And immediately, talking to hear himself talk, and to exercise his terrible organ, he belched out, like the noise from an opened dam, a torrent of commonplace things.  He praised Scribe’s works, which they had put on the stage again; he announced that the famous Guillery, his senior in the comedy line, would be execrable in this performance, and would make a bungle of it.  He complained of being worried to death by the pursuit of a great lady—­“You know, stage box Number Six,” and showed, with a conceited gesture, a letter, tossed in among the jars of paint and pomade, which smelled of musk.  Then, ascending to subjects of a more elevated order, he scored the politics of the Tuileries, and scornfully exposed the imperial corruption while recognizing that this “poor Badingue,” who, three days before, had paid a little compliment to the actor, was of more account than his surroundings.

The poet went home and retired, bewildered by such gossip.  When he awoke, the agony of his thoughts about Maria had become still more painful.  When should he see Louise again?  Would her reply be favorable?  In spite of the fine autumn morning his heart was troubled, and he felt that he had no courage.  His administrative work had never seemed more loathsome than on that day.  His fellow-clerk, an amateur in hunting, had just had two days’ absence, and inflicted upon him, in an unmerciful manner, his stories of slaughtered partridges, and dogs who pointed, so wonderfully well, and of course punctuated all this with numerous Pan-Pans! to imitate the report of a double-barrelled gun.

When he left the office Amedee regained his serenity a little; he returned home by the quays, hunting after old books and enjoying the pleasures of a beautiful evening, watching, in the golden sky, around the spires of Ste.-Chapelle, a large flock of swallows assembling for their approaching departure.

At nightfall, after dining, he resolved to baffle his impatience by working all the evening and retouching one act of his drama with which he was not perfectly content.  He went to his room, lighted his lamp, and seated himself before his open manuscript.  Now, then! to work!  He had been silly ever since the night before.  Why should he imagine that misfortune was in the air?  Do such things as presentiments exist?

Suddenly, three light, but hasty and sharp knocks were struck upon his door.  Amedee arose, took his lamp, and opened it.  He jumped back—­there stood Louise Gerard in her deep mourning!

“You?—­At my rooms?—­At this hour?—­What has happened?”

She entered and dropped into the poet’s armchair.  While he put the lamp upon the table he noticed that the young girl was as white as wax.  Then she seized his hands and pressing them with all her strength, she said, in a voice unlike her own—­a voice hoarse with despair: 

“Amedee, I come to you by instinct, as toward our only friend, as to a brother, as to the only man who will be able to help us repair the frightful misfortune which overwhelms us!” She stopped, stifled with emotion.