up his mind to ask her in marriage: he knew where to find her.
One day when François went to take the ladies out walking, the hotel-keeper told him that they had left for Paris. Their rooms were already occupied by an English family. Such a rude blow, falling suddenly upon such a delicate head, destroyed his reason. He went out like an idiot, and began looking for Claire in all the places where he had been used to taking her. He went to his lodgings with a violent pain in his head, which he treated, God only knows how. He had himself bled, took boiling hot baths, applied ferocious sinapisms, and, in short, revenged on his body the tortures of his soul. When he considered himself cured, he started for France, resolved to apply for Claire's hand before changing his coat. He hurried to Paris, sprang from the car, forgot his baggage, jumped into a cab, and cried to the driver:
"To her! Gallop!"
"Where to, boss?"
"To Monsieur, Rue, I don't know any more." He had forgotten the name and address of the woman he loved. "Go ahead to my house; I'll find it again." He gave the coachman his card and was taken home.
His concierge was a childless old man named Emmanuel. On meeting him, François bowed low and said:
