Emile displayed at the bottom of a box an object closely resembling a distaff with a straw through the middle, doubtless some relic of the last International Exhibition, abandoned by all, like the Great Eastern, on account of its dimensions.  My uncle seized it, stuck it in the amber mouthpiece that is so familiar to me, lighted it, and under the pretext that you must always first get the tobacco to burn evenly, went out trailing behind him a cloud of smoke, like a gunboat at full speed.

We “did” the arcades round the Odeon, where my uncle spent an eternity thumbing the books for sale.  He took them all up one after another, from the poetry of the decedents to the Veterinary Manual, gave a glance at the author’s name, shrugged his shoulders, and always ended by turning to me with: 

“You know that writer?”

“Why, yes, uncle.”

“He must be quite a new author; I can’t recall that name.”

M. Mouillard forgot that it was forty-five years since he had last visited the bookstalls under the Odeon.

He thought he was a student again, loafing along the arcades after dinner, eager for novelty, careless of draughts.  Little by little he lost himself in dim reveries.  His cigar never left his lips.  The ash grew longer and longer yet, a lovely white ash, slightly swollen at the tip, dotted with little black specks, and connected with the cigar by a thin red band which alternately glowed and faded as he drew his breath.

M. Mouillard was so lost in thought, and the ash was getting so long, that a young student—­of the age that knows no mercy-was struck by these twin phenomena.  I saw him nudge a friend, hastily roll a cigarette, and, doffing his hat, accost my uncle.

“Might I trouble you for a light, sir!”

M. Mouillard emitted a sigh, turned slowly round, and bent two terrible eyes upon the intruder, knocked off the ash with an angry gesture, and held out the ignited end at arm’s length.

“With pleasure, sir!”

Then he replaced the last book he had taken up—­a copy of Musset—­and called me.

“Come, Fabien.”

Arm in arm we strolled up the Rue de Medicis along the railings of the Luxembourg.

I felt the crisis approaching.  My uncle has a pet saying:  “When a thing is not clear to me, I go straight to the heart of it like a ferret.”

The ferret began to work.

“Now, Fabien, about these bonds I mentioned?  Did I guess right?”

“Yes, uncle, I have been in bondage.”

“Quite right to make a clean breast of it, my boy; but we must break your bonds.”

“They are broken.”

“How long ago?”

“Some days ago.”

“On your honor?”

“Yes.”

“That’s quite right.  You’d have done better to keep out of bondage.  But there, you took your uncle’s advice; you saw the abyss, and drew back from it.  Quite right of you.”