rk corridor as
far as Nana's bedroom. In affairs of this kind Labordette was wont
to display the most perfect tact and cleverness. Indeed, he seemed
delighted to be making other people happy. Nana showed no surprise; she
was only somewhat annoyed by the excessive heat of Muffat's pursuit.
Life was a serious affair, was it not? Love was too silly: it led to
nothing. Besides, she had her scruples in view of Zizi's tender age.
Indeed, she had scarcely behaved quite fairly toward him. Dear me,
yes, she was choosing the proper course again in taking up with an old
fellow.

"Zoe," she said to the lady's maid, who was enchanted at the thought of
leaving the country, "pack the trunks when you get up tomorrow. We are
going back to Paris."

And she went to bed with Muffat but experienced no pleasure.

CHAPTER VII

One December evening three months afterward Count Muffat was strolling
in the Passage des Panoramas. The evening was very mild, and owing to a
passing shower, the passage had just become crowded with people. There
was a perfect mob of them, and they thronged slowly and laboriously
along between the shops on either side. Under the windows, white with
reflected light, the pavement was violently illuminated. A perfect
stream of brilliancy emanated from white globes, red lanterns, blue
transparencies, lines of gas jets, gigantic watches and fans, outlined
in flame and burning in the open. And the motley displays in the
shops, the gold ornaments of the jeweler's, the glass ornaments of the
confectioner's, the light-colored silks of the modiste's, seemed to
shine again in the crude light of the reflectors behind the clear
plate-glass windows, while among the bright-colored, disorderly array
of shop signs a huge purple glove loomed in the distance like a bleeding
hand which had been severed from an arm and fastened to a yellow cuff.

Count Muffat had slowly returned as far as the boulevard. He glanced out
at the roadway and then came sauntering back along the shopwindows.
The damp and heated atmosphere filled the narrow passage with a slight
luminous mist. Along the flagstones, which had been wet by the drip-drop
of umbrellas, the footsteps of the crowd rang continually, but there
was no sound of voices. Passers-by elbowed him at every turn and cast
inquiring looks at his silent face, which the gaslight rendered pale.
And to escape these curious manifestations the count posted himself in
front of a stationer's, whe