Lafcadio sprang from the bench. In a moment he had made up his mind. Forgetting his book, he hurried off to a stationer’s shop in the Rue de Médicis, where he remembered having seen in the window a notice that visiting-cards were printed “while you wait at three francs the hundred.” He smiled as he went, amused by the boldness of his idea and possessed by the spirit of adventure. “How long will it take to print a hundred cards?” he asked the shopkeeper. “You can have them before nightfall.” “I’ll pay you double if you let me have them by two o’clock this afternoon.” The shopkeeper made a pretence of consulting his order-book. “Very well ... to oblige you. You can call for them at two o’clock. What name?” Then, without a tremor or a blush, but with a heart that beat a little unsteadily, he signed: Lafcadio de Baraglioul. “The rascal doesn’t believe me,” said he to himself as he left, for he was piqued that the shopkeeper’s bow had not been lower. Then, as he looked at his reflection in a shop window, “I must admit I don’t look very like a Baraglioul,” he thought. “We must see whether we can’t improve the resemblance before this afternoon.” It was not yet twelve o’clock. Lafcadio, who was in a state of madcap exhilaration, had not begun to feel hungry. “First, let’s take a little walk, or I shall fly into the air,” thought he. “And I must keep in the middle of the road. If I go too near the passers-by, they will notice that I’m a head and shoulders taller than any of them. Another superiority to conceal. One has never done putting the finishing touches to one’s education.” He went into a post office. “Place Malesherbes ... this afternoon!” he said to himself, as he copied out Count Juste-Agénor’s address from the directory. “But what’s to prevent me from going this morning to prospect Rue de Verneuil?” (This was the address on Julius’s card.) Lafcadio knew and loved this part of Paris; leaving the more frequented thoroughfares, he took a roundabout way by Rue Vaneau; in that quiet street the young freshness of his joy would have space to breathe more freely. As he turned into the Rue de Babylone he saw people running; near the Impasse Oudinot a crowd was collecting in front of a two-storied house from which was pouring an evil-looking smoke. He forced himself not to hurry his pace, though he was naturally a quick walker.... Lafcadio, my friend, here you require the pen of a newspaper reporter--mine abandons you! My readers must not expect me to relate the incoherent comments of the onlookers, the broken exclamations, the.... Wriggling through the crowd like an eel, Lafcadio made his way to the front. There a poor woman was sobbing on her knees. “My children! My little children!” she wept. She was being supported by a young girl, whose simple elegance of dress showed she was no relation; she was very pale and so lovely that Lafcadio was instantly drawn to her. She answered his questions.