M. Hamard seized a pen from the desk, scribbled some words on a piece of paper, and handed it to me.
"Go," he said. "That is the address. You are interrupting the sale."
Then, with the paper in my hand, I came back through the crush without difficulty, for the crowd made a lane for me down which I walked, paper in hand, a child of nine, the last and only friend of the once great and powerful Felicianis.
I read the address on the piece of paper to the driver of the cabriolet.
"Ma foi!" said he, "but that is a long way from here."
"Drive me there," said I.
"Yes; that is all very well, but how about my fare?"
I showed him my napoleon, got into the vehicle, and we drove off.
It was indeed a long way from there. We retook the route by which we had come, we drove through the broad streets, through the great boulevards, and then we plunged into a quarter of the city where the streets were shrunken and mean, where the people were in keeping with the streets, and the light of the bright September day seemed dull as the light of December.