to scream at a pitch authorizing the suspicion of joys untold. He can
forget his oaths of the day before, let the fire burn upon the hearth
and the candle sink to its socket,--in short, go to sleep again in
spite of pressing work. He can curse the expectant boots which stand
holding their black mouths open at him and pricking up their ears. He
can pretend not to see the steel hooks which glitter in a sunbeam
which has stolen through the curtains, can disregard the sonorous
summons of the obstinate clock, can bury himself in a soft place,
saying: "Yes, I was in a hurry, yesterday, but am so no longer to-day.
Yesterday was a dotard. To-day is a sage: between them stands the
night which brings wisdom, the night which gives light. I ought to go,
I ought to do it, I promised I would--I am weak, I know. But how can I
resist the downy creases of my bed? My feet feel flaccid, I think I
must be sick, I am too happy just here. I long to see the ethereal
horizon of my dreams again, those women without claws, those winged
beings and their obliging ways. In short, I have found the grain of
salt to put upon the tail of that bird that was always flying away:
the coquette's feet are caught in the line. I have her now--"

Your servant, meantime, reads your newspaper, half-opens your letters,
and leaves you to yourself. And you go to sleep again, lulled by the
rumbling of the morning wagons. Those terrible, vexatious, quivering
teams, laden with meat, those trucks with big tin teats bursting with
milk, though they make a clatter most infernal and even crush the
paving stones, seem to you to glide over cotton, and vaguely remind
you of the orchestra of Napoleon Musard. Though your house trembles in
all its timbers and shakes upon its keel, you think yourself a sailor
cradled by a zephyr.

You alone have the right to bring these joys to an end by throwing