Curiosity in all that was new about him sustained the boy for a few days, but as the fear of getting lost restricted him to the immediate neighborhood of his abode,—­a neighborhood where the sign “On parle anglais” never appeared in the shop windows, and where a restaurateur would not deign to speak English even if he knew it,—­he gradually became a prey to the most terrible of all lonelinesses—­the loneliness of an outsider in a vast, gay city.

At first he did not dare go into a restaurant.  When hunger forced him, he would enter a patisserie, point at one thing and another, take without question the change that was handed him, and return to his room to eat.  The neighborhood, however, was blessed with a series of second-hand book-shops.  One day his eyes fell on an English-French phrase-book.  He bought it.  He learned the meaning of the cabalistic sign, “Table d’hote.  Diner, 2f.”  He began to dine out.

In those lonely initiative weeks Lewis’s mind sought out Nadir and dwelt on it.  He counted the months he had been away, and was astounded by their number.  Never had time seemed so long and so short.  He longed to talk to Natalie, to tell her the dream that had seized upon him and gradually become real.  At the little book-shop he bought ink, paper, and pen, and began to write.

It was an enormous letter, for one talked easily to Natalie, even on paper.  At the end he begged her to write to him, to tell him all that had happened at Nadir, if, indeed, anything beyond her marriage had occurred to mark the passing months.  What about the goats?  A whole string of questions about the goats followed, and then, again, was she really married?  Was she happy?

The intricacies of getting that letter weighed, properly stamped, and posted were too much for Lewis.  He sought aid not from Le Brux, but from Cellette.  It took him a long time to explain what he wanted.  Cellette stared at him.  She seemed so stupid about it that Lewis felt like shaking her again, an impulse that, assisted by memory, he easily curbed.

“But,” cried Cellette at last, “it is so easy—­so simple!  You go to the post, you say, ‘Kindly weigh this letter,’ you ask how much to put on it, you buy the stamps, you affix them, you drop the letter in the slot. Voila!” She smiled and started off.

Lewis reached out one arm and barred her way.

“Yes, yes,” he stammered, “voila, of course.”  A vague recollection of his father taming Le Brux with a dinner came to his aid.  He explained to Cellette that if she would post the letter for him, he would be pleased to take her to dinner.

Then Cellette understood in her own way.

“Ah,” she cried brightly, “you make excuses to ask me to dine, eh?  That is delicate.  It is gallant.  I am charmed.  Let us go.”

She hung on his arm.  She chatted.  She never waited for an answer.  Together they went to the post.  People glanced at them and smiled, some nodded; but Cellette’s face was upturned toward Lewis’s.  She saw no one else.  It was his evening.