On the way, whether he kept behind or ahead of this damsel, he studied every detail of her person and her dress, hoping to dislodge the insane and ridiculous fancy that had taken up an abode in his brain; but he presently found in his examination a keener pleasure than he had felt only the day before in gazing at the perfect shape of a woman he loved, as she took her bath.  Now and again, the unknown fair, bending her head, gave him a look like that of a kid tethered with its head to the ground, and finding herself still the object of his pursuit, she hurried on as if to fly.  Nevertheless, each time that a block of carriages, or any other delay, brought Andrea to her side, he saw her turn away from his gaze without any signs of annoyance.  These signals of restrained feelings spurred the frenzied dreams that had run away with him, and he gave them the rein as far as the Rue Froid-Manteau, down which, after many windings, the damsel vanished, thinking she had thus spoilt the scent of her pursuer, who was, in fact, startled by this move.

It was now quite dark.  Two women, tattooed with rouge, who were drinking black-currant liqueur at a grocer’s counter, saw the young woman and called her.  She paused at the door of the shop, replied in a few soft words to the cordial greeting offered her, and went on her way.  Andrea, who was behind her, saw her turn into one of the darkest yards out of this street, of which he did not know the name.  The repulsive appearance of the house where the heroine of his romance had been swallowed up made him feel sick.  He drew back a step to study the neighborhood, and finding an ill-looking man at his elbow, he asked him for information.  The man, who held a knotted stick in his right hand, placed the left on his hip and replied in a single word: 

“Scoundrel!”

But on looking at the Italian, who stood in the light of a street-lamp, he assumed a servile expression.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said he, suddenly changing his tone.  “There is a restaurant near this, a sort of table-d’hote, where the cooking is pretty bad and they serve cheese in the soup.  Monsieur is in search of the place, perhaps, for it is easy to see that he is an Italian —­Italians are fond of velvet and of cheese.  But if monsieur would like to know of a better eating-house, an aunt of mine, who lives a few steps off, is very fond of foreigners.”

Andrea raised his cloak as high as his moustache, and fled from the street, spurred by the disgust he felt at this foul person, whose clothes and manner were in harmony with the squalid house into which the fair unknown had vanished.  He returned with rapture to the thousand luxuries of his own rooms, and spent the evening at the Marquise d’Espard’s to cleanse himself, if possible, of the smirch left by the fancy that had driven him so relentlessly during the day.

And yet, when he was in bed, the vision came back to him, but clearer and brighter than the reality.  The girl was walking in front of him; now and again as she stepped across a gutter her skirts revealed a round calf; her shapely hips swayed as she walked.  Again Andrea longed to speak to her—­and he dared not, he, Marcosini, a Milanese nobleman!  Then he saw her turn into the dark passage where she had eluded him, and blamed himself for not having followed her.