nothing almost, the recollection
simply of an accidental meeting I had one night between Argenteuil and
Paris when I was twenty-one.

All the happiness of my life, at this period, was derived from
boating. I had taken a room in an obscure inn at Argenteuil, and,
every evening, I took the Government clerks' train, that long slow
train which, in its course, sets down at different stations a crowd of
men with little parcels, fat and heavy, for they scarcely walk at all,
so that their trousers are always baggy owing to their constant
occupation of the office-stool. This train, in which it seemed to me I
could even sniff the odor of the writing-desk, of official documents
and boxes, deposited me at Argenteuil. My boat was waiting for me,
ready to glide over the water. And I rapidly plied my oar so that I
might get out and dine at Bezons or Chatou or Epinay or Saint-Ouen.
Then I came back, put up my boat, and made my way back on foot to
Paris with the moon shining down on me.

Well, one night on the white road I perceived just in front of me a
man walking. Oh! I was constantly meeting those night travelers of the
Parisian suburbs so much dreaded by belated citizens. This man went on
slowly before me with a heavy load on his shoulders.

I came right up to him by quickening my pace so much that my footsteps
rang on the road. He stopped and turned round; then, as I kept
approaching nearer and nearer, he crossed to the opposite side of the
road.

As I rapidly passed him, he called out to me:

"Hallo! good evening, monsieur."

I responded:

"Good evening, mate."

He went on:

"Are you going far?"

"I am going to Paris."

"You won't be long getting there; you're going at a good pace. As for
me, I have too big a load on my shoulders to walk so quickly."

I slackened my pace. Why had this man spoken to me? What was he
carrying in this big pack? Vague suspicions of crime sprang up in my
mind, and rendered me curious. The columns of the newspapers every
morning contain so many accounts of crimes committed in this place,
the peninsula of Gennevilliers, that some of them must be true. Such
things are not invented merely to amuse readers--all this catalogue of
arrests and varied misdeeds with which the reports of the law courts
are filled.

However, this man's voice seemed rather timid than bold, and up to the
present his manner had been more discreet than aggressive.

In my turn I began to question him:

"And you--a