I declare, we get some perfect winter days in Paris!  Just now, the folks who sit indoors believe that the sun is down and have lighted their lamps; but outside, the sky—­a pale, rain-washed blue—­is streaked with broad rays of rose-pink.  It is freezing, and the frost has sprinkled diamonds everywhere, on the trees, the roofs, the parapets, even on the cabmen’s hats, that gather each a sparkling cockade as they pass along through the mist.  The river is running in waves, white-capped here and there.  On the penny steamers no one but the helmsman is visible.  But what a crowd on the Pont de Carrousel!  Fur cuffs and collars pass and repass on the pavements; the roadway trembles beneath the endless line of Batignolles—­Clichy omnibuses and other vehicles.  Every one seems in a hurry.  The pedestrians are brisk, the drivers dexterous.  Two lines of traffic meet, mingle without jostling, divide again into fresh lines and are gone like a column of smoke.  Although slips are common in this crowd, its intelligent agility is all its own.  Every face is ruddy, and almost all are young.  The number of young men, young maidens, young wives, is beyond belief, Where are the aged?  At home, no doubt, by the chimney-corner.  All the city’s youth is out of doors.

Its step is animated; that is the way of it.  It is wideeyed, and in its eyes is the sparkle of life.  The looks of the young are always full of the future; they are sure of life.  Each has settled his position, his career, his dream of commonplace well-being.  They are all alike; and they might all be judges, so serious they appear about it.  They walk in pairs, bolt upright, looking neither right nor left, talking little as they hurry along toward the old Louvre, and are soon swallowed out of sight in the gathering mist, out of which the gaslights glimmer faintly.

They are all on their way to dine on the right bank.

I am going to dine on the left bank, at Carre’s, where one sees many odd customers.  Farewell, river!  Good night, old Charnot!  Blessings on you, Mademoiselle Jeanne!

CHAPTER IV

THE STORY OF SYLVESTRE

8 P.M.

I am back in my study.  It is very cold; Madame Menin, my housekeeper, has let the fire out.  Hallo! she has left her duster, too, lying on the manuscript of my essay.

Is it an omen, a presage of that dust which awaits my still unfinished work?  Who can fathom Dame Fortune’s ironic humor?

Eight o’clock....  Counsellor Mouillard has finished his pleadings and must be sitting down to a game of whist with Counsellors Horlet and Hublette, of the Court of Bourges.  They wait for me to make up the four.  Perish the awful prospect!

And M. Charnot?  He, I suppose, is still spinning the paper spiral.  How easily serious people are amused!  Perhaps I am a serious person.  The least thing amuses me.  By the way, is Mademoiselle Jeanne fair or dark?  Let me try to recollect.  Why, fair, of course.  I remember the glint of gold in the little curls about her temples, as she stood by the lamp.  A pleasant face, too; not exactly classic, but rosy and frank; and then she has that animation which so many pretty women lack.