on
why. He would dress, make his bed, sweep his room, dust his chair and
the top of his bureau. All this took him an hour and a half.

Then he would go out, buy a roll at the Lahure Bakery, in which he had
seen eleven different owners without the name ever changing, and he
would eat this roll on the way to the office.

His entire existence had been spent in the narrow, dark office, which
was still decorated with the same wall paper. He had entered there as
a young man, as assistant to Monsieur Brument, and with the desire to
replace him.

He had taken his place and wished for nothing more.

The whole harvest of memories which other men reap in their span
of years, the unexpected events, sweet or tragic loves, adventurous
journeys, all the occurrences of a free existence, all these things had
remained unknown to him.

Days, weeks, months, seasons, years, all were alike to him. He got up
every day at the same hour, started out, arrived at the office,
ate luncheon, went away, had dinner and went to bed without ever
interrupting the regular monotony of similar actions, deeds and
thoughts.

Formerly he used to look at his blond mustache and wavy hair in the
little round mirror left by his predecessor. Now, every evening before
leaving, he would look at his white mustache and bald head in the same
mirror. Forty years had rolled by, long and rapid, dreary as a day of
sadness and as similar as the hours of a sleepless night. Forty years of
which nothing remained, not even a memory, not even a misfortune, since
the death of his parents. Nothing.

That day Monsieur Leras stood by the door, dazzled at the brilliancy
of the setting sun; and instead of returning home he decided to take a
little stroll before dinner, a thing which happened to him four or five
times a year.

He reached the boulevards, where people were streaming along under
the green trees. It was a spring evening, one of those first warm and
pleasant evenings which fill the heart with the joy of life.

Monsieur Leras went along with his mincing old man's step; he was going
along with joy in his heart, at peace with the world. He reached the
Champs-Elysees, and he continued to walk, enlivened by the sight of the
young people trotting along.

The whole sky was aflame; the Arc de Triomphe stood out against the
brilliant background of the horizon, like a giant surrounded by fire. As
he approached the immense monument, the old bookkeeper noticed that he
was