The girl seem’d affected some way or other with what I said;—she gave a low sigh:—I found I was not empowered to enquire at all after it,—so said nothing more till I got to the corner of the Rue de Nevers, where, we were to part.
—But is this the way, my dear, said I, to the Hotel de Modene? She told me it was;—or that I might go by the Rue de Gueneguault, which was the next turn.—Then I’ll go, my dear, by the Rue de Gueneguault, said I, for two reasons; first, I shall please myself, and next, I shall give you the protection of my company as far on your way as I can. The girl was sensible I was civil—and said, she wished the Hotel de Modene was in the Rue de St. Pierre.—You live there? said I.—She told me she was fille de chambre to Madame R—.—Good God! said I, ’tis the very lady for whom I have brought a letter from Amiens.—The girl told me that Madame R—, she believed, expected a stranger with a letter, and was impatient to see him:—so I desired the girl to present my compliments to Madame R—, and say, I would certainly wait upon her in the morning.
We stood still at the corner of the Rue de Nevers whilst this pass’d.—We then stopped a moment whilst she disposed of her Égarements du Cœur, &c. more commodiously than carrying them in her hand—they were two volumes: so I held the second for her whilst she put the first into her pocket; and then she held her pocket, and I put in the other after it.
’Tis sweet to feel by what fine spun threads our affections are drawn together.
We set off afresh, and as she took her third step, the girl put her hand within my arm.—I was just bidding her,—but she did it of herself, with that undeliberating simplicity, which show’d it was out of her head that she had never seen me before. For my own part, I felt the conviction of consanguinity so strongly, that I could not help turning half round to look in her face, and see if I could trace out any thing in it of a family likeness.—Tut! said I, are we not all relations?
When we arrived at the turning up of the Rue de Gueneguault, I stopp’d to bid her adieu for good and all: the girl would thank me again for my company and kindness.—She bid me adieu twice.—I repeated it as often; and so cordial was the parting between us, that had it happened any where else, I’m not sure but I should have signed it with a kiss of charity, as warm and holy as an apostle.
But in Paris, as none kiss each other but the men,—I did, what amounted to the same thing—
—I bid God bless her.
THE PASSPORT.
PARIS.
When I got home to my hotel, La Fleur told me I had been enquired after by the Lieutenant de Police.—The deuce take it! said I,—I know the reason. It is time the reader should know it, for in the order of things in which it happened, it was omitted: not that it was out of my head; but that had I told it then it might have been forgotten now;—and now is the time I want it.