I
Montparnasse,
April 1914.
All day the sun has shone into my little attic, a bitter sunshine that
brightened yet did not warm. And so as I toiled and toiled doggedly
enough, many were the looks I cast at the three faggots I had saved to
cook my evening meal. Now, however, my supper is over, my pipe alight,
and as I stretch my legs before the embers I have at last a glow of
comfort, a glimpse of peace.