It was midnight when I returned to the Rue de
Balzac. I had gone through several restaurants, my
eyes seeking Juliette in the mirrors, through curtain
openings. I had gone into a few theatres. At the
Hippodrome where she used to go on subscription
days I had made a search of the stalls. This large
place, with its dazzling lights, above all, this orchestra
which played a slow and languid air all this had unstrung my nerves and made me cry! I had approached groups of men, thinking that they might be talking about Juliette and that I might perhaps learn something. And every time I saw a man dressed in evening clothes, I had said to myself:
"Perhaps that's her lover!"
What was I doing here? It seemed it was my fate to run after her everywhere, always, to live on the sidewalk, at the door of evil places and wait for Juliette! Exhausted with fatigue, a buzzing sensation in my head, unable to find a trace of Juliette, I had found myself on the street again. And I was waiting! For what? Really, I did not know. I was waiting for everything and nothing at the same time. I was there either to bring myself as a voluntary offering once more or to commit some crime. I was hoping that Juliette would come home alone. Then I thought I would go up to her and move her to pity with my words. I was also afraid I might see her in the company of a man. Then I would perhaps kill her. But I was not premeditating anything. I had simply come here, that's all! To surpise her all the better, I hid myself in the shadow of the door of the house next to her own.
From there I could observe everything without being seen, if it were necessary not to show myself. I did not have to wait very long. A hackney coach coming from Faubourg Saint Honoré, passed into the
