said the artist, pointing to a little
theater where he was on the free list.

"For the sake of art?"

"No, for the sake of Laura."

"Who is Laura?" continued Musette, whose eyes shot forth notes of
interrogation.

Marcel kept up the tone.

"She is a chimera whom I am pursuing, and who plays here."

And he pretended to pull out an imaginary shirt frill.

"You are very witty this evening," said Musette.

"And you very curious," observed Marcel.

"Do no speak so loud, everyone can hear us, and they will take us for
two lovers quarrelling."

"It would not be the first time that that happened," said Marcel.

Musette read a challenge in this sentence, and quickly replied, "And it
will not perhaps be the last, eh?"

Her words were plain, they whizzed past Marcel's ear like a bullet.

"Splendors of heaven," said he, looking up at the stars, "you are
witness that it is not I who opened fire. Quick, my armor."

From that moment the firing began.

It was now only a question of finding some appropriate pretext to bring
about an agreement between these two fancies that had just woke up again
so lively.

As they walked along, Musette kept looking at Marcel, and Marcel kept
looking at Musette. They did not speak, but their eyes, those
plenipotentiaries of the heart, often met. After a quarter of an hour's
diplomacy this congress of glances had tacitly settled the matter. There
was nothing to be done save to ratify it.

The interrupted conversation was renewed.

"Candidly now," said Musette to Marcel, "where were you going just now?"

"I told you, to see Laura."

"Is she pretty?"

"Her mouth is a nest of smiles."

"Oh! I know all that sort of thing."

"But you yourself," said Marcel, "whence came you on the wings of this
four-wheeler?"

"I came back from the railway station where I had been to see off
Alexis, who is going on a visit to his family."

"What sort of man is Alexis?"

In turn Musette sketched a charming portrait of her present lover.
Whilst walking along Marcel and Musette continued thus on the open
Boulevard the comedy of reawakening love. With the same simplicity, in
turn tender and jesting, they went verse by verse through that immortal
ode in which Horace and Lydia extol with such grace the charms of their
new loves, and end by adding a postscript to their old ones. As they
reached the corner of the street a rather strong picket of soldiers
suddenly issued from it.

Musette struck an