with him, and he
gave them the rein as far as the Rue Froid-Manteau, down which, after
many windings, the damsel vanished, thinking she had thus spoilt the
scent of her pursuer, who was, in fact, startled by this move.

It was now quite dark. Two women, tattooed with rouge, who were drinking
black-currant liqueur at a grocer's counter, saw the young woman and
called her. She paused at the door of the shop, replied in a few soft
words to the cordial greeting offered her, and went on her way. Andrea,
who was behind her, saw her turn into one of the darkest yards out of
this street, of which he did not know the name. The repulsive appearance
of the house where the heroine of his romance had been swallowed up
made him feel sick. He drew back a step to study the neighborhood, and
finding an ill-looking man at his elbow, he asked him for information.
The man, who held a knotted stick in his right hand, placed the left on
his hip and replied in a single word:

"Scoundrel!"

But on looking at the Italian, who stood in the light of a street-lamp,
he assumed a servile expression.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said he, suddenly changing his tone. "There
is a restaurant near this, a sort of table-d'hote, where the cooking is
pretty bad and they serve cheese in the soup. Monsieur is in search
of the place, perhaps, for it is easy to see that he is an
Italian--Italians are fond of velvet and of cheese. But if monsieur
would like to know of a better eating-house, an aunt of mine, who lives
a few steps off, is very fond of foreigners."

Andrea raised his cloak as high as his moustache, and fled from the
street, spurred by the disgust he felt at this foul person, whose
clothes and manner were in harmony with the squalid house into which
the fair unknown had vanished. He returned with rapture to the thousand
luxuries of his own rooms, and spent the evening at the Marquise
d'Espard's to cleanse himself, if possible, of the smirch left by the
fancy that had driven him so relentlessly during the day.

And yet, when he was in bed, the vision came back to him, but clearer
and brighter than the reality. The girl was walking in front of him;
now and again as she stepped across a gutter her skirts revealed a round
calf; her shapely hips swayed as she walked. Again Andrea longed to
speak to her--and he dared not, he, Marcosini, a Milanese nobleman!
Then he saw her turn into the dark passage where she had eluded him, and
blamed himself for not