eizing his
friend's arm, he said:

"Come with me; a little fresh air will do you good. When one is in
trouble, one must not remain in one spot."

The other obeyed mechanically, put on his hat, took his stick, and went
out, and both of them walked arm-in-arm towards the Seine, in the
starlight night.

The air was warm and sweet, for all the gardens in the neighborhood were
full of flowers at this season of the year, and their fragrance, which is
scarcely perceptible during the day, seemed to awaken at the approach of
night, and mingled with the light breezes which blew upon them in the
darkness.

The broad avenue with its two rows of gas lamps, that extended as far as
the Arc de Triomphe, was deserted and silent, but there was the distant
roar of Paris, which seemed to have a reddish vapor hanging over it. It
was a kind of continual rumbling, which was at times answered by the
whistle of a train in the distance, travelling at full speed to the
ocean, through the provinces.

The fresh air on the faces of the two men rather overcame them at first,
made the doctor lose his equilibrium a little, and increased Caravan's
giddiness, from which he had suffered since dinner. He walked as if he
were in a dream; his thoughts were paralyzed, although he felt no great
grief, for he was in a state of mental torpor that prevented him from
suffering, and he even felt a sense of relief which was increased by the
mildness of the night.

When they reached the bridge, they turned to the right, and got the fresh
breeze from the river, which rolled along, calm and melancholy, bordered
by tall poplar trees, while the stars looked as if they were floating on
the water and were-moving with the current. A slight white mist that
floated over the opposite banks, filled their lungs with a sensation of
cold, and Caravan stopped suddenly, for he was struck by that smell from
the water which brought back old memories to his mind. For, in his mind,
he suddenly saw his mother again, in Picardy, as he had seen her years
before, kneeling in front of their door, and washing the heaps of linen
at her side in the stream that ran through their garden. He almost
fancied that he could hear the sound of the wooden paddle with which she
beat the linen in the calm silence of the country, and her voice, as she
called out to him: "Alfred, bring me some soap." And he smelled that odor
of running water, of the mist rising from the wet ground, that marshy
smell,