When Old Man Leras, bookkeeper for Messieurs Labuze and Company, left
the store, he stood for a minute bewildered at the glory of the setting
sun. He had worked all day in the yellow light of a small jet of gas,
far in the back of the store, on a narrow court, as deep as a well. The
little room where he had been spending his days for forty years was
so dark that even in the middle of summer one could hardly see without
gaslight from eleven until three.
It was always damp and cold, and from this hole on which his window
opened came the musty odor of a sewer.
For forty years Monsieur Leras had been arriving every morning in this
prison at eight o'clock, and he would remain there until seven at night,
bending over his books, writing with the industry of a good clerk.
He was now making three thousand francs a year, having started at
fifteen hundred. He had remained a bachelor, as his means did not allow
him the luxury of a wife, and as he had never enjoyed anything, he
desired nothing. From time to time, however, tired of this continuous
and monotonous work, he formed a platonic wish: “Gad! If I only had an
income of fifteen thousand francs, I would take life easy.”
He had never taken life easy, as he had never had anything but his
monthly salary. His life had been uneventful, without emotions, without
hopes. The faculty of dreaming with which every one is blessed had never
developed in the mediocrity of his ambitions.
When he was twenty-one he entered the employ of Messieurs Labuze and
Company. And he had never left them.
In 1856 he had lost his father and then his mother in 1859. Since then
the only incident in his life was when he moved, in 1868, because his
landlord had tried to raise his rent.
Every day his alarm clock, with a frightful noise of rattling chains,
made him spring out of bed at 6 o'clock precisely.
Twice, however, this piece of mechanism had been out of order--once in
1866 and again in 1874; he had never been able to find out the reason
why. He would dress, make his bed, sweep his room, dust his chair and
the top of his bureau. All this took him an hour and a half.
Then he would go out, buy a roll at the Lahure Bakery, in which he had
seen eleven different owners without the name ever changing, and he
would eat this roll on the way to the office.
His entire existence had been spent in the narrow, dark office, which
was still decorated with the same wall paper. He had entered there as
a young man, as assistant to Monsieur Brument, and with the desire to
replace him.
He had taken his place and wished for nothing more.
The whole harvest of memories which other men reap in their span
of years, the unexpected events, sweet or tragic loves, adventurous
journeys, all the occurrences of a free existence, all these things had
remained unknown to him.
Days, weeks, months, seasons, years, all were alike to him. He got up
every day at the same hour, started out, arrived at the office,
ate luncheon, went away, had dinner and went to bed without ever
interrupting the regular monotony of similar actions, deeds and
thoughts.
Formerly he used to look at his blond mustache and wavy hair in the
little round mirror left by his predecessor. Now, every evening before
leaving, he would look at his white mustache and bald head in the same
mirror. Forty years had rolled by, long and rapid, dreary as a day of
sadness and as similar as the hours of a sleepless night. Forty years of
which nothing remained, not even a memory, not even a misfortune, since
the death of his parents. Nothing.
That day Monsieur Leras stood by the door, dazzled at the brilliancy
of the setting sun; and instead of returning home he decided to take a
little stroll before dinner, a thing which happened to him four or five
times a year.
He reached the boulevards, where people were streaming along under
the green trees. It was a spring evening, one of those first warm and
pleasant evenings which fill the heart with the joy of life.
Monsieur Leras went along with his mincing old man's step; he was going
along with joy in his heart, at peace with the world. He reached the
Champs-Elysees, and he continued to walk, enlivened by the sight of the
young people trotting along.
The whole sky was aflame; the Arc de Triomphe stood out against the
brilliant background of the horizon, like a giant surrounded by fire. As
he approached the immense monument, the old bookkeeper noticed that he
was hungry, and he went into a wine dealer's for dinner.
The meal was served in front of the store, on the sidewalk. It consisted
of some mutton, salad and asparagus. It was the best dinner that
Monsieur Leras had had in a long time. He washed down his cheese with
a small bottle of burgundy, had his after-dinner cup of coffee, a thing
which he rarely took, and finally a little pony of brandy.
When he had paid he felt quite youthful, even a little moved. And he
said to himself: “What a fine evening! I will continue my stroll as far
as the entrance to the Bois de Boulogne. It will do me good.” He set
out. An old tune which one of his neighbors used to sing kept returning
to his mind. He kept on humming it over and over again. A hot, still
night had fallen over Paris. Monsieur Leras walked along the Avenue du
Bois de Boulogne and watched the cabs drive by. They kept coming with
their shining lights, one behind the other, giving horn a glimpse of the
couples inside, the women in their light dresses and the men dressed in
black.
It was one long procession of lovers, riding under the warm, starlit
sky. They kept on coming in rapid succession. They passed by in the
carriages, silent, side by side, lost in their dreams, in the emotion of
desire, in the anticipation of the approaching embrace. The warm shadows
seemed to be full of floating kisses. A sensation of tenderness filled
the air. All these carriages full of tender couples, all these people
intoxicated with the same idea, with the same thought, seemed to give
out a disturbing, subtle emanation.
At last Monsieur Leras grew a little tired of walking, and he sat down
on a bench to watch these carriages pass by with their burdens of love.
Almost immediately a woman walked up to him and sat down beside him.
“Good-evening, papa,” she said.
He answered: “Madame, you are mistaken.”
She slipped her arm through his, saying: “Come along, now; don't be
foolish. Listen----”
He arose and walked away, with sadness in his heart. A few yards away
another woman walked up to him and asked: “Won't you sit down beside
me?” He said: “What makes you take up this life?”
She stood before him and in an altered, hoarse, angry voice exclaimed:
“Well, it isn't for the fun of it, anyhow!”
He insisted in a gentle voice: “Then what makes you?”
She grumbled: “I've got to live! Foolish question!” And she walked away,
humming.
Monsieur Leras stood there bewildered. Other women were passing near
him, speaking to him and calling to him. He felt as though he were
enveloped in darkness by something disagreeable.
He sat down again on a bench. The carriages were still rolling by. He
thought: “I should have done better not to come here; I feel all upset.”
He began to think of all this venal or passionate love, of all these
kisses, sold or given, which were passing by it front of him. Love! He
scarcely knew it. In his lifetime he had only known two or three women,
his means forcing him to live a quiet life, and he looked back at the
life which he had led, so different from everybody else, so dreary, so
mournful, so empty.
Some people are really unfortunate. And suddenly, as though a veil had
been torn from his eyes, he perceived the infinite misery, the monotony
of his existence: the past, present and future misery; his last day
similar to his first one, with nothing before him, behind him or about
him, nothing in his heart or any place.
The stream of carriages was still going by. In the rapid passage of the
open carriage he still saw the two silent, loving creatures. It seemed
to him that the whole of humanity was flowing on before him, intoxicated
with joy, pleasure and happiness. He alone was looking on. To-morrow he
would again be alone, always alone, more so than any one else. He stood
up, took a few steps, and suddenly he felt as tired as though he had
taken a long journey on foot, and he sat down on the next bench.
What was he waiting for? What was he hoping for? Nothing. He was
thinking of how pleasant it must be in old age to return home and find
the little children. It is pleasant to grow old when one is surrounded
by those beings who owe their life to you, who love you, who caress you,
who tell you charming and foolish little things which warm your heart
and console you for everything.
And, thinking of his empty room, clean and sad, where no one but himself
ever entered, a feeling of distress filled his soul; and the place
seemed to him more mournful even than his little office. Nobody ever
came there; no one ever spoke in it. It was dead, silent, without the
echo of a human voice. It seems as though walls retain something of the
people who live within them, something of their manner, face and voice.
The very houses inhabited by happy families are gayer than the dwellings
of the unhappy. His room was as barren of memories as his life. And the
thought of returning to this place, all alone, of getting into his bed,
of again repeating all the duties and actions of every evening, this
thought terrified him. As though to escape farther from this sinister
home, and from the time when he would have to return to it, he arose and
walked along a path to a wooded corner, where he sat down on the grass.
About him, above him, everywhere, he heard a continuous, tremendous,
confused rumble, composed of countless and different noises, a vague and
throbbing pulsation of life: the life breath of Paris, breathing like a
giant.
The sun was already high and shed a flood of light on the Bois de
Boulogne. A few carriages were beginning to drive about and people were
appearing on horseback.
A couple was walking through a deserted alley.
Suddenly the young woman raised her eyes and saw something brown in the
branches. Surprised and anxious, she raised her hand, exclaiming: “Look!
what is that?”
Then she shrieked and fell into the arms of her companion, who was
forced to lay her on the ground.
The policeman who had been called cut down an old man who had hung
himself with his suspenders.
Examination showed that he had died the evening before. Papers found on
him showed that he was a bookkeeper for Messieurs Labuze and Company and
that his name was Leras.
His death was attributed to suicide, the cause of which could not be
suspected. Perhaps a sudden access of madness!