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journeys； all the occurrences of a free existence； all these things had
remained unknown to him。
Days； weeks； months； seasons； years； all were alike to him。 He got up
every day at the same hour； started out； arrived at the office； ate
luncheon； went away； had dinner and went to bed without ever interrupting
the regular monotony of similar actions； deeds and thoughts。
Formerly he used to look at his blond mustache and wavy hair in the
little round mirror left by his predecessor。 Now； every evening before
leaving； he would look at his white mustache and bald head in the same
mirror。 Forty years had rolled by； long and rapid； dreary as a day of
sadness and as similar as the hours of a sleepless night。 Forty years of
which nothing remained； not even a memory； not even a misfortune； since
the death of his parents。 Nothing。
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？〃
She stood before him and in an altered； hoarse； angry voice exclaimed：
〃Well； it isn't for the fun of it； anyhow！〃
He insisted in a gentle voice： 〃Then what makes you？〃
She grumbled： 〃I've got to live！ Foolish question！〃 And she walked away；
humming。
Monsieur Leras stood there bewildered。 Other women were passing near
him； speaking to him and calling to him。 He felt as though he were
enveloped in darkness by something disagreeable。
He sat down again on a bench。 The carriages were still rolling by。 He
thought： 〃I should have done better not to come here； I feel all upset。〃
He began to think of all this venal or passionate love； of all these
kisses； sold or given； which were passing by it front of him。 Love！ He
scarcely knew it。 In his lifetime he had only known two or three women；
his means forcing him to live a quiet life； and he looked back at the
life which he had led； so different from everybody else； so dreary； so
mournful； so empty。
Some people are really unfortunate。 And suddenly； as though a veil had
been torn from his eyes； he perceived the infinite misery； the monotony
of his existence： the past； present and future misery； his last day
similar to his first one； with nothing before him； behind him or about
him； nothing in his heart or any place。
The stream of carriages was still going by。 In the rapid passage of the
open carriage he still saw the two silent； loving creatures。 It seemed
to him that the whole of humanity was flowing on before him； intoxicated
with joy； pleasure and happiness。 He alone was looking on。 To…morrow he
would again be alone； always alone； more so than any one else。 He stood
up； took a few steps； and suddenly he felt as tired as though he had
taken a long journey on foot； and he sat down on the next bench。
What was he waiting for？ What was he hoping for？ Nothing。 He was
thinking of how pleasant it must be in old age to return home and find
the little children。 It is pleasant to grow old when one is surrounded
by those beings who owe their life to you； who love you； who caress you；
who tell you charming and foolish little things which warm your heart and
console you for everything。
And； thinking of his empty room； clean and sad； where no one but himself
ever entered； a feeling of distress filled his soul； and the place seemed
to him more mournful even than his little office。 Nobody ever came
there； no one ever spoke in it。 It was dead； silent； without the echo of
a human voice。 It seems as though walls retain something of the people
who live within them； something of their manner； face and voice。 The
very houses inhabited by happy families are gayer than the dwellings of
the unhappy。 His room was as barren of memories as his life。 And the
thought of returning to this place； all alone； of getting into his bed；
of again repeating all the duties and actions of every evening； this
thought terrified him。 As though to escape farther from this sinister
home； and from the time when he would have to return to it； he arose and
walked along a path to a wooded corner； where he sat down on the grass。
About him； above him； everywhere； he heard a continuous； tremendous；
confused rumble； composed of countless and different noises； a vague and
throbbi