Up they all clambered again, scaled the parapet, and joining hands, along the Boule Miche they went, singing--now forming a ring to dance round embarrassed policemen, now pounding shutters with their fists, greeting with a cheer the sleepy heads that were thrust out of open windows, blinking anxiously down into the night; and with these and the like tomfooleries, saluting the closed cafés where they had held their many light-hearted revels, they reached the garden of the Luxembourg--stood before the Pantheon--in the paling night they uncovered to the great dead. Thus silent, Horace stood for the last time as a student on the heights of Montparnasse. The immensity of the night was passing in purple majesty into the western heavens; and beyond, where the students’ highway topped the hill, in the smoky twilight glittered the morning star. CHAPTER LXX _Wherein a Comely Young Woman broods upon the Years_ Horace shook hands with them all amidst their hearty promises to come and see him off, bade them good-night, and climbed the dark stairs to his rooms. He pushed open the door of his studio to find the room possessed by the sombre twilight of the dawn. The heavy curtains that had hung across the great windows had been flung open, and the beginnings of light showed the deserted banquet, discovering a young woman who sat at the table, her face buried in her arms. Horace shut the door gently and went and sat down beside her; took off his black hat; flung it on the table; and, leaning towards her, his golden hair touching her dark masses, he put his hand upon her pretty head: “Babette,” said he. She raised her head wearily, and leaning her elbow on the table, she set her dainty chin in her hand, and wiped the tears hurriedly from her eyes. She gazed moodily before her. Horace took her hand: “What are you thinking of, Babette?” She sighed. “Why should I fill your heart with my sadness, Horace?” “Come, Babette.” “I have been thinking of the days that are gone, Horace--you have always been very gentle with me.... And--I have been thinking of the days that are to come----” Her lips trembled; and a tear stole down her cheek. Horace nodded: “Yes, Babette--and of the days to come!” She sighed: “I have been wondering whether you will think of me, Horace--as the days pass. I have been wondering--wondering--wondering----” “Yes, Babette?” “But why should I tell you?” “Tell me, Babette,” he said; and he stroked her hair, gazing at her hungrily. She uttered a little sob. “Hush, Babette,” said he. “Tell me everything.” She waited a little while: