So we had breakfast, M. Picot sipping his coffee from the first to the last drop, like a true Sybarite of the eighteenth century.
Voltaire had made this drink very fashionable by poisoning himself with it regularly three times a day.
My eyes never left the window; I saw clearly that it was the overcast weather that caused M. Picot to linger.
Suddenly I uttered a cry of joy: a ray of sunshine began to pierce through the grey and snowy atmosphere.
"Oh! look, look!" I cried, "there's the sun!"
And at that moment I felt as devout as a Brahmin.
"Come, let us start," said M. Picot.
And we set off; the servant following us carrying the lure and the parcel of twine.
M. Picot went through his garden, which led into a poor quarter of the town called les Buttes, or rather les Huttes, for it was composed rather of huts than of houses.
I was terribly disappointed. I had hoped we should go through the town, and I should be seen in all my glory by my fellow-citizens.