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.

Madame Menin has forgotten something else.  She has forgotten to shut my window.  She has designs upon my life!

I have just shut the window.  The night is calm, its stars twinkling through a haze.  The year ends mournfully.

I remember at school once waking suddenly on such a night as this, to find the moonlight streaming into my eyes.  At such a moment it is always a little hard to collect one’s scattered senses, and take in the midnight world around, so unhomely, so absolutely still.  First I cast my eyes along the two rows of beds that stretched away down the dormitory—­two parallel lines in long perspective; my comrades huddled under their blankets in shapeless masses, gray or white according as they lay near or far from the windows; the smoky glimmer of the oil lamp half-way down the room; and at the end, in the deeper shadows, the enclosure of yellow curtains surrounding the usher’s bed.

Not a sound about me; all was still.  But without, my ear, excited and almost feverishly awake, caught the sound of a strange call, very sweet, again and again repeated—­fugitive notes breathing appeal, tender and troubled.  Now they grew quite distant, and I heard no more than a phantom of sound; now they came near, passed over my head, and faded again into the distance.  The moon’s clear rays invited me to clear up the mystery.  I sprang from my bed, and ran in my nightshirt to open the window.  It was about eleven o’clock.  Together the keen night-air and the moonlight wrapped me round, thrilling me with delight.  The large courtyard lay deserted with its leafless poplars and spiked railings.  Here and there a grain of sand sparkled.  I raised my eyes, and from one constellation to another I sought the deep blue of heaven in vain; not a shadow upon it, not one dark wing outlined.  Yet all the while the same sad and gentle cry wandered and was lost in air, the chant of an invisible soul which seemed in want of me, and had perhaps awakened me.