Henriette made no use of her opera-glass except to look on the stage, and nobody paid any attention to us.  As she had been greatly pleased with the finale of the second act, I promised to get it for her, and I asked Dubois to procure it for me.  Thinking that she could play the harpsichord, I offered to get one, but she told me that she had never touched that instrument.

On the night of the fourth or fifth performance M. Dubois came to our box, and as I did not wish to introduce him to my friend, I only asked what I could do for him.  He then handed me the music I had begged him to purchase for me, and I paid him what it had cost, offering him my best thanks.  As we were just opposite the ducal box, I asked him, for the sake of saying something, whether he had engraved the portraits of their highnesses.  He answered that he had already engraved two medals, and I gave him an order for both, in gold.  He promised to let me have them, and left the box.  Henriette had not even looked at him, and that was according to all established rules, as I had not introduced him, but the next morning he was announced as we were at dinner.  M. de la Haye, who was dining with us, complimented us upon having made the acquaintance of Dubois, and introduced him to his pupil the moment he came into the room.  It was then right for Henriette to welcome him, which she did most gracefully.

After she had thanked him for the ‘partizione’, she begged he would get her some other music, and the artist accepted her request as a favour granted to him.

“Sir,” said Dubois to me, “I have taken the liberty of bringing the medals you wished to have; here they are.”

On one were the portraits of the Infante and his wife, on the other was engraved only the head of Don Philip.  They were both beautifully engraved, and we expressed our just admiration.  “The workmanship is beyond all price,” said Henriette, “but the gold can be bartered for other gold.”  “Madam,” answered the modest artist, “the medals weight sixteen sequins.”  She gave him the amount immediately, and invited him to call again at dinner-time.  Coffee was just brought in at that moment, and she asked him to take it with us.  Before sweetening his cup, she enquired whether he liked his coffee very sweet.

“Your taste, madam,” answered the hunchback, gallantly, “is sure to be mine.”

“Then you have guessed that I always drink coffee without sugar.  I am glad we have that taste in common.”

And she gracefully offered him the cup of coffee without sugar.  She then helped De la Haye and me, not forgetting to put plenty of sugar in our cups, and she poured out one for herself exactly like the one she handed to Dubois.  It was much ado for me not to laugh, for my mischievous French-woman, who liked her coffee in the Parisian fashion, that is to say very sweet, was sipping the bitter beverage with an air of delight which compelled the director of the Mint to smile under the infliction.  But the cunning hunchback was even with her; accepting the penalty of his foolish compliment, and praising the good quality of the coffee, he boldly declared that it was the only way to taste the delicious aroma of the precious berry.