OUR TRY
October 12th, Seven Oclock A.M.
The nights are already bee cold and long; the sun, shining through mycurtains, no more wakens me long before the hour for work; and even whenmy eyes are open, the pleasant warmth of the bed keeps me fast under myterpane. Every m there begins a long argumeween myactivity and my indolence; and, snugly ed up to the eyes, I waitlike the Gas, until they have succeeded in ing to an agreement.
This m, however, a light, which shone from my door upon my pillow,awoke me earlier than usual. In vain I turned on my side; thepersevering light, like a victorious enemy, pursued me into everyposition. At last, quite out of patience, I sat up and hurled mynightcap to the foot of the bed!
(I will observe, by way of parenthesis, that the various evolutions ofthis pacific headgear seem to have been, from the remotest time, symbolsof the vehemeions of the mind; for our language has borrowed itsmost ages from them.)
But be this as it may, I got up in a very bad humrumbling at my newneighbor, who took it into his head to be wakeful when I wished to sleep.
We are all made thus; we do not uand that others may live on theirown at. Eae of us is like the earth, acc to the oldsystem of Ptolemy, and thinks he have the whole universe revolvearound himself. On this point, to make use of the metaphor alluded to:
Tous les hommes ont la tete dans le meme bo.
I had for the time being, as I have already said, thrown mio theother end of my bed; and I slowly disengaged my legs from the warmbedclothes, while making a host of evil refles upon theinvenience of having neighbors.
For more than a month I had not had to plain of those whom ce hadgiven me; most of them only came in to sleep, a away again onrising. I was almost always alone on this top story--aloh theclouds and the sparrows!
But at Paris nothing lasts; the current of life carries us along, likethe seaweed torn from the rock; the houses are vessels which take merepassengers. How many different faces have I already seen pass along thelanding-place belonging to our attics! How many panions of a few dayshave disappeared forever! Some are lost in that medley of the livingwhich whirls tinually uhe sce of y, and others inthat resting-place of the dead, who sleep uhe hand of God!
Peter the bookbinder is one of these last. ed up in selfishness, helived alone and friendless, and he died as he had lived. His loss washer mourned by any one, nor disarranged anything in the world; therewas merely a ditch filled up in the graveyard, and an attic emptied inour house.
It is the same which my new neighbor has inhabited for the last few days.
To say truly (now that I am quite awake, and my ill humor is goh mynightcap)--to say truly, this new neighbor, although rising earlier thansuits my idleness, is not the less a very good man: he carries hismisfortunes, as few know how to carry their good fortunes, withcheerfulness and moderation.
But fate has cruelly tried him. Father Chaufour is but the wrean. In the place of one of his arms hangs ay sleeve; his left legis made by the turner, and he drags the right along with difficulty; butabove these ruins rises a calm and happy face. While looking upon histenance, radiant with a serene energy, while listening to his voice,the tone of which has, so to speak, the at of goodness, we see thatthe soul has remaiire in the half-destroyed c. Thefortress is a little damaged, as