Then a fit of weeping once more overcame him, despite all his efforts to the contrary, and, not wishing to shed tears in the presence of others, he plunged into a dark and empty street.

It was the Rue Rossini, and along its silent length he wept like a child.
"It's over with us," he said in hollow tones.

"There's nothing left us now, nothing left us now!" He wept so violently that he had to lean up against a door as he buried his face in his wet hands.

A noise of footsteps drove him away.

He felt a shame and a fear which made him fly before people's faces with the restless step of a bird of darkness.