Ah! the morning air that has not yet been breathed, how life-giving it seems to body and soul! Bernard follows the railings of the Luxembourg Gardens, goes down the Rue Bonaparte, reaches the Quays, crosses the Seine. He thinks of the new rule of life which he has only lately formulated: “If _I_ don’t do it, who will? If I don’t do it at once, when shall I?” He thinks: “Great things to do!” He feels that he is going towards them. “Great things!” he repeats to himself, as he walks along. If only he knew what they were!... In the mean time he knows that he is hungry; here he is at the Halles. He has eight sous in his pocket--not a sou more! He goes into a public house and takes a roll and coffee, standing at the bar. Price six sous. He has two sous left; he gallantly leaves one on the counter and holds out the other to a ragamuffin who is grubbing in a dustbin. Charity? Swagger? What does it matter? He feels as happy as a king. He has nothing left--and the whole world is his! “I expect anything and everything from Providence,” thinks he. “If only it sets a handsome helping of roast beef before me at lunch time, I shall be willing to strike a bargain”--for last night he had gone without his dinner. The sun has risen long ago. Bernard is back again on the quays now. He feels all lightness. When he runs he feels as though he were flying. His thoughts leap through his brain with delicious ease. He thinks: “The difficulty in life is to take the same thing seriously for long at a time. For instance, my mother’s love for the person I used to call my father--I believed in it for fifteen years. I still believed in it yesterday. _She_ wasn’t able to take her love seriously, either. I wonder whether I despise her or esteem her the more for having made her son a bastard.... But in reality, I don’t wonder as much as all that. The feelings one has for one’s progenitors are among the things that it’s better not go into too deeply. As for Mr. Cuckold, it’s perfectly simple--for as far back as I can remember, I’ve always hated him; I must admit now that I didn’t deserve much credit for it--and that’s the only thing I regret. To think that if I hadn’t broken open that drawer I might have gone on all my life believing that I harboured unnatural feelings in my breast towards a father! What a relief to know!... All the same I didn’t exactly break open the drawer; I never even thought of opening it.... And there were extenuating circumstances: first of all I was horribly bored that day. And that curiosity of mine--that ‘fatal curiosity’ as Fénelon calls it, it’s certainly the surest thing I’ve inherited from my real father, for the Profitendieus haven’t an ounce of it in their composition. I have never met anyone less curious than the gentleman who is my mother’s husband--unless perhaps it’s the children he has produced. I must think about them later on--after I have dined.... To lift up a marble slab off the top of a table and