mbered for such a long time that they seemed
inseparable from her; he recollected her movements, the different tones
of her voice, her habits, her manias, her fits of anger, the wrinkles on
her face, the movements of her thin fingers, and all her well-known
attitudes, which she would never have again, and clutching hold of the
doctor, he began to moan and weep. His lank legs began to tremble, his
whole, stout body was shaken by his sobs, all he could say was:

"My mother, my poor mother, my poor mother...!"

But his companion, who was still drunk, and who intended to finish the
evening in certain places of bad repute that he frequented secretly,
made him sit down on the grass by the riverside, and left him almost
immediately, under the pretext that he had to see a patient.

Caravan went on crying for a long time, and then, when he had got to the
end of his tears, when his grief had, so to say, run out of him, he again
felt relief, repose, and sudden tranquillity.

The moon had risen, and bathed the horizon in its soft light.

The tall poplar trees had a silvery sheen on them, and the mist on the
plain, looked like floating snow; the river, in which the stars were
reflected, and which looked as if it were covered with mother-of-pearl,
was rippled by the wind. The air was soft and sweet, and Caravan inhaled
it almost greedily, and thought that he could perceive a feeling of
freshness, of calm and of superhuman consolation pervading him.

He really tried to resist that feeling of comfort and relief, and kept on
saying to himself:--"My mother, my poor mother!" ... and tried to make
himself cry, from a kind of a conscientious feeling, but he could not
succeed in doing so any longer and those sad thoughts, which had made him
sob so bitterly a short time before, had almost passed away. In a few
moments, he rose to go home, and returned slowly, under the influence of
that serene night, and with a heart soothed in spite of himself.

When he reached the bridge he saw that the last tramcar was ready to
start, and the lights through the windows of the _Cafe du Globe_, and he
felt a longing to tell somebody of the catastrophe that had happened, to
excite pity, to make himself interesting. He put on a woeful face, pushed
open the door, and went up to the counter, where the landlord still was.
He had counted on creating an effect, and had hoped that everybody would
get up and come to him with outstretched hands, and say:--"Why,