The boulevard was all alive, brilliant with illuminations, with the variety and gaiety of the crowd, the dazzle of shops and cafés seen through uncovered fronts or immense lucid¹ plates, the flamboyant² porches of theatres and the flashing lamps of carriages, the far-spreading murmur³ of talkers and strollers, the uproar⁴ of pleasure and prosperity, the general magnificence of Paris on a perfect evening in June. Hyacinth had been walking about all day – he had walked from rising till bed-time every day of the week that had elapsed since his arrival – and now an extraordinary fatigue⁶, which, however, was not without its delight (there was a kind of richness, a sweet satiety⁷, in it), a tremendous lassitude had fallen upon him, and he settled himself in a chair beside a little table in front of Tortoni’s, not so much to rest from it as to enjoy it. He had seen so much, felt so much, learned so much, thrilled and throbbed⁸ and laughed and sighed so much, during the past several days, that he was conscious at last of the danger of becoming incoherent to himself, of the need of balancing his accounts.

To-night he came to a full stop; he simply sat at the door of the most dandified café in Paris and felt his pulse and took stock of his impressions. He had been intending to visit the Variétés theatre, which blazed through intermediate lights and through the thin foliage⁹ of trees not favoured by the asphalt, on the other side of the great avenue. But the impression of Chaumont – he relinquished¹⁰ that, for the present; it added to the luxury of his situation to reflect that he should still have plenty of time to see the succès du jour. The same effect proceeded from his determination to order a marquise, when the waiter, whose superior shirt-front and whisker emerged from the long white

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