There was a letter on his table, a card; it was an invitation. The Seiers would be glad if he could come to them tomorrow evening. He would meet people he knew, amongst others--could he guess?--Victoria, from the Castle. Kind regards. He fell asleep in his chair. An hour or two later he woke up feeling cold. Half awake, half asleep, shivering all over, wearied with the day's reverses, he sat down at the table and tried to answer the card, this invitation that he did not intend to accept. He wrote his answer and was going to take it down and post it. Suddenly it struck him that Victoria was also invited. So that was it, she had said nothing to him, she had been afraid he might come, she wanted to be rid of him amongst these strangers. He tore up his letter, wrote another thanking them, he would come. His hand trembled with internal excitement, a peculiar happy exasperation seized him. Why shouldn't he go? why should he hide himself? Enough. His violent emotions ran away with him. With one wrench he tore off a handful of leaves from his date pad on the wall and put himself on a week. He imagined to himself that he was glad about something, delighted beyond measure; he would enjoy this hour, he would light his pipe, sit in his chair and hug himself. His pipe was hopelessly stopped up, he searched in vain for a knife, a scraper, and suddenly pulled one of the hands off the clock in the corner to clean his pipe with. The sight of the mischief he had done did him good, it made him laugh inwardly, and he looked about to see what else he could make a mess of. The time went on. At last he threw himself on his bed in all his wet clothes and fell asleep. When he awoke the day was far advanced. It was still raining, the street was wet. His head was in disorder, scraps of his dreams were confused with the events of the day before; he felt no fever, on the contrary, his heat had subsided, a coolness surrounded him as though he had been wandering in a sultry forest and had now come to the borders of a lake. There was a knock, the postman brought him a letter. He opened it, looked at it, read it and had difficulty in understanding it. It was from Victoria, a note, a half sheet; she had forgotten to tell him that she was going to the Seiers' this evening; she wanted to meet him there, she would explain things better to him, ask him to forget her, to take it like a man. Excuse the wretched paper. Kind regards. He went into the town, dined, went home again and finally wrote refusing the Seiers'; he could not come, he would look forward to seeing them some other evening, tomorrow for instance. This letter he sent by hand. V