"I spent the night at the Hotel de Noailles—an agitated night, filled with remembrance of her. The next morning, when I awoke, I had the most shocking cold in the head imaginable.
"Could I, in such a state, present myself to my friends, the Rombauds? There was no help for it; it was one of the accidents of travel; they must take me as I was, and to-morrow I would go and seek my cure in the sun of Nice.
"Oh, my friend, what a surprise! That good fellow Rombaud had invited a few friends in my honour, and among them was my charming fellow-traveller! my charmer!
"When I was presented to her, a smile passed over her lips I bowed, and asked in a whisper:
"'Tonnerre—your parcels?'
"'I have them,' she replied in the same tone.
"We sat down to table.
"'What a cold in the head you have got, my dear fellow!' cried Rombaud, sympathetically; 'Where the deuce did you pick it up—in the railway-carriage, perhaps?'
"'Very possibly,' I said, 'but I don't regret it!'
"Nobody comprehended the sense of this veiled reply; but I felt the tender glance of my fellow-traveller reach me through the odorous steam of a superb tureen of soup majestically posed upon the table.
"What more have I to tell you? Next day I set off for Nice; a fortnight hence I am to be married."
