Rosette insisted that I should read her letters from her adorers. I found in them the following sentiments:
"Ah! mademoiselle, what a sudden spasm I felt throughout my being when I saw your shadow on the curtain!"
Or this: "Fatality collects and heaps up like a block of granite on my breast the circumstances that compel me to idolize you."
I soon had enough of that; I refused to read any more and returned the scrawls to Rosette, saying:
"I'll wager that your lovers have long, flying hair, uncombed beards, and artist's hats?"
"That is true! How did you guess that?"
"My dear love, when a man writes in that style, he doesn't dress like other people."
The hour arrived when we must think of returning. The time had passed very quickly; that is the greatest praise one can give a tête-à-tête.
I put Mademoiselle Rosette in a cab again—she was slightly exhilarated—and said:
"I will escort you to Faubourg Saint-Denis."