"But it's very late; let us go."
"I vould vish to say gut night to te lady; to say to her tat I haf not shleep."
"You can come another time and tell her that. She has gone to her room, and to bed probably; she would not see you. Come!"
I succeeded at last, with much difficulty, in inducing the baron to leave the place. When we reached the street, he himself asked me to get into his carriage, and insisted on taking me home. But we were no sooner seated than his head fell back heavily against the cushions and he slept once more. I told the coachman to drive to his master's hotel, where he and the footman undertook to take him up to his apartment.
I returned on foot to my lodgings. The fresh air always does one good after a banquet at which one has not been abstemious; and then, too, I have always loved to be out late in Paris. It is so easy to walk, and the noisy, bustling city wears such a different aspect! Everything is quiet and deserted. You may walk through the most frequented streets, the most populous quarters, as if you were strolling on the outer boulevards. No carriages to block your way; no itinerant hucksters to deafen you with their yells; no passers-by to elbow you; no awnings, no stands outside of shop doors for you to run into; no dogs to run between your legs; no horses to splash mud on you; no concierges to sweep their gutters onto your boots. Vive Paris at night! especially since the streets have been lighted by gas, so that one can see as well as at noonday.
XXIV
COQUETRY AND BACCARAT.—A FIASCO
A week had passed since the unique night I had spent at Madame Dauberny's. I had respected that lady's orders and had made no attempt to see her; I had simply left my card with her concierge.
When the image of my friend Frédérique presented itself to my mind, I exerted myself to banish it without pity; it seemed to me that my supper in her apartments was a dream, which it was not necessary that I should remember.
For several days, too, I had felt strongly inclined not to call again on Madame Sordeville. But, before renouncing my hopes in that direction altogether, I determined to go to her house once more. If she received me coldly a second time, I swore that I would not try to see her again.
One fine day, after making a careful toilet,—which always made my servant Pomponne smile, for he was bent on considering himself very sly,—I presented myself at the door of the pretty brunette, whose hair, by the way, was not so beautiful as her friend Frédérique's; but we cannot have everything.