of the _Pont d'Iéna_.

Yes, Jean Servien could hear the trees along the _Quai_, the
waters of the river, the very stones of the parapet calling to
him:

"We know you; you are the little boy his aunt, in a peasant's
cap, used to bring here to see us in former days. But we shall
never see your aunt again, nor her print shawl, nor her umbrella
which she opened against the sun; for she is old now and does
not take her nephew walks any more, for he is a grown man now.
Yes, the child is grown into a man and has been hurt by life,
while he was running after shadows."




XXVI

One day, in the midday interval, he was informed that a visitor
was asking for him in the parlour; the news filled him with delight,
for he was very young and still counted on the possibilities of
the unknown. In the parlour he found Monsieur Tudesco, wearing
his waistcoat of ticking and holding a peaked hat in one hand.

"My young friend," began the Italian, "I learned from your respected
father's apprentice that you were confined in this sanctuary of
studious learning. I venture to say your fortune is overcast
with clouds, at least I fear it is. The lowliness of your estate
is not gilded like that of the Latin poet, and you are struggling