places; the ponds at Vesinet glistened like plates of silver, and the
distant ridges of Sannois and Argenteuil were covered with light, bluish
mist, so that they could scarcely be distinguished. The sun bathed the
whole landscape in its full, warm light, and the Seine, which twined
like an endless serpent through the plain, flowed round the villages and
along the slopes, and Parent inhaled the warm breeze which seemed to
make his heart young again, to enliven his spirits and to vivify his
blood, and said to himself: "It is very nice here."

Then he went on a few steps, and stopped again to look about him, and
the utter misery of his existence seemed to be brought out into full
relief, by the intense light which inundated the country. He saw his
twenty years of _café_-life, dull, monotonous, heart-breaking. He might
have traveled like others did, have gone amongst foreigners, to unknown
countries beyond the sea, have interested himself somewhat in everything
which other men are passionately devoted to, in arts and sciences, he
might have enjoyed life in a thousand forms, that mysterious life which
is either charming or painful, constantly changing, always inexplicable
and strange. Now, however, it was too late. He would go on drinking
_bock_ after _bock_ until he died, without any family, without friends,
without hope, without any curiosity about anything, and he was seized
with a feeling of misery and a wish to run away, to hide himself in
Paris, in his _café_ and his befuddlement! All the thoughts, all the
dreams, all the desires which are dormant in the sloth of stagnating
hearts, had reawakened, being brought to life by those rays of sunlight
on the plain.

He felt that if he were to remain there any longer, he should lose his
head, and so he made haste to get to the _Pavillon Henri IV_ for lunch,
to try and forget his troubles under the influence of wine and alcohol,