What is her opinion of me?  When her eyes fixed themselves on mine I thought I could read in their depths a look of inquiry, a touch of surprise, a grain of disquiet.  But her answer?  She is going to Florence bearing with her the answer on which my life depends.  They are leaving by the early express.  Shall I take it, too?  Florence, Rome, Naples—­why not?  Italy is free to all, and particularly to lovers.  I will toss my cap over the mill for the second time.  I will get money from somewhere.  If I am not allowed to show myself, I will look on from a distance, hidden in the crowd.  At a pinch I will disguise myself—­as a guide at Pompeii, a lazzarone at Naples.  She shall find a sonnet in the bunch of fresh flowers offered her by a peasant at the door of her hotel.  And at least I shall bask in her smile, the sound of her voice, the glints of gold about her temples, and the pleasure of knowing that she is near even when I do not see her.

On second thoughts; no; I will not go to Florence.  As I always distrust first impulses, which so often run reason to a standstill, I had recourse to a favorite device of mine.  I asked myself:  What would Lampron advise?  And at once I conjured up his melancholy, noble face, and heard his answer:  “Come back, my dear boy.”

Paris, July 2d.

When you arrive by night, and from the windows of the flying train, as it whirls past the streets at full speed, you see Paris enveloped in red steam, pierced by starry lines of gas-lamps crisscrossing in every direction, the sight is weird, and almost beautiful.  You might fancy it the closing scene of some gigantic gala, where strings upon strings of colored lanterns brighten the night above a moving throng, passing, repassing, and raising a cloud of dust that reddens in the glow of expiring Bengal lights.

Moreover, the illusion is in part a reality, for the great city is in truth lighted for its nightly revel.  Till one o’clock in the morning it is alight and riotous with the stir and swing of life.

But the dawn is bleak enough.

That, delicious hour which puts a spirit of joy into green field and hedgerow is awful to look upon in Paris.  You leave the train half-frozen, to find the porters red-eyed from their watch.  The customs officials, in a kind of stupor, scrawl cabalistic signs upon your trunk.  You get outside the station, to find a few scattered cabs, their drivers asleep inside, their lamps blinking in the mist.

“Cabby, are you disengaged?”

“Depends where you want to go.”

“No. 91 Rue de Rennes.”

“Jump in!”