about seven o'clock
All the rest of that day went by in a kind of agreeable delirium . I walked about , almost without knowledge where I went . I talked , without exactly knowing what I said . I have some recollection of marching to and fro among the side-alleys of the Bois de Boulogne , which at that time was really a woody park , and not a pleasure-garden -- of lying under a tree , and listening to the birds overhead , and indulging myself in some idiotic romance about love , and solitude , and Madame de Marignan -- of wandering into a _ restaurant _ somewhere about seven o'clock , and sitting down to a dinner for which I had no appetite -- of going back , sometime during the evening , to the Rue Castellane , and walking to and fro on the opposite side of the way , looking up for ever so long at the darkened windows where my divinity did not show herself -- of coming back to my lodgings , weary , dusty , and not a bit more sober , somewhere about eleven o'clock at night , driven to-bed by sheer fatigue , and , even then , too much in love to go to sleep ! The next day I went through my duties at Dr. Chéron 's , and attended an afternoon lecture at the hospital ; but mechanically , like one dreaming . In the evening I presented myself at the Opera , where Madame de Marignan received me very graciously , and deigned to accept a superb bouquet for which I had paid sixteen francs . I found her surrounded by elegant men , who looked upon me as nobody , and treated me accordingly .