That day Monsieur Leras stood by the door, dazzled at the brilliancy of the setting sun; and instead of returning home he decided to take a little stroll before dinner, a thing which happened to him four or five times a year.

He reached the boulevards, where people were streaming along under the green trees.  It was a spring evening, one of those first warm and pleasant evenings which fill the heart with the joy of life.

Monsieur Leras went along with his mincing old man’s step; he was going along with joy in his heart, at peace with the world.  He reached the Champs-Elysees, and he continued to walk, enlivened by the sight of the young people trotting along.

The whole sky was aflame; the Arc de Triomphe stood out against the brilliant background of the horizon, like a giant surrounded by fire.  As he approached the immense monument, the old bookkeeper noticed that he was hungry, and he went into a wine dealer’s for dinner.

The meal was served in front of the store, on the sidewalk.  It consisted of some mutton, salad and asparagus.  It was the best dinner that Monsieur Leras had had in a long time.  He washed down his cheese with a small bottle of burgundy, had his after-dinner cup of coffee, a thing which he rarely took, and finally a little pony of brandy.

When he had paid he felt quite youthful, even a little moved.  And he said to himself:  “What a fine evening!  I will continue my stroll as far as the entrance to the Bois de Boulogne.  It will do me good.”  He set out.  An old tune which one of his neighbors used to sing kept returning to his mind.  He kept on humming it over and over again.  A hot, still night had fallen over Paris.  Monsieur Leras walked along the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne and watched the cabs drive by.  They kept coming with their shining lights, one behind the other, giving horn a glimpse of the couples inside, the women in their light dresses and the men dressed in black.

It was one long procession of lovers, riding under the warm, starlit sky.  They kept on coming in rapid succession.  They passed by in the carriages, silent, side by side, lost in their dreams, in the emotion of desire, in the anticipation of the approaching embrace.  The warm shadows seemed to be full of floating kisses.  A sensation of tenderness filled the air.  All these carriages full of tender couples, all these people intoxicated with the same idea, with the same thought, seemed to give out a disturbing, subtle emanation.

At last Monsieur Leras grew a little tired of walking, and he sat down on a bench to watch these carriages pass by with their burdens of love.  Almost immediately a woman walked up to him and sat down beside him.  “Good-evening, papa,” she said.

He answered:  “Madame, you are mistaken.”

She slipped her arm through his, saying:  “Come along, now; don’t be foolish.  Listen——­”

He arose and walked away, with sadness in his heart.  A few yards away another woman walked up to him and asked:  “Won’t you sit down beside me?” He said:  “What makes you take up this life?”