Rain or shine, it is my habit every day at about five o'clock to go for a walk in the Palais-Royal. I can be seen there, always alone, dreaming on a bench. I talk to myself about politics, love, taste or philosophy. I abandon my mind to its licentiousness. I let it follow the first wise or foolish idea that presents itself, just as one sees our young libertines on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Antoine walking in the wake of a skittish, open-faced girl, who has a lively expression, a snub nose, green eyes, a fresh complexion, and the bouncy breasts, whom they abandon for another, approaching all of them and attaching themselves to none.
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