He had taken an hour amid his painful mental sufferings to arrive at a place he could have reached in five minutes.

One morning a month ago he remembered going up to Fauchery's rooms to thank him for a notice of a ball at the Tuileries, in which the journalist had mentioned him.

The flat was between the ground floor and the first story and had a row of small square windows which were half hidden by the colossal signboard belonging to a shop.

The last window on the left was bisected by a brilliant band of lamplight coming from between the half-closed curtains.

And he remained absorbed and expectant, with his gaze fixed on this shining streak.
The moon had disappeared in an inky sky, whence an icy drizzle was falling.