Somebody advised him to
travel, but he felt that Europe had nothing to show him like that which
he had lost. He told Madame George the story at the _cremery_.
"Ah, monsieur," she said, "that is the way with all love in Paris."
He played "ramps" with the French, but the game impressed him as stupid,
and he tried to quarrel with Boetia, who was too polite to be vexed. He
drank pure cognac, to the astonishment of the Gauls, but it had no
visible effect upon him, and Pere George held up his hands as he went
away, saying: "Behold these Americans! they do everything with a fever;
brandy affects them no more than water."
The room in the fifth story was very cold now. He tried to read in bed,
but the novel had no meaning in it. He walked up and down the balcony in
the November night, where he had often explained the motions of the
stars to her. They seemed to miss her now, and peeped inquisitively. He
looked into the bureau and wardrobe, half ashamed of the hope that she
had left some _souvenir_. There was not even a letter. She had torn a
leaf, on which she had written her name, out of his diary. The sketches
he had made of her were gone; if she had only taken her remembrance out
of his heart, it would have been well. Then he reasoned, with himself,
sensibly and consistently.
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