I wish you good night.

I am going for a tramp along the sea-walls.

I beg of you not to follow." The echo of the slamming door had scarce died away when Victor, raging and potent to do the vicomte harm, flung out after him.

With his sword drawn he looked savagely up and down the street, but the vicomte was nowhere in sight.

The cold air, however, was grateful to the poet's feverish cheeks and aching eyes; so he strode on absently, with no destination in mind.