never be able, he thought, to reach yonder light crowned summit. The
spacious avenue lay before him with its silence and its darkness, its
lines of tall trees and low houses, its broad grey footwalks, speckled
with the shadows of overhanging branches, and parted occasionally by the
gloomy gaps of side streets. The squat yellow flames of the gas lamps,
standing erect at regular intervals, alone imparted a little life to the
lonely wilderness. And Florent seemed to make no progress; the avenue
appeared to grow ever longer and longer, to be carrying Paris away into
the far depths of the night. At last he fancied that the gas lamps, with
their single eyes, were running off on either hand, whisking the road
away with them; and then, overcome by vertigo, he stumbled and fell on
the roadway like a log.

Now he was lying at ease on his couch of greenery, which seemed to him
soft as a feather bed. He had slightly raised his head so as to keep his
eyes on the luminous haze which was spreading above the dark roofs which
he could divine on the horizon. He was nearing his goal, carried along
towards it, with nothing to do but to yield to the leisurely jolts of
the waggon; and, free from all further fatigue, he now only suffered
from hunger. Hunger, indeed, had once more awoke within him with
frightful and wellnigh intolerable pangs. His limbs seemed to have
fallen asleep; he was only conscious of the existence of his stomach,
horribly cramped and twisted as by a red-hot iron. The fresh odour of
the vegetables, amongst which he was lying, affected him so keenly that
he almost fainted away. He strained himself against that piled-up
mass of food with all his remaining strength, in order to compress his
stomach and silence its groans. And the nine other waggons behind him,
with their mountains of cabbages and peas, their piles of artichokes,
lettuces, celery, and leeks, seemed to him to be slowly overtaking him,
as though to bury him whilst he was thus tortured by hunger beneath