thing, and now
and then he asked himself if he had not dreamed that shadows had been
dancing up there behind the panes. An intolerable sense of fatigue
weighed him down, a dull, heavy feeling, under the influence of which he
forgot what he was waiting for at that particular street corner. He kept
stumbling on the pavement and starting into wakefulness with the icy
shudder of a man who does not know where he is. Nothing seemed to
justify the painful anxiety he was inflicting on himself. Since those
people were asleep--well then, let them sleep! What good could it
do mixing in their affairs? It was very dark; no one would ever know
anything about this night's doings. And with that every sentiment within
him, down to curiosity itself, took flight before the longing to have
done with it all and to find relief somewhere. The cold was increasing,
and the street was becoming insufferable. Twice he walked away and
slowly returned, dragging one foot behind the other, only to walk
farther away next time. It was all over; nothing was left him now, and
so he went down the whole length of the boulevard and did not return.

His was a melancholy progress through the streets. He walked slowly,
never changing his pace and simply keeping along the walls of the
houses.

His boot heels re-echoed, and he saw nothing but his shadow moving
at his side. As he neared each successive gaslight it grew taller and
immediately afterward diminished. But this lulled him and occupied him
mechanically. He never knew afterward where he had been; it seemed as
if he had dragged himself round and round in a circle for hours. One
reminiscence only was very distinctly retained by him. Without his being
able to explain how it came about he found himself with his face pressed
close against the gate at the end of the Passage des Panoramas and his
two hands grasping the bars. He did not shake them but, his whole heart
swelling with emotion, he simply tried to look into the passage. But he
could make nothing out clearly, for shadows flooded the whole length
of the deserted gallery, and the wind, blowing hard down the Rue
Saint-Marc, puffed in his face with the damp breath of a cellar. For a
time he tried doggedly to see into the place, and then, awakening from
his dream, he was filled with astonishment and asked himself what he
could possibly be seeking for at that hour and in that position, for he
had pressed against the railings so fiercely that they had left t