During this detailed account he had grown quite tranquil, and now placidly continued---- “Now for the story of this black hour! Look at this key”--he pulled out a small key, probably belonging to his valise--“and then at this candlestick!”--he held up the metal candlestick upside down close before my eyes, so that I could see a hollow place in the foot--“what do you think, what do you suppose, what do you say?” “How am I to know?” “For the space of a good half-hour I have looked for that key this morning. I nearly lost my senses; at last I found it, like this, do you see?” He laid the key upon the little stand by his bed, and set the candlestick down upon it; the key just fitted the place under the foot. “Now tell me who would suspect this, who would be capable of such superhuman circumspection as to foresee and avoid such infernal tricks on the part of the object! And is this what I live for? Am I to waste the precious bit of time I have in such a slavish search for a bagatelle? To search and search, and to search again! One should never say A. or B. has lived for such and such a time,--not lived, but searched! And I am very, very punctual, believe me!” “Ah, yes, life is a perpetual search,” I said, with a sigh which might be taken to refer to the trials of life, while in truth it was called forth by the _ennui_ which this detailed occupation with the bagatelle had caused. This accounted for my flat remark, the sole object of which was to change the subject at all hazards. I little knew to whom I was talking. “What, sir, symbolic?” he said. “And I suppose you think that is deeper! Ah, oh!” “Well, what now?”