I was walking with long strides, talking aloud,
moving my hands as if throwing millions into space.
"Here, wretch, here!"
Nevertheless, my insusceptibility to everything else when preoccupied with the thought of Juliette was not so complete as to preclude my getting uneasy at the sight of any woman, and scrutinizing with an impatient glance the inside of the carriages which endlessly passed by on the street. On the boulevard my assurance left me, and anguish again seized my whole being. I felt an unbearable burden upon my shoulders, and the devouring beast driven off but a moment ago, rushed on me more ferociously than ever, sinking its fangs into my flesh deeper than ever. It was enough for me to see the theatres, the restaurants, those evil places full of the mystery of Juliette's life, to make me feel this. The theatres were saying to me: "She was here that night; while you were moaning, calling her, waiting for her—she was promenading in her stage box, with flowers on her bosom, happy, without the slightest thought of you." The restaurants were saying: "That night your Juliette was here. . . With eyes drunk with lust she was rolling on our broken sofas, and men who smelled of wine and cigars possessed her." And all the agile, handsome young men I met on the street seemed to say to me: "We know your Juliette. Does she give you any of the money she charges us?" Every house, every object, every manifestation of life cried with a frightful chuckle: "Juliette! Juliette!" The sight of roses at the florist's was painful, and I felt rage boil within me each time I looked at the shop windows with their display of inviting things. It seemed to me that Paris was spending all its power, using all its seduction, to rob me of Juliette, and I wished to see it perish in some catastrophe; I regretted that the rigorous days of the
