Paris, our jolly poverty, our walks in the fresh,
green woods, our drinks in the wine-shops on the banks of the Seine and
our commonplace and delightful little flirtations?

I will tell you about one of these. It was twelve years ago and already
appears to me so old, so old that it seems now as if it belonged to
the other end of life, before middle age, this dreadful middle age from
which I suddenly perceived the end of the journey.

I was then twenty-five. I had just come to Paris. I was in a government
office, and Sundays were to me like unusual festivals, full of exuberant
happiness, although nothing remarkable occurred.

Now it is Sunday every day, but I regret the time when I had only one
Sunday in the week. How enjoyable it was! I had six francs to spend!

On this particular morning I awoke with that sense of freedom that all
clerks know so well--the sense of emancipation, of rest, of quiet and of
independence.

I opened my window. The weather was charming. A blue sky full of
sunlight and swallows spread above the town.

I dressed quickly and set out, intending to spend the day in the woods
breathing the air of the green trees, for I am originally a rustic,
having been brought up amid the grass and the trees.

Paris was astir and happy in the warmth and the light. The front of the
houses was bathed in sunlight, the janitress' canaries were singing in
their cages and there was an air of gaiety in the streets, in the faces
of the inhabitants, lighting them up with a smile as if all beings
and all things experienced a secret satisfaction at the rising of the
brilliant sun.

I walked towards the Seine to take the Swallow, which would land me at
Saint-Cloud.

How I loved waiting for the boat on the wharf:

It seemed to me that I was about to set out for the ends of the world,
for new and wonderful lands. I saw the boat approaching yonder, yonder
under the second bridge, looking quite small with its plume of smoke,
then growing larger and ever larger, as it drew near, until it looked to
me like a mail steamer.

It came up to the wharf and I went on board. People were there already
in their Sunday clothes, startling toilettes, gaudy ribbons and bright
scarlet designs. I took up a position in the bows, standing up and
looking at the quays, the trees, the houses and the bridges disappearing
behind us. And suddenly I perceived the great viaduct of Point du Jour
which blocked the river. It was the end of Paris,