideration for the
orchestral movement which immediately followed
it, he looked round at them with an expression
of compassionate remonstrance, and held up one
hand with a gesture of polite entreaty. At the
more refined passages of the singing, at the more
delicate phrases of the music, which passed
unapplauded by others, his fat hands adorned with
perfectly-fitting black kid gloves, softly patted
each other, in token of the cultivated appreciation
of a musical man. At such times, his oily
murmur of approval, " Bravo! Bra-a-a-a!"
hummed through the silence, like the purring of
a great cat. His immediate neighbours on either
side—hearty, ruddy-faced people from the country,
basking amazedly in the sunshine of fashionable
London—seeing and hearing him, began to
follow his lead. Many a burst of applause from
the pit, that night, started from the soft,
comfortable patting of the black-gloved hands. The
man's voracious vanity devoured this implied
tribute to his local and critical supremacy, with
an appearance of the highest relish. Smiles
rippled continuously over his fat face. He
looked about him, at the pauses in the music,
serenely satisfied with himself and his fellow-
creatures. "Yes! yes! these barbarous
English people are learning something from ME.
Here, there, and everywhere, I—Fosco—am an
Influence that is felt, a Man who sits supreme!"
If ever face spoke, his face spoke then—and
that was its language.

The curtain fell on the first act; and the
audience rose to look about them. This was the
time I had waited for—the time to try if Pesca
knew him.

He rose with the rest, and surveyed the
occupants of the boxes grandly with his opera-glass.
At first, his back was towards us; but he turned
round, in time, to our side of the theatre, and
looked at the boxes above us; using his glass
for a few minutes—then removing it, but still
continuing to look up. This was the moment I
chose, when his full face was in view, for directing
Pesca's attention to him.

"Do you know that man?" I asked.

"Which man, my friend?"

"The tall, fat man, standing there, with his
face towards us."

Pesca raised himself on tiptoe, and looked at
the Count.

"No," said the Professor. "The big fat man