appeared new. He reviewed the hangings, the expensive furniture, the
paintings and rare objects. He was charmed. It was really of wonderful
beauty, and the cage seemed worthy of the bird. For several evenings he
remained quietly at home with Micheline, in the little silver-gray
drawing-room that was his favorite room. He looked through albums, too,
while his wife played at her piano quietly or sang.

They retired early and came down late. Then he had become a gourmand.
He spent hours in arranging menus and inventing unknown dishes about
which he consulted his chef, a cook of note.

He rode in the Bois in the course of the day, but did not meet any one
there; for of every two carriages one was a hackney coach with a worn-out
sleepy horse, his head hanging between his knees, going the round of the
lake. He ceased going to the Bois, and went out on foot in the Champs-
Elysees. He crossed the Pont de la Concorde, and walked up and down the
avenues near the Cirque.

He was wearied. Life had never appeared so monotonous to him. Formerly
he had at least the preoccupations of the future. He asked himself how
he could alter the sad condition in which he vegetated! Shut up in this
happy existence, without a care or a cross, he grew weary like a prisoner
in his cell. He longed for the unforeseen; his wife irritated him, she
was of too equable a temperament. She always met him with the same smile
on her lips. And then happiness agreed with her too well; she was
growing stout.

One day, on the Boulevard des Italiens, Serge met an old friend, the
Baron de Prefont, a hardened 'roue'. He had not seen him since his
marriage. It was a pleasure to him. They had a thousand things to say