The fresh breeze and bright sunshine and the large freedom of the streets quickly intoxicated Sophia—­intoxicated her, that is to say, in quite a physical sense.  She was almost drunk, with the heady savour of life itself.  A mild ecstasy of well-being overcame her.  She saw the flat as a horrible, vile prison, and blamed herself for not leaving it sooner and oftener.  The air was medicine, for body and mind too.  Her perspective was instantly corrected.  She was happy, living neither in the past nor in the future, but in and for that hour.  And beneath her happiness moved a wistful melancholy for the Sophia who had suffered such a captivity and such woes.  She yearned for more and yet more delight, for careless orgies of passionate pleasure, in the midst of which she would forget all trouble.  Why had she refused the offer of Laurence?  Why had she not rushed at once into the splendid fire of joyous indulgence, ignoring everything but the crude, sensuous instinct?  Acutely aware as she was of her youth, her beauty, and her charm, she wondered at her refusal.  She did not regret her refusal.  She placidly observed it as the result of some tremendously powerful motive in herself, which could not be questioned or reasoned with—­which was, in fact, the essential her.

“Do I look like an invalid?” she asked, leaning back luxuriously in the carriage among the crowd of other vehicles.

Chirac hesitated.  “My faith!  Yes!” he said at length.  “But it becomes you.  If I did not know that you have little love for compliments, I—­”

“But I adore compliments!” she exclaimed.  “What made you think that?”

“Well, then,” he youthfully burst out, “you are more ravishing than ever.”

She gave herself up deliciously to his admiration.

After a silence, he said:  “Ah! if you knew how disquieted I was about you, away there ...!  I should not know how to tell you.  Veritably disquieted, you comprehend!  What could I do?  Tell me a little about your illness.”

She recounted details.

As the fiacre entered the Rue Royale, they noticed a crowd of people in front of the Madeleine shouting and cheering.

The cabman turned towards them.  “It appears there has been a victory!” he said.

“A victory!  If only it was true!” murmured Chirac, cynically.

In the Rue Royale people were running frantically to and fro, laughing and gesticulating in glee.  The customers in the cafes stood on their chairs, and even on tables, to watch, and occasionally to join in, the sudden fever.  The fiacre was slowed to a walking pace.  Flags and carpets began to show from the upper storeys of houses.  The crowd grew thicker and more febrile.  “Victory!  Victory!” rang hoarsely, shrilly, and hoarsely again in the air.

“My God!” said Chirac, trembling.  “It must be a true victory!  We are saved!  We are saved! ...  Oh yes, it is true!”

“But naturally it is true!  What are you saying?” demanded the driver.