resource of powerful organizations when they are compelled to exercise
themselves in the void. In the evening he repaired to the trysting-place
and submitted complacently to having his eyes bandaged. Then, with
that firm will which only really strong men have the faculty of
concentrating, he devoted his attention and applied his intelligence to
the task of divining through what streets the carriage passed. He had
a sort of certitude of being taken to the Rue Saint-Lazare, and
being brought to a halt at the little gate in the garden of the Hotel
San-Real. When he passed, as on the first occasion, through this gate,
and was put in a litter, carried, doubtless by the mulatto and the
coachman, he understood, as he heard the gravel grate beneath their
feet, why they took such minute precautions. He would have been able,
had he been free, or if he had walked, to pluck a twig of laurel,
to observe the nature of the soil which clung to his boots; whereas,
transported, so to speak, ethereally into an inaccessible mansion, his
good fortune must remain what it had been hitherto, a dream. But it is
man's despair that all his work, whether for good or evil, is imperfect.
All his labors, physical or intellectual, are sealed with the mark
of destruction. There had been a gentle rain, the earth was moist. At
night-time certain vegetable perfumes are far stronger than during the
day; Henri could smell, therefore, the scent of the mignonette which
lined the avenue along which he was conveyed. This indication was enough
to light him in the researches which he promised himself to make in
order to recognize the hotel which contained Paquita's boudoir. He
studied in the same way the turnings which his bearers took within the
house, and believed himself able to recall them.

As on the previous night, he found himself on the ottoman before
Paquita, who was undoing his bandage; but he saw her pale and altered.
She had wept. On her knees like an angel in prayer, but like an angel
profoundly sad and melancholy, the poor girl no longer resembled the
curious, impatient, and impetuous creature who had carried De Marsay
on her wings to transport him to the seventh heaven of love. There was
something so true in this despair veiled by pleasure, that the terrible
De Marsay felt within him an admiration for this new masterpiece
of nature, and forgot, for the moment, the chief interest of his
assignation.

"What is the matter with thee, my Paquita?"