“If you would understand, I—­”

“No, you wouldn’t.  I sha’n’t ride in cabs until I can pay for them myself; meanwhile, I have gros sous enough in my pocket for an omnibus fare, and if you have the same we will stop here.”  At this she entered a bureau, and as I followed I saw her get some tickets from a man who sat behind a small counter, and then composedly sit down on a bench while she said, “We shall have some time to wait for our luxury:”  then showing me the tickets, “Twelve and thirteen:  it is a full night, and all these people ahead of us.”

“Is it a lottery?” I asked ignorantly.

“Very much of a lottery,” Afra replied grimly—­“like all the ways of Bohemia, remarkably uncertain.  You get a ticket for something in the giving of the Muses, and you wait until your number is called.  The worst of it is, the most unlikely people are called before you, and some get disgusted and leave:  there goes one out at the door at this moment.  Well, he may be better or he may be worse off than those who finally win:  who knows if any race is worth the running?  Still, if you have courage to hold on, I believe there is no doubt that every one ultimately gets something.”  Seeing my perplexity, she twisted the round tickets between her fingers and added, “Do not be alarmed:  these are only good for a seat in the first empty ’bus that comes up.  The conductor will call out the numbers in rotation, and if ours is among them we shall go.  It is frightful that you have never ridden in a ’bus before.  I wonder where we should get ideas if we shut ourselves up in cabs and never walked or were hungry or tired, and thought only of our own comfort from morning till night?  You don’t know what you miss, you poor deluded, unfortunate rich people.  I will tell you of something I saw the other evening; and, as it is worthy of a name, it shall be called ‘The Romance of an Omnibus.’  Listen! isn’t that our numbers I heard?  Yes:  come quick or we shall lose our chance.”

“Well,” said I when we had successfully threaded the crowd and were seated—­“the romance.”

“You have no idea of the fitness of things.  My story is pathetic:  it will look badly to see you drowned in tears—­people will stare.”

“I promise not to cry.”

“Oh, if you are one of those stolid, unemotional beings who are never moved, I sha’n’t waste my tale upon you.  Wait until to-morrow:  we will get Monsieur C——­ to recount, and you shall hear something worth listening to.  He is a regular troubadour—­has the same artless vanity they were known to possess, their charming simplicity, their gestures, and their power of investing everything with romance.  One is transported to the Middle Ages while he speaks:  no book written on the subject could so fully give you the flavor of the times.  He recalls Froissart.  If you are not affected by C——­’s stories, you had better pretend to be.  But that, I am sure, will not be necessary:  a great tragedian was lost when he became a great painter.”