Swallows darted through it continually, but their flight could be watched only for a second. He thought that from such a height they surely were able to see the country, the green foliage of the wooded hills, and great stretches of horizon.
An insane longing came to him to wander among the cool leaves. So he dressed himself quickly, drew on his heavy boots, and spent a great deal of time lacing the leggings, which were new and strange to him. After strapping his knapsack to his back (it was filled with meat, cheese, and bottles of wine, for the unaccustomed exercise was sure to sharpen his appetite), he started, a stick in his hand. He adopted a well-marked gait (like a soldier’s, he thought), whistling lively airs that lightened his step. People turned around to gaze after him, a dog barked at him, and a cabman called out: “Good luck, Monsieur Dumolet.” But he paid no attention to them, and marched along briskly, proudly swinging his stick.
The city was awakening in the sunlight and the warmth of a fine spring day. The fronts of the houses shone brightly, canaries warbled in their cages, and a joyousness filled the air, lighting up the faces of the passersby with an expression of universal contentment with all things.
He walked toward the Seine to take the boat for Saint-Cloud. Amid the staring curiosity of the passersby, he followed the Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin, the boulevard, and the Rue Royale, mentally comparing himself to the Wandering Jew. In crossing a gutter he slipped on the nails of his shoes and fell to the ground with a terrible rattling in his knapsack. A passerby helped him to his feet and he resumed his walk at a slower pace. When he reached the river he waited for a boat.
He watched it approach under the bridges, looking very small at first, then larger, till it finally assumed in his mind the proportions of an ocean steamer, coming to take him for a long trip across the seas, to visit unknown nations and to see unfamiliar sights. The boat came alongside the landing, and he went aboard. Women in their Sunday clothes, with big red faces, were seated everywhere, arrayed in gorgeous gowns and gay ribbons.
Patissot walked to the bow and stood there, with legs apart, like a sailor, to create the impression that he was used to steamers. But as he feared the pitching of the boat, he rested on his stick, so as to be sure of keeping his equilibrium.
After passing the Pont-du-Jour, the river widened, flowing calmly under the dazzling sunlight; then, after passing between two islands, the boat turned a wooded hill where a great many little white houses peeped through the foliage. A voice shouted Bas-Meudon, Sèvres, Saint-Cloud, and Patissot landed.
On the quay, he reopened his map, in order to avoid making any possible mistakes. Everything was quite clear, however. He had only to follow a road that would take him to Celle, where he would turn first to the left, then a little to the right, and afterward would reach Versailles just in time to visit the park before dinner.
The road was hilly, and Patissot puffed and blew, crushed by the weight of his provisions, his legs sore from his gaiters, and his thick shoes feeling as heavy as cast-iron. Suddenly he stopped with a gesture of despair! in the flurry of his departure he had forgotten the field glass!
At last he reached the woods. Then, notwithstanding the terrific heat, and his perspiring brow, and the weight of his harness and the jerkings of his knapsack, he started on a run or rather on a trot toward the green trees, like some old, worn-out nag.
He entered the deliciously cool shade and gazed tenderly at the thousands of little flowers that grew by the wayside; they looked very delicate on their long stems and were all different, some yellow, some blue, some lavender. Insects of various colorings and shapes, long, short, of wonderful build, monsters both tiny and fearful, were ascending with difficulty the blades of grass, which bent under their weight. And Patissot began to admire creation sincerely. But being exhausted he sat down.
He wanted to take a bite. But on examining his provisions, he was amazed at their condition. One of the bottles had been broken in his fall and the contents, unable to find an outlet through the oilcloth, had made a wine soup of his food.
However, he managed to eat a slice of cold leg of mutton, carefully wiped off, a slice of ham, several crusts of bread, soaked and red, and he quenched his thirst with some fermented claret that was covered with an unappetizing pink foam.
After resting nearly two hours, he again consulted his map and went on his way.
In time, he found himself at an entirely unexpected crossroad. He looked at the sun, tried to locate himself, reflected, studied the multitude of fine crosslines on his map that represented the roads, and finally reached the conclusion that he was lost.
Before him lay a most alluring path, specked with drops of sunshine that illuminated the white daisies hidden in the grass. It seemed endless, and was quite still and deserted.
A solitary bumblebee frolicked around, now and then lighting on a flower, to leave it almost immediately for a new resting-place. Its fat body, supported by tiny transparent wings, looked like brown velvet streaked with yellow. Patissot was watching it with keen interest, when something stirred at his feet. At first he was frightened and jumped aside, but stooping carefully, he saw that it was a frog no larger than a nut, which was making gigantic leaps.
He bent down to catch it, but it slid between his fingers. Then, with infinite precautions, he crawled toward it on his hands and knees, advancing very slowly, and looking like a tremendous waddling turtle, with his knapsack on his back. When he was
