“Well, well! that’s very funny; somebody must have made a mistake in the door.”
“Mistake! no, there’s no mistake; it was she who came.”
“She! who’s she?”
“Raise the latch, Madame Dupont.”
“What, monsieur! are you going out again now? Wait till the storm has passed; it’s raining bucketsful.”
“Open the door, I tell you!”
The concierge dared not make any further suggestions. I went out; I had no idea where I was going, but I was absolutely determined to find out something about Nicette, to learn where she was. I hurried along the street, looking all about me—no one! It was a terrible storm. I went to Rue Saint-Honoré, to her former shop; it seemed to me that I might learn something by going to the place where she used to live; but the shop was closed, tightly closed. I knocked—there was no reply. I entered the café opposite and asked the waiters if the former flower girl had returned to her shop. They stared at me, having no very clear idea what I was saying; I was so excited, and my rain-soaked clothes and muddy boots gave me such a wild aspect, that they took me for a lunatic, I doubt not. I left the café without obtaining any information. Where should I go next? I was still determined to find her.—Ah! perhaps where her mother used to live. It was a terribly long way, but I ran there without stopping. It was quite late; I could find nothing open but a grocery in the neighborhood of Mère Jérôme’s house. I went in and inquired; there I was at least more courteously treated than at the café, because the grocer was more accustomed to see drenched and muddy people. But I learned nothing; since Madame Jérôme’s death her daughters had not been seen in the quarter. So I must needs renounce all hope of learning what had become of her! But, no; I would hope on; she had sent me a bouquet, and perhaps she would return.
I went home sadly enough. I felt completely exhausted; my clothes were stuck to my body; I could hardly walk, but I looked in vain for a cab; it rained in torrents, and I did not meet a single one. I reached home at last. Madame Dupont was waiting for me; the poor woman was terrified when she saw the state I was in; she insisted on going upstairs to warm my bed, on my taking something hot; but I refused her attentions; I hoped that rest would restore me. When I entered my room, my teeth chattered violently and my legs trembled under me. I felt far from well; I crept into bed with Nicette’s bouquet on my heart; it seemed to me that that must cure me.
The next morning my concierge found me wildly delirious; I recognized nobody; my head was on fire, my mouth was parched; I was consumed by a burning fever. Fatigue, the storm, the mental agitation of the preceding night, had all combined to make me seriously ill. In a few days I was at the door of the tomb.
Who was there to take care of me? who would nurse me? My relations were not in Paris. I had a wife, but she, instead of coming to my bedside, would have fled from me for fear of contagion; strangers had to take the place of kindred and friends.