evening.

From the Rue Saint-Ferdinand to the establishment of Hemerlingue &
Son, his employers, M. Joyeuse had a good three-quarters of an hour's
journey. He walked with head erect and straight, as though he had feared
to disarrange the smart knot of the cravat tied by his daughters, or his
hat put on by them, and when the eldest, ever anxious and prudent, just
as he went out raised his coat-collar to protect him against the
harsh gusts of the wind that blew round the street corner, even if the
temperature were that of a hothouse M. Joyeuse would not lower it again
until he reached the office, like the lover who, quitting his mistress's
arms, dares not to move for fear of losing the intoxicating perfume.

A widower for some years, this worthy man lived only for his children,
thought only of them, went through life surrounded by those fair little
heads that fluttered around him confusedly as in a picture of the
Assumption. All his desires, all his projects, bore reference to "those
young ladies," returned to them without ceasing, sometimes after long
circuits, for M. Joyeuse--this was connected no doubt with the fact that
he possessed a short neck and a small figure whereof his turbulent
blood made the circuit in a moment--was a man of fecund and astonishing
imagination. In his brain the ideas performed their evolutions with the
rapidity of hollow straws around a sieve. At the office, figures kept
his steady attention by reason of their positive quality; but, outside,
his mind took its revenge upon that inexorable occupation. The activity
of the walk, the habit that led him by a route where he was familiar
with the least incidents, allowed full liberty to his imaginative
faculties. He invented at these times extraordinary adventures, enough
of them to crank out a score of the serial stories that appear in the
newspapers.

If, for example, M. Joyeuse, as he went up the Faubourg Saint-Honore,
on the right-hand footwalk--he always took that one--noticed a heavy
laundry-cart going along at a quick pace, driven by a woman from the
country with a child perched on a bundle of linen and leaning over
somewhat:

"The child!" the terrified old fellow would cry. "Have a care of the
child!"

His voice would be lost in the noise of the wheels and his warning among
the secrets of Providence. The cart passed. He would follow it for a
moment with his eye, then resume his walk; but the drama begun in
his mind would continue to unf