From the Place, then, where one feels himself so abundantly at home, we
enter the church. From the depths of this thicket of lights, the good
priest murmurs the great infinite speech to us, blesses us, embraces us
severally and altogether, like father and mother both. In the manorial
pew, the foremost of all, one glimpses the Marquis of Monthyon, who has
the air of an officer, and his mother-in-law, Baroness Grille, who is
dressed like an ordinary lady.

Emerging from church, the men go away; the women swarm out more
grudgingly and come to a standstill together; then all the buzzing
groups scatter.

At noon the shops close. The fine ones do it unassisted; the others
close by the antics of some good man who exerts himself to carry and
fit the shutters. Then there is a great void.

After lunch I wander in the streets. In the house I am bored, and yet
outside I do not know what to do. I have no friend and no calls to
pay. I am already too big to mingle with some, and too little yet to
associate with others. The cafés and licensed shops hum, jingle and
smoke already. I do not go to cafés, on principle, and because of that
fondness for spending nothing, which my aunt has impressed on me. So,
aimless, I walk through the deserted streets, which at every corner
yawn before my feet. The hours strike and I have the impression that
they are useless, that one will do nothing with them.

I steer in the direction of the fine gardens which slope towards the
river. A little enviously I look over the walls at the tops of these
opulent enclosures, at the tips of those great branches where still
clings the soiled, out-of-fashion finery of last summer.