She languidly picked up a book, the moment Gerald had departed, and tried to prove to herself that she was sufficiently in command of her nerves to read.  For a long time reading had been her chief solace.  But she could not read.  She glanced round the inhospitable chamber, and thought of the hundreds of rooms—­some splendid and some vile, but all arid in their unwelcoming aspect—­through which she had passed in her progress from mad exultation to calm and cold disgust.  The ceaseless din of the street annoyed her jaded ears.  And a great wave of desire for peace, peace of no matter what kind, swept through her.  And then her deep distrust of Gerald reawakened; in spite of his seriously desperate air, which had a quality of sincerity quite new in her experience of him, she could not be entirely sure that, in asserting utter penury, he was not after all merely using a trick to get rid of her.

She sprang up, threw the book on the bed, and seized her gloves.  She would follow him, if she could.  She would do what she had never done before—­she would spy on him.  Fighting against her lassitude, she descended the long winding stairs, and peeped forth from the doorway into the street.  The ground floor of the hotel was a wine-shop; the stout landlord was lightly flicking one of the three little yellow tables that stood on the pavement.  He smiled with his customary benevolence, and silently pointed in the direction of the Rue Notre Dame de Lorette.  She saw Gerald down there in the distance.  He was smoking a cigar.

He seemed to be a little man without a care.  The smoke of the cigar came first round his left cheek and then round his right, sailing away into nothing.  He walked with a gay spring, but not quickly, flourishing his cane as freely as the traffic of the pavement would permit, glancing into all the shop windows and into the eyes of all the women under forty.  This was not at all the same man as had a moment ago been spitting angry menaces at her in the bedroom of the hotel.  It was a fellow of blithe charm, ripe for any adventurous joys that destiny had to offer.

Supposing he turned round and saw her?

If he turned round and saw her and asked her what she was doing there in the street, she would tell him plainly:  “I’m following you, to find out what you do.”

But he did not turn.  He went straight forward, deviating at the church, where the crowd became thicker, into the Rue du Faubourg Montmartre, and so to the boulevard, which he crossed.  The whole city seemed excited and vivacious.  Cannons boomed in slow succession, and flags were flying.  Sophia had no conception of the significance of those guns, for, though she read a great deal, she never read a newspaper; the idea of opening a newspaper never occurred to her.  But she was accustomed to the feverish atmosphere of Paris.  She had lately seen regiments of cavalry flashing and prancing in the Luxembourg Gardens, and had much admired the fine picture.  She accepted the booming as another expression of the high spirits that had to find vent somehow in this feverish empire.  She so accepted it and forgot it, using all the panorama of the capital as a dim background for her exacerbated egoism.