Of what had they spoken when it lay upon the wide-mantelled chimneys between flower-vases and Pompadour clocks?
She was at Tostes; he was at Paris now, far away! What was this Paris like?
What a vague name! She repeated it in a low voice, for the mere pleasure of it; it rang in her ears like a great cathedral bell; it shone before her eyes, even on the labels of her pomade-pots.
At night, when the carriers passed under her windows in their carts singing the "Marjolaine," she awoke, and listened to the noise of the iron-bound wheels, which, as they gained the country road, was soon deadened by the soil.

"They will be there to-morrow!" she said to herself.
And she followed them in thought up and down the hills, traversing villages, gliding along the highroads by the light of the stars.

At the end of some indefinite distance there was always a confused spot, into which her dream died.
She bought a plan of Paris, and with the tip of her finger on the map she walked about the capital.

She went up the boulevards, stopping at every turning, between the lines of the streets, in front of the white squares that represented the houses.

At last she would close the lids of her weary eyes, and see in the darkness the gas jets flaring in the wind and the steps of carriages lowered with much noise before the peristyles of theatres.
She took in "La Corbeille," a lady's journal, and the "Sylphe des Salons." She devoured, without skipping a word, all the accounts of first nights, races, and soirees, took interest in the debut of a singer, in the opening of a new shop.