icy shudder of a man who does not know where he is.  Nothing seemed to justify the painful anxiety he was inflicting on himself.  Since those people were asleep—­well then, let them sleep!  What good could it do mixing in their affairs?  It was very dark; no one would ever know anything about this night’s doings.  And with that every sentiment within him, down to curiosity itself, took flight before the longing to have done with it all and to find relief somewhere.  The cold was increasing, and the street was becoming insufferable.  Twice he walked away and slowly returned, dragging one foot behind the other, only to walk farther away next time.  It was all over; nothing was left him now, and so he went down the whole length of the boulevard and did not return.

His was a melancholy progress through the streets.  He walked slowly, never changing his pace and simply keeping along the walls of the houses.

His boot heels re-echoed, and he saw nothing but his shadow moving at his side.  As he neared each successive gaslight it grew taller and immediately afterward diminished.  But this lulled him and occupied him mechanically.  He never knew afterward where he had been; it seemed as if he had dragged himself round and round in a circle for hours.  One reminiscence only was very distinctly retained by him.  Without his being able to explain how it came about he found himself with his face pressed close against the gate at the end of the Passage des Panoramas and his two hands grasping the bars.  He did not shake them but, his whole heart swelling with emotion, he simply tried to look into the passage.  But he could make nothing out clearly, for shadows flooded the whole length of the deserted gallery, and the wind, blowing hard down the Rue Saint-Marc, puffed in his face with the damp breath of a cellar.  For a time he tried doggedly to see into the place, and then, awakening from his dream, he was filled with astonishment and asked himself what he could possibly be seeking for at that hour and in that position, for he had pressed against the railings so fiercely that they had left their mark on his face.  Then he went on tramp once more.  He was hopeless, and his heart was full of infinite sorrow, for he felt, amid all those shadows, that he was evermore betrayed and alone.

Day broke at last.  It was the murky dawn that follows winter nights and looks so melancholy from muddy Paris pavements.  Muffat had returned into the wide streets, which were then in course of construction on either side of the new opera house.  Soaked by the rain and cut up by cart wheels, the chalky soil had become a lake of liquid mire.  But he never looked to see where he was stepping and walked on and on, slipping and regaining his footing as he went.  The awakening of Paris, with its gangs of sweepers and early workmen trooping to their destinations, added to his troubles as day brightened.  People stared at him in surprise as he went by with scared look and soaked hat and muddy clothes.  For a long while he sought refuge against palings and among scaffoldings, his desolate brain haunted by the single remaining thought that he was very miserable.