dark and empty street. It was the Rue Rossini, and along its silent
length he wept like a child.

"It's over with us," he said in hollow tones. "There's nothing left us
now, nothing left us now!"

He wept so violently that he had to lean up against a door as he buried
his face in his wet hands. A noise of footsteps drove him away. He felt
a shame and a fear which made him fly before people's faces with the
restless step of a bird of darkness. When passers-by met him on the
pavement he did his best to look and walk in a leisurely way, for he
fancied they were reading his secret in the very swing of his shoulders.
He had followed the Rue de la Grange Bateliere as far as the Rue du
Faubourg Montmartre, where the brilliant lamplight surprised him, and he
retraced his steps. For nearly an hour he traversed the district thus,
choosing always the darkest corners. Doubtless there was some goal
whither his steps were patiently, instinctively, leading him through
a labyrinth of endless turnings. At length he lifted his eyes up it a
street corner. He had reached his destination, the point where the Rue
Taitbout and the Rue de la Provence met. He had taken an hour amid his
painful mental sufferings to arrive at a place he could have reached
in five minutes. One morning a month ago he remembered going up to
Fauchery's rooms to thank him for a notice of a ball at the Tuileries,
in which the journalist had mentioned him. The flat was between the
ground floor and the first story and had a row of small square windows
which were half hidden by the colossal signboard belonging to a
shop. The last window on the left was bisected by a brilliant band of
lamplight coming from between the half-closed curtains. And he remained
absorbed and expectant, with his gaze fixed on this shining streak.

The moon had disappeared in an inky sky, whence an icy drizzle was
falling. Two o'clock struck at the Trinite. The Rue de Provence and the
Rue Taitbout lay in shadow, bestarred at intervals by bright splashes
of light from the gas lamps, which in the distance were merged in yellow
mist. Muffat did not move from where he was standing. That was the room.
He remembered it now: it had hangings of red "andrinople," and a Louis
XIII bed stood at one end of it. The lamp must be standing on the
chimney piece to the right. Without doubt they had gone to bed, for
no shadows passed across the window, and the bright streak gleamed as
motionless as the light of a