He did not feel them glide past him.  He went on towards death without fear or agitation, sitting at a table in a cafe, and only the great glass against which he rested his head, which was every day becoming balder, reflected the ravages of time which flies and devours men, poor men.

He only very rarely now thought of the terrible drama which had wrecked his life, for twenty years had passed since that terrible evening, but the life he had led since then had worn him out, and the landlord of his cafe would often say to him:  “You ought to pull yourself together a little, Monsieur Parent; you should get some fresh air and go into the country; I assure you that you have changed very much within the last few months.”  And when his customer had gone out, he used to say to the barmaid:  “That poor Monsieur Parent is booked for another world; it is no good never to go out of Paris.  Advise him to go out of town for a day occasionally; he has confidence in you.  It is nice weather, and will do him good.”  And she, full of pity and good will for such a regular customer, said to Parent every day:  “Come, Monsieur, make up your mind to get a little fresh air; it is so charming in the country when the weather is fine.  Oh!  If I could, I would spend my life there.”

And she told him her dreams, the simple and poetical dreams of all the poor girls who are shut up from one year’s end to the other in a shop and who see the noisy life of the streets go while they think of the calm and pleasant life in the country, of life under the trees, under the bright sun shining on the meadows, of deep woods and clear rivers, of cows lying in the grass, and of all the different flowers, blue, red, yellow, purple, lilac, pink and white, which are so pretty, so fresh, so sweet, all the wild flowers which one picks as one walks, and makes into large nosegays.

She liked to speak to him frequently of her continual, unrealized and unrealizable longing, and he, an old man without hope, was fond of listening to her, and used to go and sit near the counter to talk to Mademoiselle Zoe and to discuss the country with her.  Then, by degrees he was seized by a vague desire to go just once and see whether it was really so pleasant there, as she said, outside the walls of the great city, and so one morning he said to her:  “Do you know where one can get a good lunch in the neighborhood of Paris?” “Go to the Terrace at Saint-Germain; it is delightful there!”

He had been there formerly, just when he had got engaged, and so he made up his mind to go there again, and he chose a Sunday without any special reason, but merely because people generally do go out on Sundays, even when they have nothing to do all the week, and so one Sunday morning he went to Saint-Germain.  It was at the beginning of July, on a very bright and hot day.  Sitting by the door of the railway-carriage, he watched the trees and the strangely built little houses in the outskirts of Paris fly past.  He