station and sit down in the cafe which he saw outside and drink a “bock” or two, and then take the first train back to Paris.  The journey seemed very long to him.  He could remain sitting for whole days, as long as he had the same motionless objects before his eyes, but he found it very trying and fatiguing to remain sitting while he was being whirled along, and to see the whole country fly by, while he himself was motionless.

However, he found the Seine interesting every time he crossed it.  Under the bridge at Chatou he saw some small boats going at great speed under the vigorous strokes of the bare-armed oarsmen, and he thought:  “There are some fellows who are certainly enjoying themselves!” The train entered the tunnel just before you get to the station at Saint-Germain, and presently stopped at the platform.  Parent got out, and walked slowly, for he already felt tired, toward the Terrace, with his hands behind his back, and when he got to the iron balustrade, stopped to look at the distant horizon.  The immense plain spread out before him vast as the sea, green and studded with large villages, almost as populous as towns.  The sun bathed the whole landscape in its full, warm light.  The Seine wound like an endless serpent through the plain, flowed round the villages and along the slopes.  Parent inhaled the warm breeze, which seemed to make his heart young again, to enliven his spirits, and to vivify his blood, and said to himself: 

“Why, it is delightful here.”

Then he went on a few steps, and stopped again to look about him.  The utter misery of his existence seemed to be brought into full relief by the intense light which inundated the landscape.  He saw his twenty years of cafe life—­dull, monotonous, heartbreaking.  He might have traveled as others did, have gone among foreigners, to unknown countries beyond the sea, have interested himself somewhat in everything which other men are passionately devoted to, in arts and science; he might have enjoyed life in a thousand forms, that mysterious life which is either charming or painful, constantly changing, always inexplicable and strange.  Now, however, it was too late.  He would go on drinking “bock” after “bock” until he died, without any family, without friends, without hope, without any curiosity about anything, and he was seized with a feeling of misery and a wish to run away, to hide himself in Paris, in his cafe and his lethargy!  All the thoughts, all the dreams, all the desires which are dormant in the slough of stagnating hearts had reawakened, brought to life by those rays of sunlight on the plain.

Parent felt that if he were to remain there any longer he should lose his reason, and he made haste to get to the Pavilion Henri IV for lunch, to try and forget his troubles under—­the influence of wine and alcohol, and at any rate to have some one to speak to.