window, his anger changed into a fit of moralizing.  He fancied himself a deputy; he was haranguing an assembly, loudly denouncing debauchery, prophesying national ruin.  And he reconstructed Fauchery’s article on the poisoned fly, and he came before the house and declared that morals such as these, which could only be paralleled in the days of the later Roman Empire, rendered society an impossibility; that did him good.  But the shadows had meanwhile disappeared.  Doubtless they had gone to bed again, and, still watching, he continued waiting where he was.

Three o’clock struck, then four, but he could not take his departure.  When showers fell he buried himself in a corner of the doorway, his legs splashed with wet.  Nobody passed by now, and occasionally his eyes would close, as though scorched by the streak of light, which he kept watching obstinately, fixedly, with idiotic persistence.  On two subsequent occasions the shadows flitted about, repeating the same gestures and agitating the silhouette of the same gigantic jug, and twice quiet was re-established, and the night lamp again glowed discreetly out.  These shadows only increased his uncertainty.  Then, too, a sudden idea soothed his brain while it postponed the decisive moment.  After all, he had only to wait for the woman when she left the house.  He could quite easily recognize Sabine.  Nothing could be simpler, and there would be no scandal, and he would be sure of things one way or the other.  It was only necessary to stay where he was.  Among all the confused feelings which had been agitating him he now merely felt a dull need of certain knowledge.  But sheer weariness and vacancy began lulling him to sleep under his doorway, and by way of distraction he tried to reckon up how long he would have to wait.  Sabine was to be at the station toward nine o’clock; that meant about four hours and a half more.  He was very patient; he would even have been content not to move again, and he found a certain charm in fancying that his night vigil would last through eternity.

Suddenly the streak of light was gone.  This extremely simple event was to him an unforeseen catastrophe, at once troublesome and disagreeable.  Evidently they had just put the lamp out and were going to sleep.  It was reasonable enough at that hour, but he was irritated thereat, for now the darkened window ceased to interest him.  He watched it for a quarter of an hour longer and then grew tired and, leaving the doorway, took a turn upon the pavement.  Until five o’clock he walked to and fro, looking upward from time to time.  The window seemed a dead thing, and now and then he asked himself if he had not dreamed that shadows had been dancing up there behind the panes.  An intolerable sense of fatigue weighed him down, a dull, heavy feeling, under the influence of which he forgot what he was waiting for at that particular street corner.  He kept stumbling on the pavement and starting into wakefulness with the