a man who is leaving. In the oven of the street one can see only his
littleness--he must be a considerable personage, all the same.
Monsieur Pocard is always applying himself to business and thinking of
great schemes. A little farther, in the depths of a cavity, stoppered
by an iron-grilled window, I divine the presence of old Eudo, the bird
of ill omen, the strange old man who coughs, and has a bad eye, and
whines continually. Even indoors he must wear his mournful cloak and
the lamp-shade of his hood. People call him a spy, and not without
reason.

Here is the Kiosk. It is waiting quite alone, with its point in the
darkness. Antonia has not come, for she would have waited for me. I
am impatient first, and then relieved. A good riddance.

No doubt Antonia is still tempting when she is present. There is a
reddish fever in her eyes, and her slenderness sets you on fire. But I
am hardly in harmony with the Italian. She is particularly engrossed
in her private affairs, with which I am not concerned. Big Victorine,
always ready, is worth a hundred of her; or Madame Lacaille, the
pensively vicious; though I am equally satiated of her, too. Truth to
tell, I plunge unreflectingly into a heap of amorous adventures which I
shortly find vulgar. But I can never resist the magic of a first
temptation.

I shall not wait. I go away. I skirt the forge of the ignoble
Brisbille. It is the last house in that chain of low hills which is
the street. Out of the deep dark the smithy window flames with vivid
orange behind its black tracery. In the middle of that square-ruled
page of light I see transparently outlined the smith's eccentric
silhouette, now black and sharp, now softly huge. Spectrally through