Morrel was indeed very contented. M. Noirtier had just sent for him, and he was in such a hurry to know why that he had not taken a cab, trusting his own two legs more than those of a hired horse. He had set out at a fair pace from the Rue Meslay and was on his way to the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. He was proceeding at a jog, while poor Barrois followed on as best he could. Morrel was thirty-one, Barrois sixty; Morrel was drunk with love, Barrois faint with heat. The two men, so different in age and interests, were like two sides of a triangle: separated at the base, meeting at the apex; the apex was Noirtier. He had told Morrel to make haste, and Morrel, much to the despair of Barrois, was following this instruction precisely. When they arrived, Morrel was not even out of breath -- love gives wings -- but Barrois, who had not been in love for a long time, was pouring with sweat.

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