Horace, amid handshakings down the street, foreseeing that the catching of the train was becoming a nice question and thinking Babette looked pale, took advantage of a moment’s breathing-space to whisper to the girl that she had better drive off to warn his man Jonkin that they might be late; and Babette was glad to get into a passing fiacre and slip away. Her heart was too full for jesting that had tears in the jest. The noisy crew got the handcart on the run as soon as they crossed the river, the jolted porter a-top, but rattled up the Rue la Fayette in none too good time; as they dashed into the great station the bustle of departure that comes before the leaving of the boat-train was at its noisy height. The officials were quite unable to cope with the students, who, chaffing them, rushed and swarmed over the barriers and took possession of the platform. The man at the barrier laughed, shrugged shoulders: “It is only the students,” he said. Gaston Latour, gloomily dancing the _danse de ventre_ on the platform, was assailed by a pompous fussy little man in uniformed authority, who alone displayed sufficient lack of tact to interfere with the young bloods. Gaston stooped down; solemnly stroked the official protruding paunch, and putting his ear thereto, said “Cough!” The sulky fellow growled threats: “My God,” said Gaston--“he is wasting away!” The surly fellow made as if to go. Gaston Latour grabbed him and listened at his stomach again: “He has a bad heart,” he said; flung his arms round his neck, and crying over his shoulder hysterically, he wailed melancholy sobs down the great hunting-horn. He had a grotesque mind.... And thus, amidst frantic foolings and warm hand-grippings and promises of early return, the train steamed slowly out of the huge station, taking Horace away from the days of his youth--for he had realized during the night that was gone that manhood was come upon him. CHAPTER LXXII _Wherein our Hero is ill at ease with his own Shadow_ The train being gone, and Horace borne away, Noll drew aside from the noisy crowd of departing students that strolled chattering and jocular from the scene of their leave-taking. He walked home alone. When he climbed to his room, the loneliness yawned at him out of the void of the empty place. Every shadow, every chair, the bed, the whole deserted place, whispered that Betty was gone. He moved restlessly about his rooms all day, chafed and fretted, and, when the twilight fell, he as aimlessly fidgeted out into the dusk and betook himself to the streets of Paris. And as he strode moodily along, nagging whispers went with him--unpleasant questionings nudged at his elbow--irking discomfort plucked at his sleeve.