He was in the hall, putting on his overcoat, while a servant turned up its otter-fur collar, when he heard Guy say: 

“You are going, my dear duke?  Shall we bear each other company?”

The idea was not distasteful to Rosas.  Involuntarily, perhaps, he thought that a conversation with Lissac was, in some way, a chat with Marianne.  These two beings were coupled in his recollections and preoccupations; besides, he really liked Guy.  The Parisian was the complement of the Castilian.  They had so many reminiscences in common:  fetes, suppers, sorrows, Parisian sadnesses, girls who sobbed to the measure of a waltz.  Then they had not seen each other for so long.

Rosas experienced a certain degree of pleasure in finding himself once more on the boulevard with Guy.  It made him feel young again.  Every whiff of smoke that ascended from his cigar in the fresh air, seemed to breathe so many exhalations of youth.  They had formerly ground out so many paradoxes as they strolled thus arm in arm, taking their recreation through Paris.

In a very little time, and after the exchange of a few words, they had bridged the long gap of years, of travel and separation.  They expressed so much in so few words.  Rosas, as if invincibly attracted by the name of Marianne, was the first to pronounce it, while Guy listened with an impassive air to the duke’s interrogations.

In this way they went toward the boulevard, along which the rows of gas-jets flamed like some grand illumination.

“Paris!” said Rosas, “has a singular effect on one.  It resumes its dominion over one at once on seeing it again, and it seems as if one had never left it.  I have hardly unpacked my trunks, and here I am again transformed into a Parisian.”

“Paris is like absinthe!” said Guy.  “As soon as one uncorks the bottle, one commences to drink it again.”

“Absinthe! there you are indeed, you Frenchmen, who everlastingly calumniate your country.  What an idea, comparing Paris with absinthe!”

“A Parisian’s idea, parbleu! You have not been here two days and you are already intoxicated with Parisine, you said so yourself.  The hasheesh of the boulevard.”

“Perhaps it is not Parisine only that has, in fact, affected my brain,” said Rosas.

“No doubt, it is also the Parisienne.  Madame Marsy is very pretty.”

“Charming,” said Rosas coldly.

“Less charming than Mademoiselle Kayser!”

Guy sent a whiff of smoke from his cigar floating on the night breeze, while awaiting the duke’s reply; but Jose pursued his way beside his friend, without uttering a word, as if he were suddenly absorbed, and Lissac, who had allowed the conversation to lapse, sought to reopen it:  “Then,” he said suddenly,—­dropping the name of Mademoiselle Kayser:—­“You will be in Paris for some time, Rosas?”

“I do not in the least know.”