No doubt he wandered
about the streets for some time in an absent, mechanical way,
paying no heed to the passers-by, none to the direction in which
he was going.
His mind was full of Jeanne, her beauty, her courage, her attitude
in face of the hideous bloodhound who had come to pollute that
charming old-world boudoir by his loathsome presence. He recalled
every word she uttered, every gesture she made.
He was a man in love for the first time--wholly, irremediably in
love.
I suppose that it was the pangs of hunger that first recalled him
to himself. It was close on eight o'clock now, and he had fed on
his imaginings--first on anticipation, then on realisation, and
lastly on memory--during the best part of the day. Now he awoke
from his day-dream to find himself tired and hungry, hut
fortunately not very far from that quarter of Paris where food is
easily obtainable.
He was somewhere near the Madeleine--a quarter he knew well. Soon
he saw in front of him a small eating-house which looked fairly
clean and orderly. He pushed open its swing-door, and seeing an
empty table in a secluded part of the room, he sat down and
ordered some supper.
The place made no impression upon his memory. He could not have
told you an hour later where it was situated, who had served him,
what he had eaten, or what other persons were present in the
dining-room at the time that he himself entered it.
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