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Well, what of it? Strangely enough, an impression
of something not yet explained remains in
my mind. Then I enter Rue Dieu. Why
“Dieu,” when the Republic has washed its
hands of God? Then Rue Beaurepaire—a fine
resort of criminals. Rue de Vaudry—is the
Devil conducting me? I take no more notice
of the names of the streets, wander on, turn
round, find I have lost my way, and recoil
from a shed which exhales an odour of raw flesh
and bad vegetables, especially sauerkraut.
Suspicious-looking figures brush past me, muttering
objurgations. I become nervous, turn to the
right, then to the left, and get into a dark blind
alley, the haunt of filth and crime. Street girls
bar my way, street boys grin at me. The scene
of Christmas night is repeated, “Væ soli.” [1]
Who is it that plays me these treacherous tricks
as soon as I seek for solitude? Someone has
brought me into this plight. Where is he? I
wish to fight with him!
As soon as I begin to run there comes down
rain mixed with dirty snow. At the bottom of
a little street a great, coal-black gate is outlined
against the sky. It seems a Cyclopean work, a
gate without a palace, which opens on a sea of
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