I go up to my room.  It is bare and always cold; always I must shiver some minutes before I shake it back to life.  As I close the shutters I see the street again; the massive, slanting blackness of the roofs and their population of chimneys clear-cut against the minor blackness of space; some still waking, milk-white windows; and, at the end of a jagged and gloomy background, the blood-red stumbling apparition of the mad blacksmith.  Farther still I can make out in the cavity the cross on the steeple; and again, very high and blazing with light on the hill-top, the castle, a rich crown of masonry.  In all directions the eye loses itself among the black ruins which conceal their hosts of men and of women—­all so unknown and so like myself.

CHAPTER II

OURSELVES

It is Sunday.  Through my open window a living ray of April has made its way into my room.  It has transformed the faded flowers of the wallpaper and restored to newness the Turkey-red stuff which covers my dressing-table.

I dress carefully, dallying to look at myself in the glass, closely and farther away, in the fresh scent of soap.  I try to make out whether my eyes are little or big.  They are the average, no doubt, but it really seems to me that they have a tender brightness.

Then I look outside.  It would seem that the town, under its misty blankets in the hollow of the valley, is awaking later than its inhabitants.

These I can see from up here, spreading abroad in the streets, since it is Sunday.  One does not recognize them all at once, so changed are they by their unusual clothes;—­women, ornate with color, and more monumental than on week days; some old men, slightly straightened for the occasion; and some very lowly people, whom only their cleanness vaguely disguises.

The weak sunshine is dressing the red roofs and the blue roofs and the sidewalks, and the tiny little stone setts all pressed together like pebbles, where polished shoes are shining and squeaking.  In that old house at the corner, a house like a round lantern of shadow, gloomy old Eudo is encrusted.  It forms a comical blot, as though traced on an old etching.  A little further, Madame Piot’s house bulges forth, glazed like pottery.  By the side of these uncommon dwellings one takes no notice of the others, with their gray walls and shining curtains, although it is of these that the town is made.

Halfway up the hill, which rises from the river bank, and opposite the factory’s plateau, appears the white geometry of the castle, and around its pallors a tapestry of reddish foliage, and parks.  Farther away, pastures and growing crops which are part of the demesne; farther still, among the stripes and squares of brown earth or verdant, the cemetery, where every year so many stones spring up.

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