From the tomb to the opera is a very abrupt transition; nevertheless, both
have a share in this story. A company of French dancers appeared in Mexico,
a twentieth-rate ballet, and the chief danseuse was a little French damsel,
remarkable for the shortness of her robes, her coquetry, and her
astonishing pirouettes. On the night of a favourite ballet, Mademoiselle
Pauline made her _entree_ in a succession of pirouettes, and poising on her
toe, looked round for approbation, when a sudden thrill of horror,
accompanied by a murmur of indignation, pervaded the assembly. Mademoiselle
Pauline was equipped in the very dress in which the defunct countess had
been buried!

Lace, point flounces, gold ribbons; impossible to mistake it. Hardly had
the curtain dropped, when the little danseuse found herself surrounded by
competent authorities, questioning her as to where and how she had obtained
her dress. She replied that she had bought it at an extravagant price from
a French _modiste_ in the city. She had rifled no tomb, but honestly paid
down golden ounces, in exchange for her lawful property. To the modiste's
went the officers of justice. She also pleaded innocent. She had bought it
of a man who had brought it to her for sale, and had paid him much more
than _a poids d'or_, as indeed it was worth. By dint of further
investigation, the man was identified, and proved to be the sacristan of
San -----. Short-sighted sacristan! He was arrested and thrown into prison,
and one benefit resulted from his cupidity, since in order to avoid
throwing temptation in the way of future sacristans, it became the custom,
after the body had lain in state for some time in magnificent robes, to
substitute a plain dress previous to placing the coffin in the vault. A
poor vanity after all.

I was told by a lady here, that on the death of her grandchild, he was not