Ought not the magistrate, like the priest, to condemn himself to solitude and celibacy?
Both know all, they hear all, their costumes are nearly the same; but, while the priest carries consolation in the folds of his black robe, the magistrate conveys terror.

One is mercy, the other chastisement.

Such are the images a thought of me would awaken; while the other,--the other--" The wretched man continued his headlong course along the deserted quays.
He went with his head bare, his eyes haggard.

To breathe more freely, he had torn off his cravat and thrown it to the winds.
Sometimes, unconsciously, he crossed the path of a solitary wayfarer, who would pause, touched with pity, and turn to watch the retreating figure of the unfortunate wretch he thought deprived of reason.

In a by-road, near Grenelle, some police officers stopped him, and tried to question him.