f
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 fi