CHAPTER XXIII
IT was two o'clock when I returned to my lodgings; my dinner,
just brought in from a neighbouring hotel, smoked on the table; I
sat down thinking to eat--had the plate been heaped with
potsherds and broken glass, instead of boiled beef and haricots,
I could not have made a more signal failure: appetite had
forsaken me. Impatient of seeing food which I could not taste, I
put it all aside into a cupboard, and then demanded, "What shall
I do till evening?" for before six P.M. it would be vain to seek
the Rue Notre Dame aux Neiges; its inhabitant (for me it had but
one) was detained by her vocation elsewhere. I walked in the
streets of Brussels, and I walked in my own room from two o'clock
till six; never once in that space of time did I sit down. I was
in my chamber when the last-named hour struck; I had just bathed
my face and feverish hands, and was standing near the glass; my
cheek was crimson, my eye was flame, still all my features looked
quite settled and calm. Descending swiftly the stair and
stepping out, I was glad to see Twilight drawing on in clouds;
such shade was to me like a grateful screen, and the chill of
latter Autumn, breathing in a fitful wind from the north-west,
met me as a refreshing coolness. Still I saw it was cold to
others, for the women I passed were wrapped in shawls, and the
men had their coats buttoned close.
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