when I remembered waiting for M. le Major to go for a walk--at the same
time never losing touch of my own present identity as Peter Ibbetson,
architect, Wharton Street, Pentonville; all of which is not so easy to
manage as one might think, although the dream duchess had said, "Ce
n'est que le premier pas qui coute;" and finally one night, instead of
dreaming the ordinary dreams I had dreamed all my life (but twice), I
had the rapture of _waking up_, the minute I was fairly asleep, by
the avenue gate, and of seeing Gogo Pasquier sitting on one of the stone
posts and looking up the snowy street for the major. Presently he jumped
up to meet his old friend, whose bottle-green-clad figure had just
appeared in the distance. I saw and heard their warm and friendly
greeting, and walked unperceived by their side through Auteuil to the
_mare_, and back by the fortifications, and listened to the thrilling
adventures of one Fier-a-bras, which, I confess, I had completely
forgotten.

[Illustration: THE STORY OF THE GIANT FIER-A-BRAS.]

As we passed all three together through the "Porte de la Muette," M. le
Major's powers of memory (or invention) began to flag a little--for he
suddenly said, "_Cric!_" But Gogo pitilessly answered, "_Crac!_" and
the story had to go on, till we reached at dusk the gate of the
Pasquiers' house, where these two most affectionately parted, after
making an appointment for the morrow; and I went in with Gogo, and sat
in the school-room while Therese gave him his tea, and heard her tell
him all that had happened in Passy that afternoon. Then he read and
summed and translated with his mother till it was time to go up to bed,
and I sat by his bedside as he was lulled asleep by his mother's
harp... how I listened with all my ears and heart, till the sweet strain
ceased for the night! Then out of the hushed house I stole, thinking