something beautiful, my Jean, some such thing as one reads about in poetry. I love your voice so much; it is so musical . . . speak to me long. You are so good, you comfort me so well! I would like to live all my life like this, always in your arms, without stirring, listening to you! Do you know what else I would like to have? Ah, I am dreaming of it all the time! I would like to have a nice little baby girl who should be like a cherub, all pink and blond! I would nurse her myself and you would sing her some pretty little songs to put her to sleep! My Jean, when I am dead you will find in my jewelry case a little pink writing book with gold ornaments. That's for you. Take it. There I have written down my thoughts, and you'll see whether I loved you or not! You'll see! Ah! Tomorrow one must get up again, go out . . . how annoying! Rock me, speak to me, tell me that you love my soul . . . my soul! . . ."
And she would fall asleep, and in her sleep look so white, so pure, that the bed curtains would seem like wings attached to her.
Night came on, the suburb grew quiet. From afar, belated carriages were returning, and on the sidewalk two policemen paced with heavy, dragging strides, keeping in step. . . . Several times the door of the furnished house opened and closed; I heard some creaky noise, the rustling of a woman's dress, whispering voices in the hallway. But it was not Juliette. The silent house seemed to have been asleep a long while. I left the sofa, lit my lamp, looked at the clock; it was three o'clock.
"She won't come! Now it's all over. She won't come!"
I stood at the window. The street was deserted, the dark sky hung over the houses like a leaden lid. Over yonder in the direction of Boulevard Haussman
