From Rue Bleue, where I lived, to Rue Ménilmontant is a long distance, but the fresh air and the exercise did me good. I thought of my charming partner, the seductive Armantine's image was constantly before my eyes; and when I spied a woman of her stature and figure, I quickened my pace, in order to overtake her and find out if it were she. I always had my trouble for my pains, which did not deter me from doing the same thing again a few moments later. I have noticed that love always gives as much occupation to the legs as to the mind. My amorous thoughts cooled a little as I drew near Rue Ménilmontant, a street, by the way, which might well pass for a faubourg. In that quarter I met no more women who reminded me of Armantine. I called her "Armantine" to myself, although that was perhaps a slightly familiar way of speaking of a woman I had known less than twenty-four hours, and who had given me no right to claim that privilege. But when a lover is speaking to himself, is he not at liberty to apply the fondest names to the object of his adoration, and to address her by the most familiar terms, in the ecstasy of his illusions? That injures nobody and affords him so much pleasure! It has often been said, and justly, that: "Men are overgrown children, who must always have some plaything to fondle. With some it is ambition, honors; with others, wealth; with others, peace and repose; but with the vast majority, love."--To these last, the image of the loved one is the persistent idea that guides all their actions. The number mentioned by Fouvenard was a long way up the street. I was not very far from the barrier, and it was easy to imagine one's self in the country. I presumed that lodgings thereabout were not very dear. At last I found the number I sought. It was a house of great height. As I entered, I began to wonder what I should say to that young woman, whom I had never seen, and what pretext I should allege for my visit. The first step was to find if she really lived there. I found a concierge, almost entirely hidden by two cats and a dog that had established themselves upon her person and covered her face so that only the end of her nose was visible. I asked for Mademoiselle Mignonne. The concierge managed to push her way through the cats, and responded: "Mademoiselle Mignonne? Don't know her." "You don't know her?" "Faith, no! What does she do?" "What does she do? Why, she works; sews or embroiders, I believe." "No such person in the house, monsieur." So Fouvenard had deceived us; his Mignonne was a creation of his fancy. I was sure of it! I much preferred to find out that he had lied to us, rather than that that poor girl really existed. I had already left the house; but a few steps away, I stopped; I remembered that the girl had a family name also; perhaps she had hired a lodging in Paris under that name. So I retraced my steps to where the concierge sat amid her animals, and said: