He drank brandy again in the
morning, and walked to the banker's. His remittance awaited him, and he
came out of the Rue de la Paix with thirty gold napoleons in his pocket.
He met all the Americans at breakfast at Trappe's in the Palais Royal,
and strolling to the morgue with a part of them, kept on to Vincennes,
and spent a wretched day in the forest. At the Place de la Bastille,
returning, he got into a cabriolet alone and searched ineffectually
along the Rue Rivoli for a companion who would ride with him. "Go
through the Rue de Beaux Arts!" he said, as they crossed Pont Neuf. This
is a quiet street in the Latin Quarter filled with cheap _pensions_, in
one of which dwelt Fanchette. His heart was wedged in his throat as he
saw at the window little Suzette sewing. She wore one of the dresses he
had given her. Her face was old and piteous; she was red-eyed and worked
wearily, looking into the street like one on a rainy day.
When she saw him, he thought, by her start and flush, that she was going
to fall from the chair; but then she looked with a dim, absent manner
into his face, like one who essays to remember something that was very
dear but is now quite strange. He was pleased to think that she was
miserable, and would have given much to have found her begging bread, as
she did that night of him.
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