Do I call this a profession? No, merely a stop-gap which allows me to live and wait for something to turn up. I sometimes have forebodings that I shall go on like this forever, waiting for something which will never turn up; that this temporary occupation may become only too permanent. There is an old clerk in the office who has never had any other occupation, whose appearance is a kind of warning to me. He has a red face--the effect of the office stove, I think--straight, white hair, the expression when spoken to of a startled sheep-gentle, astonished, slightly flurried. His attenuated back is rounded off with a stoop between the neck and shoulders. He can hardly keep his hands from shaking. His signature is a work of art. He can stick at his desk for six hours without stirring. While we lunch at a restaurant, he consumes at the office some nondescript provisions which he brings in the morning in a paper bag. On Sundays he fishes, for a change; his rod takes the place of his pen, and his can of worms serves instead of inkstand. He and I have already one point of resemblance. The old clerk was once crossed in love with a flowergirl, one Mademoiselle Elodie. He has told me this one tragedy of his life. In days gone by I used to think this thirty-year-old love-story dull and commonplace; to-day I understand M. Jupille; I relish him even. He and I have become sympathetic. I no longer make him move from his seat by the fire when I want to ask him a question: I go to him. On Sundays, on the quays by the Seine, I pick him out from the crowd intent upon the capture of tittlebats, because he is seated upon his handkerchief. I go up to him and we have a talk. "Fish biting, Monsieur Jupille?" "Hardly at all." "Sport is not what it used to be?" "Ah! Monsieur Mouillard, if you could have seen it thirty years ago!" This date is always cropping up with him. Have we not all our own date, a few months, a few days, perhaps a single hour of full-hearted joy, for which half our life has been a preparation, and of which the other half must be a remembrance? June 5th. "Monsieur Mouillard, here is an application for leave to sign judgment in a fresh matter." "Very well, give it me." "To the President of the Civil Court: "Monsieur Plumet, of 27 Rue Hauteville, in the city of Paris, by Counsellor Boule, his advocate, craves leave--" It was a proceeding against a refractory debtor, the commonest thing in the world. "Monsieur Massinot!" "Yes, sir." "Who brought these papers?" "A very pretty little woman brought them this morning while you were out, sir." "Monsieur Massinot, whether she was pretty or not, it is no business of yours to criticise the looks of the clients." "I did not mean to offend you, Monsieur Mouillard."