front of them. Whilst his
mother was sewing on an adjoining bench, he played all alone at being a
run-away horse, and with that power of illusion, of which children are
capable, he imagined that he was at the same time the horse, and those
who ran after him, and those who fled in terror before him. He kept
struggling with himself and shouting: "Stop him, Hi! Hi! This is an
awful horse, he has got the bit between his teeth."

Caroline asked the question:

"Do you think that men were happy formerly?"

Her companion answered:

"They suffered less when they were younger. They acted like that little
boy: they played; they played at arts, at virtues, at vices, at heroism,
at beliefs, at pleasures; they had illusions which entertained them;
they made a noise; they amused themselves. But now. . . ."

He interrupted himself, and looked again at his watch.

The child, who was running, struck his foot against the little girl's
pail, and fell his full length on the gravel. He remained a moment
stretched out motionless, then raised himself up on the palms of his
hands. His forehead puckered, his mouth opened, and he burst into tears.
His mother ran up, but Caroline had lifted him from the ground and was
wiping his eyes and mouth with her handkerchief.

The child kept on sobbing and Clair took him in his arms.

"Come, don't cry, my little man! I am going to tell you a story.

"A fisherman once threw his net into the sea and drew out a little,
sealed, copper pot, which he opened with his knife. Smoke came out
of it, and as it mounted up to the clouds the smoke grew thicker and
thicker and became a giant who gave such a terrible yawn that the whole
world was blown to dust."

Clair stopped himself, gave a dry laugh, and handed the child back to
his mother. Then he took out his watch again, and kneeling on the bench
with his elbows resting on its back he gazed at the town. As far as
the eye could reach, the multitude of houses stood out in their tiny
immensity.

Caroline turned her eyes in the same direction.

"What splendid weather it is!" said she. "The sun's rays change the
smoke on the horizon into gold. The worst thing about civilization is
that it deprives one of the light of day."

We did not answer; his looks remained fixed on a place in the town.

After some seconds of silence they saw about half a mile away, in the
richer district on the other side of the river, a sort of tragic fog
rearing itself upwards. A mo