"I will come to see you to-morrow. Be wise; no more stupidities. They do you no good. And get this truth well into your head, Célestine,--that life is life!" The next day I waited for him in vain. He did not come. "It is life," I said to myself. But the following day, being impatient to see him, I went to the house. I found in the kitchen only a tall blonde girl, bold and pretty,--prettier than I. "Eugénie is not here?" I asked. "No, she is not here," answered the tall girl, dryly. "And William?" "Nor William either." "Where is he?" "How do I know?" "I want to see him. Go tell him I want to see him." The tall girl looked at me scornfully. "Say, am I your servant?" I understood it all. And, being tired of struggling, I went away. "It is life." This phrase pursued me, obsessed me, like a music-hall refrain. And, as I went away, I could not help thinking, not without a feeling of sorrowful melancholy, of the joy with which I had been welcomed in that house. The same scene must have taken place. They had opened the usual bottle of champagne. William had taken the blonde girl on his knees, and had whispered in her ear: "You will have to be nice with Baby." The same words, the same movements, the same caresses, while Eugénie, devouring the janitor's son with her eyes, led him into the adjoining room. "Your little phiz, your little hands, your big eyes!" I walked on, utterly irresolute and stupefied, repeating to myself with stupid obstinacy: "Yes, indeed, it is life; it is life." For more than an hour, in front of the door, I paced up and down the sidewalk, hoping that William might come in or go out. I saw the grocer enter, a little milliner with two big band-boxes, and the delivery-man from the Louvre; I saw the plumbers come out, and I know not who or what else,--shades, shades, shades. I did not dare to go into the janitor's lodge in the next house. The janitress undoubtedly would not have received me well. And what would she have said to me? Then I went away for good, still pursued by the irritating refrain: "It is life." The streets seemed to me intolerably sad. The passers-by made upon me the impression of spectres. When I saw in the distance a hat shining on a gentleman's head, like a light-house in the night, like a gilded cupola in the sunshine, my heart leaped. But it was never William. In the lowering, pewter-colored sky, no hope was shining. I returned to my room, disgusted with everything. Ah! yes, the men! Be they coachmen, _valets_, dudes, priests, or poets, they are all the same. Low-lived wretches!