“Gone,” he muttered, “gone!”

But, when he turned around, he found himself face to face with the Fortins, man and wife; who were laughing a sinister laugh.

“What did I tell you?” exclaimed Mme. Fortin.  “There she is, started at last.  Get up, horse!  She’ll do well, the child.”

The magnificent equipage and elegant dress had already produced quite an effect among the neighbors.  The customers sitting in front of the cafe were laughing among themselves.  The confectioner and his wife were casting indignant glances at the proprietors of the Hotel des Folies.

“You see, M. Favoral,” replied Mme. Fortin, “such a girl as that was not made for our neighborhood.  You must make up your mind to it; you won’t see much more of her on the Boulevard du Temple.”

Without saying a word, Maxence ran to his room, the hot tears streaming from his eyes.  He felt ashamed of himself; for, after all, what was this girl to him?

“She is gone!” he repeated to himself.  “Well, good-by, let her go!”

But, despite all his efforts at philosophy, he felt an immense sadness invading his heart:  ill-defined regrets and spasms of anger agitated him.  He was thinking what a fool he had been to believe in the grand airs of the young lady, and that, if he had had dresses and horses to give her, she might not have received him so harshly.  At last he made up his mind to think no more of her,—­one of those fine resolutions which are always taken, and never kept; and in the evening he left his room to go and dine in the Rue St. Gilles.

But, as was often his custom, he stopped at the cafe next door, and called for a drink.  He was mixing his absinthe when he saw the carriage that had carried off Mlle. Lucienne in the morning returning at a rapid gait, and stopping short in front of the hotel.  Mlle. Lucienne got out slowly, crossed the sidewalk, and entered the narrow corridor.  Almost immediately, the carriage turned around, and drove off.

“What does it mean?” thought Maxence, who was actually forgetting to swallow his absinthe.

He was losing himself in absurd conjectures, when, some fifteen minutes later, he saw the girl coming out again.  Already she had taken off her elegant clothes, and resumed her cheap black dress.  She had a basket on her arm, and was going towards the Rue Chariot.  Without further reflections, Maxence rose suddenly, and started to follow her, being very careful that she should not see him.  After walking for five or six minutes, she entered a shop, half-eating house, and half wine-shop, in the window of which a large sign could be read:  “Ordinary at all hours for forty centimes.  Hard boiled eggs, and salad of the season.”

Maxence, having crept up as close as he could, saw Mlle. Lucienne take a tin box out of her basket, and have what is called an “ordinaire” poured into it; that is, half a pint of soup, a piece of beef as large as the fist, and a few vegetables.  She then had a small bottle half-filled with wine, paid, and walked out with that same look of grave dignity which she always wore.