lf-past two Tom was inclined to consider the question of getting up,
and Henry strolled out again and lost himself between the Moulin Rouge
and the Church of Sacre Coeur. It was turned four o'clock when he
sighted the facade of the hotel, and by that time Tom had not only
arisen, but departed, leaving a message that he should be back at six
o'clock. So Henry wandered up and down the boulevard, from the Madeleine
to Marguery's Restaurant, had an automatic tea at the Express-Bar, and
continued to wander up and down the boulevard.

He felt that he could have wandered up and down the boulevard for ever.

And then night fell; and all along the boulevard, high on seventh
storeys and low as the street names, there flashed and flickered and
winked, in red and yellow and a most voluptuous purple, electric
invitations to drink inspiriting liqueurs and to go and amuse yourself
in places where the last word of amusement was spoken. There was one
name, a name almost revered by the average healthy Englishman, which
wrote itself magically on the dark blue sky in yellow, then extinguished
itself and wrote itself anew in red, and so on tirelessly: that name was
'Folies-Bergere.' It gave birth to the most extraordinary sensations in
Henry's breast. And other names, such as 'Casino de Paris,' 'Eldorado,'
'Scala,' glittered, with their guiding arrows of light, from bronze
columns full in the middle of the street. And what with these devices,
and the splendid glowing windows of the shops, and the enlarged
photographs of surpassingly beautiful women which hung in heavy frames
from almost every lamp-post, and the jollity of the slowly-moving
crowds, and the incredible illustrations displayed on the newspaper
kiosks, and the moon creeping up the velvet sky, and the thousands of
little tables at which the jolly crowds halted to drink liquids coloured
like the rainbow--what with all that, and what with the curious gay
feeling in the air, Henry felt that possibly Berlin, or Boston, or even
Timbuctoo, might be a suitable and proper place for an engaged young
man, but that decidedly Paris was not.

At six o'clock there was no sign of Tom. He arrived at half-past seven,
admitted that he was a little late, and said that a friend had given him
tickets for the first performance of the new 'revue' at the
Folies-Bergere, that night.

'And now, since we are alone, we can talk,' said Cosette, adding, '_Mon
petit._'

'Yes,' Henry agreed.

'Dolbiac