could read in their depths a look of inquiry, a touch of
surprise, a grain of disquiet. But her answer? She is going to Florence
bearing with her the answer on which my life depends. They are leaving
by the early express. Shall I take it, too? Florence, Rome, Naples--why
not? Italy is free to all, and particularly to lovers. I will toss my
cap over the mill for the second time. I will get money from somewhere.
If I am not allowed to show myself, I will look on from a distance,
hidden in the crowd. At a pinch I will disguise myself--as a guide at
Pompeii, a lazzarone at Naples. She shall find a sonnet in the bunch of
fresh flowers offered her by a peasant at the door of her hotel. And at
least I shall bask in her smile, the sound of her voice, the glints of
gold about her temples, and the pleasure of knowing that she is near
even when I do not see her.

On second thoughts; no; I will not go to Florence. As I always distrust
first impulses, which so often run reason to a standstill, I had
recourse to a favorite device of mine. I asked myself: What would
Lampron advise? And at once I conjured up his melancholy, noble face,
and heard his answer: "Come back, my dear boy."

PARIS, July 2d.

When you arrive by night, and from the windows of the flying train, as
it whirls past the streets at full speed, you see Paris enveloped in
red steam, pierced by starry lines of gas-lamps crisscrossing in every
direction, the sight is weird, and almost beautiful. You might fancy it
the closing scene of some gigantic gala, where strings upon strings
of colored lanterns brighten the night above a moving throng, passing,
repassing, and raising a cloud of dust that reddens in the glow of
expiring Bengal lights.

Moreover, the illusion is in part a reality, for the great city is in
truth lighted for its nightly revel. Till one o'clock in the morning it
is alight and riotous with the stir and swing of life.

But the dawn is bleak enough.

That, delicious hour which puts a spirit of joy into green field
and hedgerow is awful to look upon in Paris. You leave the train
half-frozen, to find the porters red-eyed from their watch. The customs
officials, in a kind of stupor, scrawl cabalistic signs upon your trunk.
You get outside the station, to find a few scattered cabs, their drivers
asleep inside, their lamps blinking in the mist.

"Cabby, are you disengaged?"

"Depends where you want to go."

"No. 91 Rue de Rennes