I pity these questing solitaries who are looking for themselves!  I feel compassion to see those fruitless shadows hovering there, wavering like ghosts, these poor wayfarers, divided and incomplete.

Where am I?  Facing the workmen’s flats, whose countless windows stand sharply out in their huge flat background.  It is there that Marie Tusson lives, whose father, a clerk at Messrs. Gozlan’s, like myself, is manager of the property.  I steered to this place instinctively, without confessing it to myself, brushing people and things without mingling with them.

Marie is my cousin, and yet I hardly ever see her.  We just say good-day when we meet, and she smiles at me.

I lean against a plane tree and think of Marie.  She is tall, fair, strong and amiable, and she goes modestly clad, like a wide-hipped Venus; her beautiful lips shine like her eyes.

To know her so near agitates me among the shadows.  If she appeared before me as she did the last time I met her; if, in the middle of the dark, I saw the shining radiance of her face, the swaying of her figure, traced in silken lines, and her little sister’s hand in hers,—­I should tremble.

But that does not happen.  The bluish, cold background only shows me the two second-floor windows pleasantly warmed by lights, of which one is, perhaps, she herself.  But they take no sort of shape, and remain in another world.

At last my eyes leave that constellation of windows among the trees, that vertical and silent firmament.  Then I make for my home, in this evening which comes at the end of all the days I have lived.

* * * * * *

Little Antoinette,—­how comes it that they leave her all alone like this?—­is standing in my path and holding a hand out towards me.  It is her way that she is begging for.  I guide her, ask questions and listen, leaning over her and making little steps.  But she is too little, and too lispful, and cannot explain.  Carefully I lead the child,—­who sees so feebly that already she is blind in the evening, as far as the low door of the dilapidated dwelling where she nests.

In my street, in front of his lantern-shaped house, with its iron-grilled dormer, old Eudo is standing, darkly hooded, and pointed, like the house.

I am a little afraid of him.  Assuredly, he has not got a clean conscience.  But, however guilty, he is compassionable.  I stop and speak to him.  He lifts to me out of the night of his hood a face pallid and ruined.  I speak about the weather, of approaching spring.  Heedless he hears, shapes “yes” with the tip of his lips, and says, “It’s twelve years now since my wife died; twelve years that I’ve been utterly alone; twelve years that I’ve heard the last words she said to me.”

And the poor maniac glides farther away, hooded in his unintelligible mourning; and certainly he does not hear me wish him good-night.