BOOK ONE

SPRING





I




Montparnasse,
April 1914.

All day the sun has shone into my little attic, a bitter sunshine
that brightened yet did not warm. And so as I toiled and toiled
doggedly enough, many were the looks I cast at the three faggots I had saved
to cook my evening meal. Now, however, my supper is over, my pipe alight,
and as I stretch my legs before the embers I have at last a glow of comfort,
a glimpse of peace.




My Garret