When they returned to the drawing-room, Duroy again approached Madame de Marelle, and looking her in the eyes, said: “Shall I see you home tonight?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because Monsieur Laroche Mathieu, who is my neighbor, drops me at my door every time I dine here.”
“When shall I see you?”
“Come and lunch with me tomorrow.”
And they separated without saying anything more.
Duroy did not remain late, finding the evening dull. As he went downstairs he overtook Norbert de Varenne, who was also leaving. The old poet took him by the arm. No longer having to fear any rivalry as regards the paper, their work being essentially different, he now manifested a fatherly kindness towards the young fellow.
“Well, will you walk home a bit of my way with me?” said he.
“With pleasure, my dear master,” replied Duroy.
And they went out, walking slowly along the Boulevard Malesherbes. Paris was almost deserted that night—a cold night—one of those nights that seem vaster, as it were, than others, when the stars seem higher above, and the air seems to bear on its icy breath something coming from further than even the stars. The two men did not speak at first. Then Duroy, in order to say something, remarked: “Monsieur Laroche Mathieu seems very intelligent and well informed.”
The old poet murmured: “Do you think so?”