The opera opened immediately after Easter, and I was present at every
performance. I was then entirely cured, and had resumed my usual life. I
was pleased to see that Baletti shewed off Marina to the best advantage.
I never visited her, but Baletti was in the habit of breakfasting with me
almost every morning.

He had often mentioned an old actress who had left the stage for more
than twenty years, and pretended to have been my father's friend. One day
I took a fancy to call upon her, and he accompanied me to her house.

I saw an old, broken-down crone whose toilet astonished me as much as her
person. In spite of her wrinkles, her face was plastered with red and
white, and her eyebrows were indebted to India ink for their black
appearance. She exposed one-half of her flabby, disgusting bosom, and
there could be no doubt as to her false set of teeth. She wore a wig
which fitted very badly, and allowed the intrusion of a few gray hairs
which had survived the havoc of time. Her shaking hands made mine quiver
when she pressed them. She diffused a perfume of amber at a distance of
twenty yards, and her affected, mincing manner amused and sickened me at
the same time. Her dress might possibly have been the fashion twenty
years before. I was looking with dread at the fearful havoc of old age
upon a face which, before merciless time had blighted it, had evidently
been handsome, but what amazed me was the childish effrontery with which
this time-withered specimen of womankind was still waging war with the
help of her blasted charms.

Baletti, who feared lest my too visible astonishment should vex her, told
her that I was amazed at the fact that the beautiful strawberry which
bloomed upon her chest had not been withered by the hand of Time. It was