This was a much more likely conception than that which represented Hercules choosing, in the prime of his youth, between Vice and Virtue. Did such a choice offer itself in real life? Of course not; one walked on with the one, misunderstanding the other, and vice versa. What libertine did not some day regret the hours spent in debauchery? What man of intellect did not deplore, at some fatal moment, the fact that he had lived in ignorance of the forbidden pleasures? Rare were the men, who, by divine grace, mixed the practice of both in a fair proportion.... There would be, besides, in his myth, avenging blank verses against Vice, against Mme. Chambannes! M. Raindal rose and shook the crumbs off his waistcoat. In a shaky hand he took his felt hat and walking-stick which the headwaiter handed him. Then, his eyes somewhat cloudy, he walked up the boulevards. Darkness had fallen. The merry crowd of nocturnal walkers rubbed elbows on the pavement. A late summer breath bent the tips of the withering chestnut trees. M. Raindal once more thought of Zozé, of the lime-trees and the park. A thousand seductive images zigzagged under his burning cranium. He felt like embracing, hugging, loving someone. When he passed the door of the Olympia, the posters attracted him. He saw women in tights, equilibrists and a young person in a low-neck dress, standing in the middle of a group of trained dogs. Above the posters the name of the establishment, made up of red electric bulbs, scintillated in ruby-colored letters. Girls went in, alone or by twos. Through the half-open swinging doors came confused whiffs of lively music. M. Raindal hesitated. Then, with a gesture as quick as a pickpocket's, he tore from his button-hole his button of an officer of the Légion d'Honneur. He marched straight to the ticket-office, then disappeared inside. CHAPTER XVIII The next morning, towards eleven, Mlle. Clara Laneret, better known in night cabarets by her nickname of _l'Irlandaise_, bent over the banister of her staircase to watch someone go down. "Eh, monsieur!" she exclaimed suddenly, discreetly recalling him. "You will come again, won't you?" The "monsieur"--that is to say, M. Eusèbe Raindal, member of the Institute of France, officer of the Légion d'Honneur, author of the _Life of Cleopatra_ and of several other important books--the "monsieur" replied in a weak voice, rendered even more hollow by the distance of the steps: "Yes, yes, certainly, I shall come back!..." What a disgrace! What turpitude! He had followed that brunette girl, missed his train, lost his self-respect altogether! Ah! if his family, if Zozé were to see him on that sordid staircase running out, pursued by the tenderness of Clara l'Irlandaise!... And now, where was he to go? What could he do till the hour of his train?