The crowd was so dense that some minutes passed before I could move a step towards the direction of the cry, but when I had finally succeeded in reaching the door, I flung from me the hateful arm that clung to mine, and rushing into the street, I searched through the crowd and looked in every carriage and under every lady's hood to catch a glimpse of Irene, without being disconcerted by the criticisms that the people around indulged in at my expense.
Useless trouble! I discovered nothing. The theatre kept its secret; but that cry still rings in my ears and echoes around my heart.
This morning at daybreak I flew to the Hotel de Langeac. The porter stared at me in amazement, and answered all my eager inquiries with a stolid, short no. The windows of Irene's room were closed and had that deserted appearance that proved the absence of its lovely occupant—windows that used to look so bright and beautiful when I would catch glimpses of a snowy little hand arranging the curtains, or of a golden head gracefully bent over her work, totally unconscious of the loving eyes feasting upon her beauty—oh! many of my happiest moments have been spent gazing at those windows, and now how coldly and silently they frowned upon my grief!
The porter lies! The windows lie! I exclaimed, and once more I began to search Paris.
This time I had a more important object in view than trying to fatigue my body and divert my mind. My eyes are multiplied to infinity; they questioned at once every window, door, alley, street, carriage and store in the city. I was like the miser who accused all Paris of having stolen his treasure.
At three o'clock, when all the beauty and fashion of Paris was promenading on Paix aux Panoramas street, I was stopped on the corner and button-holed by one of those gossiping friends whom fiendish chance always sends at the most trying moments in life in order to disgust us with friendship ... A dazzling form passed before me ... Irene alone possesses that graceful ease, that fairy-like step, that queenly dignity—I could recognise her among a thousand—it was useless for her to attempt disguising her exquisite elegance beneath a peasant dress—besides I caught her eye, so all doubts were swept away; several precious minutes were lost in trying to shake off my vexatious friend. I abruptly bade him good-day and darted after Irene, but she has the foot of a gazelle, and the crowd was so compact that in spite of my elbowing and foot-crushing, I made but little headway.
Finally, through an opening in the crowd, I saw Mlle., de Chateaudun turn the corner and enter that narrow street near the Cafe Vernon. This time she cannot possibly escape me—she is in a long, narrow street, with deserted galleries on either side—circumstances are propitious to a meeting and explanation—in a minute I am in the narrow street a few yards behind Irene. I prepare my mind for this momentous conversation which is to decide my fate. I firmly clasp my arms to still the violent throbbings of my heart. I am about to be translated to heaven or engulfed by hell.
She rapidly glanced at a Chinese store in front of her and, without showing any agitation, quietly opened the door and went in. Very good, thought I, she will purchase some trifle and be out in a few minutes. I will wait for her.
Five feet from the store I assumed the attitude of the god Terminus; by the way, this store is very handsomely ornamented, and far surpasses in its elegant collection of Chinese curiosities the largest store of the sort in Hog Lane in the European quarter of Canton.
Another of those kind friends whom chance holds in reserve for our annoyance, came out of a bank adjoining the store, and inferring from my statue-like attitude that I was dying of ennui and would welcome any diversion, rushed up to me and said: