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40 ARIADNE.Ifelt my head whirl;I, who had sat so longby the moss-grown fountain in the wall, whereeven Carnival had reeled away without touchingme, andhad left me quiet.Isat down onabench under aplane-tree, andtried to collect my thoughts.Now thatIhad come, what couldIdo ? hownearer wasI? Iseemed to myself to have comeona fool's errand.Under the tree was one of those gay littlepainted metal houses they call kiosques, wherethey sell newspapers always, and sometimesvolumes as well. In this little minaret-shapedtoy, withits bright gas,and its ear-ringed blackhaired girl to sit in it,Isaw Hilarion's name inlarge letters;there was a new poem of his onsale there, just as Martial's used to be sold at" the shop of Secundus, the freedman of thenoble Lucens, behind tbe Temple of Peace."The volume was called Fauriel.Iasked the womanifit were selling well; shelaughed at me for an ignoramus; who wasIthat did not know that all Paris thought andspoke of nothing else ?