They laughed and wept tears of rapture that washed the paint from the faces of elderly belles and ancient dandies, and rinsed the old lees of vice and vanity and selfishness from their hearts. Friends and foes embraced; strangers exchanged hand-clasps and congratulations. The golden Age had come again. Napoleon was in Paris. And the hubbub of voices grew overwhelming, in the ceaseless reiteration of two words:
“The Emperor!—the Emperor!”
Hugo said, raising his magnificent voice so as to be heard plainly above the Babel:
“Messieurs the Representatives of the New Provisional Government, Monsieur Bonaparte has at length returned from England. Let us who, having confidence in his pledges, have voted in his favor, go and say to him: ‘How do you do?’”
And, followed by his fellow-wearers of black coats and tricolored scarfs, he went out quickly. Yet others pushed their way into the anteroom, and began to rummage for hats, coats, and cloaks. As the bustle of their departure reached its climax, Dunoisse was conscious of a breath of familiar fragrance. A silken rustle came behind him, and a soft voice reached his ear, saying:
“If only I dared follow them!”
It was Madame de Roux. And so bitter a spasm of jealousy clutched Dunoisse’s heart that he was shocked and confounded by the revelation of his own huge folly. Then, as the wood-flower’s perfume reached him in a stronger gust of sweetness, a whisper that thrilled said:
“Are you chivalrous?”
The voice added instantly:
“I overheard what you said just now.... Do not look round....”