The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard

by Anatole France




Part I--The Log




December 24, 1849.


I had put on my slippers and my dressing-gown. I wiped away a tear
with which the north wind blowing over the quay had obscured my
vision. A bright fire was leaping in the chimney of my study.
Ice-crystals, shaped like fern-leaves, were sprouting over the
windowpanes and concealed from me the Seine with its bridges and
the Louvre of the Valois.

I drew up my easy-chair to the hearth, and my table-volante, and
took up so much of my place by the fire as Hamilcar deigned to allow
me. Hamilcar was lying in front of the andirons, curled up on a
cushion, with his nose between his paws. His think find fur rose
and fell with his regular breathing. At my coming, he slowly slipped
a glance of his agate eyes at me from between his half-opened lids,
which he closed again almost at once, thinking to himself, "It is
nothing; it is only my friend."