When it struck half past ten, I said to myself that it was time
to go.

I lived at that time in the Rue de Provence; I followed the Rue
du Mont-Blanc, crossed the Boulevard, went up the Rue
Louis-le-Grand, the Rue de Port-Mahon, and the Rue d'Antin. I
looked up at Marguerite's windows. There was a light. I rang. I
asked the porter if Mlle. Gautier was at home. He replied that
she never came in before eleven or a quarter past eleven. I
looked at my watch. I intended to come quite slowly, and I had
come in five minutes from the Rue de Provence to the Rue d'Antin.

I walked to and fro in the street; there are no shops, and at
that hour it is quite deserted. In half an hour's time

Marguerite arrived. She looked around her as she got down from
her coupe', as if she were looking for some one. The carriage
drove off; the stables were not at the house. Just as Marguerite
was going to ring, I went up to her and said, "Good-evening."

"Ah, it is you," she said, in a tone that by no means reassured
me as to her pleasure in seeing me.

"Did you not promise me that I might come and see you to-day?"

"Quite right. I had forgotten."

This word upset all the reflections I had had during the day.
Nevertheless, I was beginning to get used to her ways, and I did