A Stroll

by Guy de Maupassant

　　

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When Old Man Leras, bookkeeper for Messieurs Labuze and Company, left thestore, 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 inthe back of the store, on a narrow court, as deep as a well. The littleroom where he had been spending his days for forty years was so dark thateven in the middle of summer one could hardly see without gaslight fromeleven until three.It was always damp and cold, and from this hole on which his windowopened came the musty odor of a sewer.For forty years Monsieur Leras had been arriving every morning in thisprison 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 fifteenhundred. He had remained a bachelor, as his means did not allow him theluxury of a wife, and as he had never enjoyed anything, he desirednothing. From time to time, however, tired of this continuous andmonotonous work, he formed a platonic wish: "Gad! If I only had anincome of fifteen thousand francs, I would take life easy."He had never taken life easy, as he had never had anything but hismonthly salary. His life had been uneventful, without emotions, withouthopes. The faculty of dreaming with which every one is blessed had neverdeveloped in the mediocrity of his ambitions.When he was twenty-one he entered the employ of Messieurs Labuze andCompany. And he had never left them.In 1856 he had lost his father and then his mother in 1859. Since thenthe only incident in his life was when he moved, in 1868, because hislandlord 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 in1866 and again in 1874; he had never been able to find out the reasonwhy. He would dress, make his bed, sweep his room, dust his chair andthe 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 hadseen eleven different owners without the name ever changing, and he wouldeat this roll on the way to the office.His entire existence had been spent in the narrow, dark office, which wasstill decorated with the same wall paper. He had entered there as ayoung man, as assistant to Monsieur Brument, and with the desire toreplace him.He had taken his place and wished for nothing more.The whole harvest of memories which other men reap in their span ofyears, the unexpected events, sweet or tragic loves, adventurousjourneys, all the occurrences of a free existence, all these things hadremained unknown to him.Days, weeks, months, seasons, years, all were alike to him. He got upevery day at the same hour, started out, arrived at the office, ateluncheon, went away, had dinner and went to bed without ever interruptingthe regular monotony of similar actions, deeds and thoughts.Formerly he used to look at his blond mustache and wavy hair in thelittle round mirror left by his predecessor. Now, every evening beforeleaving, he would look at his white mustache and bald head in the samemirror. Forty years had rolled by, long and rapid, dreary as a day ofsadness and as similar as the hours of a sleepless night. Forty years ofwhich nothing remained, not even a memory, not even a misfortune, sincethe death of his parents. Nothing.That day Monsieur Leras stood by the door, dazzled at the brilliancy ofthe setting sun; and instead of returning home he decided to take alittle stroll before dinner, a thing which happened to him four or fivetimes a year.He reached the boulevards, where people were streaming along under thegreen trees. It was a spring evening, one of those first warm andpleasant evenings which fill the heart with the joy of life.Monsieur Leras went along with his mincing old man's step; he was goingalong with joy in his heart, at peace with the world. He reached theChamps-Elysees, and he continued to walk, enlivened by the sight of theyoung people trotting along.The whole sky was aflame; the Arc de Triomphe stood out against thebrilliant background of the horizon, like a giant surrounded by fire. Ashe approached the immense monument, the old bookkeeper noticed that hewas hungry, and he went into a wine dealer's for dinner.The meal was served in front of the store, on the sidewalk. It consistedof some mutton, salad and asparagus. It was the best dinner thatMonsieur Leras had had in a long time. He washed down his cheese with asmall bottle of burgundy, had his after-dinner cup of coffee, a thingwhich he rarely took, and finally a little pony of brandy.When he had paid he felt quite youthful, even a little moved. And hesaid to himself: "What a fine evening! I will continue my stroll as faras 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 keptreturning to his mind. He kept on humming it over and over again. Ahot, still night had fallen over Paris. Monsieur Leras walked along theAvenue du Bois de Boulogne and watched the cabs drive by. They keptcoming with their shining lights, one behind the other, giving horn aglimpse of the couples inside, the women in their light dresses and themen 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 thecarriages, silent, side by side, lost in their dreams, in the emotion ofdesire, in the anticipation of the approaching embrace. The warm shadowsseemed to be full of floating kisses. A sensation of tenderness filledthe air. All these carriages full of tender couples, all these peopleintoxicated with the same idea, with the same thought, seemed to give outa disturbing, subtle emanation.At last Monsieur Leras grew a little tired of walking, and he sat down ona 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 befoolish. Listen----"He arose and walked away, with sadness in his heart. A few yards awayanother 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 nearhim, speaking to him and calling to him. He felt as though he wereenveloped in darkness by something disagreeable.He sat down again on a bench. The carriages were still rolling by. Hethought: "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 thesekisses, sold or given, which were passing by it front of him. Love! Hescarcely 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 thelife which he had led, so different from everybody else, so dreary, somournful, so empty.Some people are really unfortunate. And suddenly, as though a veil hadbeen torn from his eyes, he perceived the infinite misery, the monotonyof his existence: the past, present and future misery; his last daysimilar to his first one, with nothing before him, behind him or abouthim, nothing in his heart or any place.The stream of carriages was still going by. In the rapid passage of theopen carriage he still saw the two silent, loving creatures. It seemedto him that the whole of humanity was flowing on before him, intoxicatedwith joy, pleasure and happiness. He alone was looking on. To-morrow hewould again be alone, always alone, more so than any one else. He stoodup, took a few steps, and suddenly he felt as tired as though he hadtaken 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 wasthinking of how pleasant it must be in old age to return home and findthe little children. It is pleasant to grow old when one is surroundedby 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 andconsole you for everything.And, thinking of his empty room, clean and sad, where no one but himselfever entered, a feeling of distress filled his soul; and the place seemedto him more mournful even than his little office. Nobody ever camethere; no one ever spoke in it. It was dead, silent, without the echo ofa human voice. It seems as though walls retain something of the peoplewho live within them, something of their manner, face and voice. Thevery houses inhabited by happy families are gayer than the dwellings ofthe unhappy. His room was as barren of memories as his life. And thethought of returning to this place, all alone, of getting into his bed,of again repeating all the duties and actions of every evening, thisthought terrified him. As though to escape farther from this sinisterhome, and from the time when he would have to return to it, he arose andwalked 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 andthrobbing pulsation of life: the life breath of Paris, breathing like agiant.The sun was already high and shed a flood of light on the Bois deBoulogne. A few carriages were beginning to drive about and people wereappearing on horseback.A couple was walking through a deserted alley.Suddenly the young woman raised her eyes and saw something brown in thebranches. 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 forcedto lay her on the ground.The policeman who had been called cut down an old man who had hunghimself with his suspenders.Examination showed that he had died the evening before. Papers found onhim showed that he was a bookkeeper for Messieurs Labuze and Company andthat his name was Leras.His death was attributed to suicide, the cause of which could not besuspected. Perhaps a sudden access of madness!

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