r nor
mother, nor sister nor brother; no wife, no children, no God."

He added, after a pause: "I have only verse."

They reached the Pont de la Concorde, crossed it in silence, and walked
past the Palais Bourbon. Norbert de Varenne began to speak again,
saying: "Marry, my friend; you do not know what it is to live alone at
my age. Solitude now fills me with horrible agony--solitude at home by
the fireside of a night. It is so profound, so sad; the silence of the
room in which one dwells alone. It is not alone silence about the body,
but silence about the soul; and when the furniture creaks I shudder to
the heart, for no sound but is unexpected in my gloomy dwelling." He was
silent again for a moment, and then added: "When one is old it is well,
all the same, to have children."

They had got half way down the Rue de Bourgoyne. The poet halted in
front of a tall house, rang the bell, shook Duroy by the hand, and said:
"Forget all this old man's doddering, youngster, and live as befits your
age. Good-night."

And he disappeared in the dark passage.

Duroy resumed his route with a pain at his heart. It seemed to him as
though he had been shown a hole filled with bones, an unavoidable gulf
into which all must fall one day. He muttered: "By Jove, it can't be
very lively in his place. I should not care for a front seat to see the
procession of his thoughts go by. The deuce, no."

But having paused to allow a perfumed lady, alighting from her carriage
and entering her house, to pass before him, he drew in with eager breath
the scent of vervain and orris root floating in the air. His lungs and
heart throbbed suddenly with hope and joy, and the recollection of
Madame de Marelle, whom he was to see the next day, assailed him from
head to foot. All smiled on him, life welcomed him with kindness. How
sweet was the realization of hopes!

He fell asleep, intoxicated with this idea, and rose early to take a
stroll down the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne before keeping his
appointment. The wind having changed, the weather had grown milder
during the night, and it was as warm and as sunny as in April. All the
frequenters of the Bois had sallied out that morning, yielding to the
summons of a bright, clear day. Duroy walked along slowly. He passed the
Arc de Triomphe, and went along the main avenue. He watched the people
on horseback, ladies and gentlemen, trotting and galloping, the rich
folk of the world, and scarcely envied them no