ndow on the ground floor floated a strain
of music. I caught the beauty of a sonata as I would catch distinct
human words, and for a moment I listened to what the piano was
confiding to the people inside.

Then I sat down on a bench. On the opposite side of the avenue lit by
the setting sun two men also seated themselves on a bench. I saw them
clearly. They seemed overwhelmed by the same destiny, and a mutual
sympathy seemed to unite them. You could tell they liked each other.
One was speaking, the other was listening.

I read a secret tragedy. As boys they had been immensely fond of each
other. They had always been of the same mind and shared their ideas.
One of them got married, and it was the married one who was now
speaking. He seemed to be feeding their common sorrow.

The bachelor had been in the habit of visiting his home, always keeping
his proper distance, though perhaps vaguely loving the young wife.
However, he respected her peace and her happiness. The married man was
telling him that his wife had ceased to love him, while he still adored
her with his whole being. She had lost interest in him, and turned
away from him. She did not laugh and did not smile except when there
were other people present. He spoke of this grief, this wound to his
love, to his right. His right! He had unconsciously believed that he
had a right over her, and he lived in this belief. Then he found out
that he had no right.

Here the friend thought of certain things she had said to him, of a
smile she had given him. Although he was good and modest and still
perfectly pure, a warm, irresistible hope insinuated itself into his
heart. Listening to the story of despair that his friend confided to
him, he raised his face bit by bit and gave the woman a smile. And
nothing could keep that evening, now falling grey upon those two men,
from being at once an end and a beginning.

A couple, a man and a woman--poor human beings almost always go in
pairs--approached, and passed. I saw the empty space between them. In
life's tragedy, separation is the only thing one sees. They had been
happy, and they were no longer happy. They were almost old already.
He did not care for her, although they were growing old together. What
were they saying? In a moment of open-heartedness, trusting to the
peacefulness reigning between them at that time, he owned up to an old
transgression, to a betrayal scrupulously and religiously hidden