There was something that surprised and troubled me much more: for a long time I had received no bouquets from Nicette. At first, I thought that her mother's death might have kept her busy for some days; but that had taken place more than six weeks before, and still I found nothing at my door! I had become so accustomed to those tokens of remembrance, that every evening, when I went home, I hastily put my hand to the doorknob; but I found nothing, and I said to myself sadly: "She too has forgotten me! I might reproach her, but I do not want her to do from a sense of duty what I had thought was a pleasure to her." It was a long time since I had seen her; I woke too late in the morning; in the evening, I was either with Madame de Marsan, or some friend would drag me away to one of the parties which began to be more numerous with the approach of winter. Besides, I knew how dangerous it was to go to see her in the evening!--Meanwhile, my meetings with Madame de Marsan were daily becoming less frequent and more depressing; she was simply waiting for an excuse to break with me altogether; and I, from a spirit of contradiction, refused to furnish her with one. For several days we had not met; but we had arranged to dine together on a certain day; it was almost like granting me a favor. We dined at the Cadran-Bleu; the sight of the Méridien, just opposite, reminded me of the much livelier repast of which I had partaken with Mademoiselle Agathe; and I said to myself that the grisette, who deceives one openly, is a hundred times preferable to the _petite-maîtresse_ who clings to us when she does not love us. The dinner was a gloomy affair, despite my efforts to prolong it; at seven o'clock we had nothing more to say to each other. I suggested the theatre, but there was no play that attracted her; it was not the season for walking, and I did not know what to suggest, or how to amuse her. At last she began to complain of pain in the stomach and head, of the vapors, in short. She decided to go home and to bed early, and I applauded the idea, which was a great relief to us both. We left the restaurant; I was going to take her home in a cab, as usual, but she preferred to go on foot, thinking that the walk in the fresh air would do her good. It was dark, and we had no fear of unpleasant meetings. We walked along like a husband and wife of twenty years' standing, exchanging a word every five minutes. We reached Rue Saint-Honoré and should soon pass Nicette's little shop; but it would surely be closed, and I was very glad of it. As we drew near I saw that the shop was still open; the shrubs had not been taken inside. It was too late to turn back. Indeed, why should I turn back? Was I not at liberty to give my arm to whomever I chose? Yes; but still I hoped that she would not see me. We reached the shop; Nicette was at her door; she saw me, and by some inexplicable whim Madame de Marsan chose to stop to examine her flowers.