He reached the Champs-Élysées and continued to walk, freshened by the gusts of youth with which the wind caressed him.
The whole sky was aflame, and the Arc de Triomphe was a dark bulk silhouetted against the brilliant background of the horizon, like a giant straddling over a house on fire. When he drew near the huge monument, the old bookkeeper realised that he was hungry, and entered a restaurant for dinner.
He dined in front of the shop, on the pavement, off sheep’s trotters, a salad, and asparagus; and Monsieur Levas had the best meal he had eaten for a long time. He washed down his Brie cheese with half a bottle of good claret; then he took a cup of coffee, which was unusual with him, and after that a small glass of liqueur brandy.
When he had paid, he felt quite lively and merry, even a little excited. He said to himself: “What a glorious night! I’ll go on as far as the entrance to the Bois de Boulogne, it will do me good.”
He started off again. An old song, which a girl who had been his neighbour used once upon a time to sing, recurred obstinately into his head.
Quand le bois reverdit,
Mon amoureux me dit:
Viens respirer, ma belle,
Sous la tonnelle.
He hummed it endlessly, beginning again and again. Night had fallen over Paris, an airless night, as close as an oven. Monsieur Levas walked along the Avenue of the Bois de Boulogne and watched the carriages go by. They came on with their gleaming eyes, one after another, allowing a glimpse of an embracing couple, the woman in a light dress, the man in black.
It was one long procession of lovers, driving under the warm and starry sky. Continually they came, went by, came, went by, side by side in the carriages, silent, clasped to each other, lost in the illusion and fever of their desires, in the shuddering longing for the next embrace. The warm air seemed filled with swift, wandering kisses. They spread a strange tenderness through the air, making it more stifling than ever. A mad excitement eddied through the air, created by these intertwined couples, these people inflamed with the same expectation, the same thought. All these carriages filled with lovemaking brought with them their own atmosphere, subtle and disturbing.
Monsieur Levas, a little tired at the end of his walk, sat down on a bench to watch the passage of these cabs heavy with love. Almost at once a woman drew near and sat down beside him.
“Hallo, darling,” she said.
He made no answer. She continued:
“Let me love you, dearie; you’ll find me so kind.”
“You are making a mistake, madame,” he said.
She put her arm through his.
“Come on, don’t be a silly boy; listen …”
He had risen, and walked away, a feeling of tightness round his heart.
A hundred yards further on another woman accosted him.
“Come and sit beside me for a while, dearie!”
“Why do you follow this trade?” he said to her.
She stood in his way, and her voice was changed, hoarse and bitter.
“God, I don’t do it for fun.”
“Then what drives you to it?” he insisted gently.
“One must live, worse luck.”
And she went off with a little song on her lips.
Monsieur Levas was bewildered. Other women passed him, called to him, invited him. He felt as though something black and oppressive hung above his head.
He sat down on a bench. The carriages were still rolling past.
“I should have done better not to come,” he thought; “I’m quite put out.”
And he began to think of all this love, venal or passionate, all these kisses, bought or free, which were passing before his eyes.
Love! He hardly knew aught of it. In all his life he had known but two or three women, chance meetings, unsought; his means had allowed him no more. And he thought of the life he had led, so different from everyone else’s, so sombre, so gloomy, so dull, so empty.
There are some people who have no luck. And suddenly, as though a thick veil had been torn aside, he saw clearly the misery, the infinite, monotonous misery of his life, past, present, and to come; the last days like the first, nothing before him, nothing behind him, nothing round him, nothing in his heart; nothing anywhere.
Still the line of carriages went by. Always he saw, appearing and disappearing with the swift passage of the open vehicle, the two inside, silently embracing. It seemed to him as though the whole human race was passing by, drunk with joy, pleasure, and happiness. And he watched them alone, alone, all alone. He would still be alone tomorrow, always alone, alone, as no other creature in the world is alone.
He got up, walked a few steps, and, quickly tired, as though he had just finished a long walk, sat down on the next bench.
What was he waiting for? What was he hoping for? Nothing. He thought how good it must seem, in old age, to hear the chatter of little children as you come home at night. It must be sweet to grow old surrounded with those who owe their lives to you, love you, caress you, tell you those ridiculous, delightful things that warm your heart and console you for everything.
And thinking of his empty room, the clean sad little room into which no one but himself had ever gone, a feeling of distress oppressed his soul. It seemed to him even more melancholy than his little office.
No one ever came to it; no one ever spoke in it. It was dead, dumb; it lacked even an echo of a human voice. It seemed as though walls must hold something of the people who live between them, something of their ways, their faces, their speech. Houses lived in by happy families
