ne had been there,
but no doubt some one was going to come.

Some one was going to come, that evening perhaps, or the next day, or
the day after. Some one was bound to come. Then other human beings
would follow in succession. I waited, and it seemed to me as if that
was all I was made for.

I waited a long time, not daring to go to sleep. Then, very late, when
silence had been reigning so long that it paralysed me, I made an
effort. I leaned up against the wall once more and looked prayerfully.
The Room was black, all things blending into one, full of the night,
full of the unknown, of every possible thing. I dropped back into my
own room.

. . . . .

The next day I saw the Room in the simplicity of daylight. I saw the
dawn spread over it. Little by little, it began to come out of its
ruins and to rise.

It was arranged and furnished on the same plan as my own room.
Opposite me was the mantelpiece with the looking-glass above. On the
right was the bed, and on the left, on the same side as the window, a
sofa, chairs, armchairs, table, wardrobe. The rooms were identical,
but the history of mine was finished while the history of the other one
had not yet begun.

After an insipid breakfast, I returned to the spot that attracted me,
the hole in the partition. Nothing. I climbed down again.

It was close. A faint smell from the kitchen lingered even here. I
paused in the infinite vastness of my empty room.

I opened my door a little bit, then all the way. In the hall the door
of each room was painted brown, with numbers carved on brass plates.
All were closed. I took a few steps, which I alone heard--heard echoing
too loudly in that house, huge and immobile.

The passage was very long and narrow. The wall was hung with imitation
tapestry of dark green foliage, against which shone the copper of a gas
fixture. I leaned over the banister. A servant (the one who waited at
the table and was wearing a blue apron now, hardly recognisable with
her hair in disorder) came skipping down from the floor above with
newspapers under her arm. Madame Lemercier's little girl, with a
careful hand on the banister, was coming upstairs, her neck thrust
forward like a bird, and I compared her little footsteps to fragments
of passing seconds. A lady and a gentleman passed in front of me,
breaking off their conversation to keep me from catching what they were
saying, as if they refused me the alms of their thoughts.