Let me see, I will make up the account of my ventures.

One January afternoon I walked up and down the Rue de l'Universite eight
times in succession, from No. 1 to No. 107, and from No. 107 to No. 1.
Jeanne did not come out in spite of the brilliancy of the clear winter
day.

On the nineteenth of the same month I went to see Andromache, although
the classic writers, whom I swear by, are not the writers I most care to
hear. I renewed this attempt on the twenty-seventh. Neither on the
first nor on the second occasion did I see Mademoiselle Charnot.

And yet if the Institute does not escort its daughters in shoals to
applaud Andromache, where on earth does it take them?

Perhaps nowhere.

Every time I cross the Tuileries Garden I run my eyes over the groups
scattered among the chestnut-trees. I see children playing and falling
about; nursemaids who leave them crying; mothers who pick them up again;
a vagrant guardsman. No Jeanne.

To wind up, yesterday I spent five hours at the Bon Marche.

The spring show was on, one of the great occasions of the year; and I
presumed, not without an apparent foundation of reason, that no young or
pretty Parisian could fail to be there. When I arrived, about one
o'clock, the crowd already filled the vast bazaar. It was not easy to
stand against certain currents that set toward the departments
consecrated to spring novelties. Adrift like a floating spar I was swept