down. I take my hat and muffler, after a glance at the mirror--a
glance which shows me the regular oval of my face, my glossy hair and
fine mustache. (It is obvious that I am rather more than a workman.)
I put out the light and descend from my little glass-partitioned
office. I cross the boiler-house, myself in the grip of the thronging,
echoing peal which has set it free. From among the dark and hurrying
crowd, which increases in the corridors and rolls down the stairways
like a cloud, some passing voices cry to me, "Good-night, Monsieur
Simon," or, with less familiarity, "Good-night, Monsieur Paulin." I
answer here and there, and allow myself to be borne away by everybody
else.

Outside, on the threshold of the porch which opens on the naked plain
and its pallid horizons, one sees the squares and triangles of the
factory, like a huge black background of the stage, and the tall
extinguished chimney, whose only crown now is the cloud of falling
night. Confusedly, the dark flood carries me away. Along the wall
which faces the porch, women are waiting, like a curtain of shadow,
which yields glimpses of their pale and expressionless faces. With nod
or word we recognize each other from the mass. Couples are formed by
the quick hooking of arms. All along the ghostly avenue one's eyes
follow the toilers' scrambling flight.

The avenue is a wan track cut across the open fields. Its course is
marked afar by lines of puny trees, sooty as snuffed candles; by
telegraph posts and their long spider-webs; by bushes or by fences,
which are like the skeletons of bushes. There are a few houses. Up
yonder a strip of sky still shows palely yellow above the meager suburb
where creeps the muddy crowd detached from the factory. The west wind
sets quivering their overalls, blue or black or khaki, excites the