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orgy my sadness calls up to my inner vision a
picture of the peaceful home of my wife: the
Christmas tree, the mistletoe, my little daughter,
her deserted mother. Pangs of conscience seize
me; I stand up, plead ill-health as an excuse,
and depart.
I go down the dreadful Rue de la Gaieté in
which the artificial mirth of the crowd annoys
me; then down the gloomy silent Rue Delambre,
which is more conducive to despair than any
other street of the Quarter. I turn into the
Boulevard Montparnasse, and let myself fall on
a seat on the terrace of the Lilas brewery.
A glass of good absinthe comforts me for
some minutes. Then there fall on me a set of
cocottes and students who strike me on the face
with switches. As though driven by furies, I
leave my glass of absinthe standing, and hasten
to seek for another in the Café Francois Premier
on the Boulevard St. Michel. Out of the frying-pan
into the fire! A second troop shouts at me,
“There is the hermit!” Driven forth again I
fly home, accompanied by the unnerving tones
of the mirliton pipes.
The thought that it might be a chastisement,
the result of a crime, does not occur to me. In
my own mind I feel guiltless, and consider
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