life.

As soon as he was dressed he went out, and walked straight before him
through the streets that were already filled with people.

It was only when he had left the heart of Paris that he could reflect as
he wished, without being disturbed each instant by people in a hurry, for
whom he must make way, or by others who, reading the newspapers, did not
look before them, and so jostled against him.

Evidently the risks were more serious than he had imagined; and, as they
loomed up before him, he asked himself whether he should go on. To
suppress Caffie, yes; to give himself up, no.

"If it is impossible--"

He was not the man to set himself wildly against the impossible: he
should have had a dream, a bad dream, and that would be all.

He stopped, and, after a moment of hesitation, turning on his heel, he
retraced his steps. Of what use was it to go farther? He had no need to
reflect nor to weigh the pro and con; he must give up this plan;
decidedly it was too dangerous.

He had gone but a short distance when he asked himself whether these
dangers were such as he saw them, and whether he were face to face with a
radically demonstrated impossibility.

Without doubt, the concierge might observe him when he passed her lodge,
either on going up-stairs or coming down; and, also, she might not