The streets were black as they emerged, and Andree took his arm, leading him diagonally across the Place, past the fountain, and up the Boulevard St.-Michel—the “Boul’ Miche” of fable and story. She permitted him to accompany her for a few blocks, then she halted.
“It is here you must go,” she said. “You must go now.”
“But—”
“Your promise!”
He acquiesced. “I shall see you again?” He essayed the thing in French, “Voulez-vous donnez moi un rendez-vous, mademoiselle?”
“No, no, no, no. It is not so. Écoutez. The right way to say is this, Voulez-vous me donnerai un rendez-vous? It is the future time, do you onderstan’?... You wish to see me again?”
“Yes.”
“Pourquoi?”
“Mademoiselle Pourquoi.” It was the first time he called her so.
It was a liberty, perhaps, but it pleased her, for she gave a little laugh. “You really wish to see me again?”