eap of amorous adventures which I
shortly find vulgar. But I can never resist the magic of a first
temptation.

I shall not wait. I go away. I skirt the forge of the ignoble
Brisbille. It is the last house in that chain of low hills which is
the street. Out of the deep dark the smithy window flames with vivid
orange behind its black tracery. In the middle of that square-ruled
page of light I see transparently outlined the smith's eccentric
silhouette, now black and sharp, now softly huge. Spectrally through
the glare, and in blundering frenzy, he strives and struggles and
fumbles horribly on the anvil. Swaying, he seems to rush to right and
to left, like a passenger on a hell-bound ferry. The more drunk he is,
the more furiously he falls upon his iron and his fire.

I return home. Just as I am about to enter a timid voice calls
me--"Simon!"

It is Antonia. So much the worse for her. I hurry in, followed by the
weak appeal.

I go up to my room. It is bare and always cold; always I must shiver
some minutes before I shake it back to life. As I close the shutters I
see the street again; the massive, slanting blackness of the roofs and
their population of chimneys clear-cut against the minor blackness of
space; some still waking, milk-white windows; and, at the end of a
jagged and gloomy background, the blood-red stumbling apparition of the
mad blacksmith. Farther still I can make out in the cavity the cross
on the steeple; and again, very high and blazing with light on the
hill-top, the castle, a rich crown of masonry. In all directions the
eye loses itself among the black ruins which conceal their hosts of men
and of women--all so unknown and so like myself.

CHAPTER II

OURSELVES

It is Sunday. Through my open window a living ray of April has made
its way into my room. It has transformed the faded flowers of the
wallpaper and restored to newness the Turkey-red stuff which covers my
dressing-table.

I dress carefully, dallying to look at myself in the glass, closely and
farther away, in the fresh scent of soap. I try to make out whether my
eyes are little or big. They are the average, no doubt, but it really
seems to me that they have a tender brightness.

Then I look outside. It would seem that the town, under its misty
blankets in the hollow of the valley, is awaking later than its
inhabitants.

These I can see from up here, spreading abroad in the streets, since it
is Sunday.