that it seems a sort of heart. She leans towards me, she comes so
near, so near, that I feel sure she is touching me.

I have only her in the world to love me really. In spite of her humors
and her lamentations I know well that she is always in the right.

I yawn, while she takes away the dirty plates and proceeds to hide them
in a dark corner. She fills the big bowl from the pitcher and then
carries it along to the stove for the crockery.

Antonia has given me an appointment for eight o'clock, near the Kiosk.
It is ten past eight. I go out. The passage, the court,--by night all
these familiar things surround me even while they hide themselves. A
vague light still hovers in the sky. Crillon's prismatic shop gleams
like a garnet in the bosom of the night, behind the riotous disorder of
his buckets. There I can see Crillon,--he never seems to stop,--filing
something, examining his work close to a candle which flutters like a
butterfly ensnared, and then, reaching for the glue-pot which steams on
a little stove. One can just see his face, the engrossed and heedless
face of the artificer of the good old days; the black plates of his
ill-shaven cheeks; and, protruding from his cap, a vizor of stiff hair.
He coughs, and the window-panes vibrate.

In the street, shadow and silence. In the distance are venturing
shapes, people emerging or entering, and some light echoing sounds.
Almost at once, on the corner, I see Monsieur Joseph Bonéas vanishing,
stiff as a ramrod. I recognized the thick white kerchief, which
consolidates the boils on his neck. As I pass the hairdresser's door
it opens, just as it did a little while ago, and his agreeable voice
says, "That's all there is to it, in business." "Absolutely," replies