Stationing himself at the corner, watching the fluttering skirts and quick steps of the feminine feet on the sidewalk, he imagined that the course of time must have turned backward, and that he was still but eighteen--the same as when he used to hang around the establishments of some celebrated modiste.

The groups of women that at certain hours came out of the palace suggested these former days.

They were dressed extremely quietly, the aspect of many of them as humble as that of the seamstresses.

But they were ladies of the well-to-do class, some even coming in automobiles driven by chauffeurs in military uniform, because they were ministerial vehicles.
These long waits often brought him unexpected encounters with the elegant students who were going and coming.
"Desnoyers!" some feminine voices would exclaim behind him.

"Isn't it Desnoyers ?" And he would find himself obliged to relieve their doubts, saluting the ladies who were looking at him as though he were a ghost.