because I have a desire to read a few pages of the 'Consolations' of
Boethius, of which I always carry a small edition, so as to have it
handy when something unfortunate overcomes me, as has been the case
this day. It is a cruel disgrace, sir, for a man of my calling to be
a homicide, and liable at any moment to be locked up in one of the
ecclesiastical prisons. I feel that a single page of that admirable
book would strengthen my heart, crushed by the very idea of the
officer."

Having spoken, he let himself gently slide over the edge of the
basin, so deep that the best part of his body went into the water.
But not taking the slightest notice, and hardly feeling it, he took
the Boethius out of his pocket--it was really there--and putting his
spectacles on, wherein one glass only remained, and that one cracked
in three places, he looked in the little book for the page most
appropriate for his present situation. He doubtless would have found
it, and extracted from it new strength, if the rotten state of his
barnacles, the tears that came into his eyes, and the feeble light
which came from the sky, had permitted him to search for it. Very
soon he had to confess that he was unable to see a wink, and became
angry with the moon, who showed her pointed sickle on the edge of a
cloud. He reproached her and heaped bitter invectives on her. He
shouted:

"Luminary obscene, mischievous and libidinous, you never tire of
illuminating men's wickedness, and you deny a ray of your light to
him who searches for virtuous maxims!"

"The more so, abbe, as this bitch of a moon gives just light enough
to find our way along the streets, and not sufficient to play a game