"What am I to do if the commissionaire does not find Robert at home? I must pay the man, I must pay my bill here. It is extremely embarrassing."
A woman passes along the street before the windows of the café; Arthur rushes to the door, hat in hand; this woman that he has just caught sight of has a strange hold upon his imagination. The reason why is this:
Coming out of a bric-à-brac dealer's shop into the street one day, carrying in his arms two plaster figures, an antique helmet and a Chinese parasol, Arthur had encountered face to face a woman whose beauty had produced a deep impression on him. These sudden impressions are more than an empty dream. A single glance served to fender Arthur enamored, miserable, jealous. He came near letting the plaster figures fall from his arms; he wished to follow the fair unknown, but loaded as he was like a porter and his clothes filthy with dust and plaster, he was quickly compelled to abandon this project.
For three days he was melancholy and thoughtful. There was one thing that particularly annoyed him; the impression that he had produced on that woman's mind must have been diametrically opposite to that which he had received from her. His equipment had been ridiculous, the expression of his admiration stupid. For two weeks he never went out without being dressed to kill; if a new play was brought out he would go to witness it, if a ray of sunshine pierced the gray clouds of November he would go and walk in the Tuileries gardens, peering under all the bonnets in quest of the blue eyes of his fair one. He wished to correct the unfavorable impression that he thought
