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a hundred of her; or Madame Lacaille, the pensively
vicious; though I am equally satiated of her, too. Truth to tell, I plunge
unreflectingly into a heap 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. One does not recognize them all at once, so changed are they
by their unusual clothes;--women, ornate with color, and more
monumental than on week days; some old men, slightly straightened

for the occasion; and some very lowly people, whom only their
cleanness vaguely disguises.
The weak sunshine is dressing the red roofs and the blue roofs and the
sidewalks, and the tiny little stone setts all pressed together like pebbles,
where polished shoes are shining and squeaking. In that old house at
the corner, a house like a round lantern of shadow, gloomy old Eudo is
encrusted. It forms a comical blot, as though traced on an old etching.
A little further, Madame Piot's house bulges forth, glazed like pottery.
By the side of these uncommon dwellings one takes no notice of the
others, with their gray walls and shining curtains, although it is of these
that the town is made.
Halfway up the hill, which rises from the river bank, and opposite the
factory's plateau, appears the white geometry of the castle, and around
its pallors a tapestry of reddish foliage, and parks. Farther away,
pastures and growing crops which are part of the demesne; farther still,
among the stripes and squares of brown earth or verdant, the cemetery,
where every year so many stones spring up.
* * * * * *
We have to call at Brisbille's, my aunt and I, before Church. We are
forced to tolerate him thus, so as to get our twisted key put right. I wait
for Mame in the court, sitting on a tub by the shop, which is lifeless
to-day, and full of the scattered leavings of toil. Mame is never ready in
time. She has twice appeared on the threshold in her fine black dress
and velvet cape; then, having forgotten something, she has gone back
very quickly, like a mole. Finally, she must needs go up to my room, to
cast a last glance over it.
At last we