The church clock of Erneville was striking midnight as the door closed behind the shoe-maker. The fumes of the heady wine he had been drinking had begun to give him a feeling of oppression before leaving the house, but it was worse when he got into the open air. He staggered, overcome with giddiness, and went and leant with his back against a wall. What followed next was as vague and mysterious to him as the phantasmagoria of a dream. Above his head, about six or eight feet from the ground, was a window, which, as he moved to lean against the wall, had appeared to him to be lighted, although the light was shaded by double curtains. He had hardly taken up his position against the wall when he thought he heard it open. It was, he imagined, the worthy bailiff, unwilling to part with him without sending him a last farewell, and he tried to step forward so as to do honour to this gracious intention, but his attempt was unavailing. At first he thought he was stuck to the wall like a branch of ivy, but he was soon disabused of this idea. He felt a heavy weight planted first on the right shoulder and then on the left, which made his knees give way so that he slid down the wall as if to seat himself. This manœuvre on Thibault’s part appeared to be just what the individual who was making use of him as a ladder wished him to do, for we can no longer hide the fact that the weight so felt was that of a man. As Thibault made his forced genuflexion, the man was also lowered; “That’s right, l’Eveillé! that’s right!” he said, “So!” and with this last word, he jumped to the ground, while overhead was heard the sound of a window being shut. Thibault had sense enough to understand two things: first, that he was mistaken for someone called l’Eveillé, who was probably asleep somewhere about the premises; secondly, that his shoulders had just served some lover as a climbing ladder; both of which things caused Thibault an undefined sense of humiliation. Accordingly, he seized hold mechanically of some floating piece of stuff which he took to be the lover’s cloak, and, with the persistency of a drunken man, continued to hang on to it. “What are you doing that for, you scoundrel?” asked a voice, which did not seem altogether unfamiliar to the shoe-maker. “One would think you were afraid of losing me.” “Most certainly I am afraid of losing you,” replied Thibault, “because I wish to know who it is has the impertinence to use my shoulders for a ladder.” “Phew!” said the unknown, “it’s not you then, l’Eveillé?” “No, it is not,” replied Thibault. “Well, whether it is you or not you, I thank you.” “How, thank you? Ah! I dare say! thank you, indeed! You think the matter is going to rest like that, do you?” “I had counted upon it being so, certainly.” “Then you counted without your host.” “Now, you blackguard, leave go of me! you are drunk!” “Drunk! What do you mean? We only drank seven bottles between us, and the Bailiff had a good four to his share.”