“Saint-Denis?”
“There’s nothing nice there but cheese-cakes, and I prefer the ones in the Passage des Panoramas.”
“Belleville?”
“That’s a little vulgar, but it’s amusing; besides, I have a decided penchant for Prés Saint-Gervais and Romainville wood.”
“Belleville it is, then. Off we go, driver!”
The cabman lashed his horse. Virginie was in a merry mood; with her the annoyances of yesterday, the cares of to-morrow vanished before the enjoyment of the moment. For his part, Auguste was not sorry to have his mind diverted from the thoughts that disturbed him concerning Madame Saint-Edmond, whom he had told that he expected to pass the evening at Monsieur de la Thomassinière’s.
They reached the Belleville barrier; it took the cabman half an hour to drive his nags up the hill, and when they reached the Ile d’Amour, they refused to go any farther. But Virginie was very glad to walk in the fields, so they alighted, dismissed the cab, and took a narrow road to the left, which led to Prés Saint-Gervais.
The sight of the green grass and trees made Virginie sentimental; she sighed as they strolled along the avenues of lilacs, where several cottages had recently been built.
“How ridiculous,” she cried, “to build houses everywhere, even in the fields! you might as well go to walk in your bedroom. It used to be so pretty here! We lunched on fresh eggs over there once—do you remember? We drank beer under that arbor. And that restaurant, in the woods, just beyond the keeper’s, where we went several times—the one where they have private rooms.”
“Oh, yes! the Tournebride.”