the end of the ceremony Lirat took my arm and we
walked back to Paris very sad. Lirat, who seemed
lost in painful meditation, was silent. Suddenly he
stopped, crossed his arms and, swaying his head with
an irresistibly comical air because it was intended to
be grave, exclaimed: "But why did that fellow
D interfere, tell me?" And he was right. Why
did he interfere, really? Did they come from the
same stock and were they headed for the same glory—the one an ardent artist with grandiose thoughts and
immortal works, and the other, whose sole ideal was
to entertain with silly nonsense an assembly of
wealthy and reputable bourgeois each evening. Yes,
really, why did he interfere?
How removed I was from such morose sentiments when, after dinner, having sauntered along the boulevards, enjoying the feeling of physical well-being which gave to my movement a special lightness and elasticity, I seated myself in a chair at the Variete, where a successful musical comedy was being played! With my face deliciously freshened by the cold air outside, my heart entirely won over to a sort of universal forebearance, I was really enjoying myself. With what? I did not know and little cared to know, not being in the mood for psychological self-analysis.
As was proper, I arrived during the intermission, when the crowd, very elegant in appearance, was filling the lobbies. After having left my overcoat at the check room, I passed through the parterre boxes with that same sweet impatience, that same delicious anguish, which I had already experienced at the Bois; on reaching the first balcony I continued the same careful inspection of the loges. "Why is she not here?" I asked myself. Each time I failed to distinguish clearly a woman's face, whether it was because the face was slightly bent, in shadow, or cut
