ugh 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
throbbing pulsation of life: the life breath of Paris, breathing like a
giant.

The sun was already high and shed a flood of light on the Bois de
Boulogne. A few carriages were beginning to drive about and people were
appearing on horseback.

A couple was walking through a deserted alley.

Suddenly the young woman raised her eyes and saw something brown in the
branches. Surprised and anxious, she raised her hand, exclaiming: "Look!
what is that?"

Then she shrieked and fell into the arms of her companion, who was forced
to lay her on the ground.

The policeman who had been called cut down an old man who had hung
himself with his suspenders.

Examination showed that he had died the evening before. Papers found on
him showed that he was a bookkeeper for Messieurs Labuze and Company and
that his name was Leras.

His death was attributed to suicide, the cause of which could not be
suspected. Perhaps a sudden acces