Sheslippedawaysuddenly，threwoffhercostume，toldLeonshemustgetback，andatlastwasaloneattheHoteldeBoulogne。
Everything，evenherself，wasnowunbearabletoher。Shewishedthat，takingwinglikeabird，shecouldflysomewhere，farawaytoregionsofpurity，andtheregrowyoungagain。
Shewentout，crossedtheBoulevard，thePlaceCauchoise，andtheFaubourg，asfarasanopenstreetthatoverlookedsomegardens。
Shewalkedrapidly；thefreshaircalmingher；and，littlebylittle，thefacesofthecrowd，themasks，thequadrilles，thelights，thesupper，thosewomen，alldisappearedlikemistsfadingaway。Then，reachingthe“Croix-Rouge，“shethrewherselfonthebedinherlittleroomonthesecondfloor，wheretherewerepicturesofthe“TourdeNesle。“Atfouro’clockHivertawokeher。
Whenshegothome，Feliciteshowedherbehindtheclockagreypaper。Sheread——