About him, above him, everywhere, he heard a continuous,
tremendous, confused rumble, composed of countless
and different noises, a vague and throbbing pulsation
of life: the life breath of Paris, breathing like
a giant.
The sun was already high and shed a flood of light
on the Bois de Boulogne. A few carriages were
beginning to drive about and people were appearing
on horseback.
A couple was walking through a deserted alley.
Suddenly the young woman raised her eyes and saw something
brown in the branches. Surprised and anxious,
she raised her hand, exclaiming: “Look!
what is that?”
Then she shrieked and fell into the arms of her companion,
who was forced to lay her on the ground.
The policeman who had been called cut down an old
man who had hung himself with his suspenders.
Examination showed that he had died the evening before.
Papers found on him showed that he was a bookkeeper
for Messieurs Labuze and Company and that his name
was Leras.
His death was attributed to suicide, the cause of
which could not be suspected. Perhaps a sudden
access of madness!
At four o’clock that day, as on every other
day, Alexandre rolled the three-wheeled chair for
cripples up to the door of the little house; then,
in obedience to the doctor’s orders, he would
push his old and infirm mistress about until six o’clock.
When he had placed the light vehicle against the step,
just at the place where the old lady could most easily
enter it, he went into the house; and soon a furious,
hoarse old soldier’s voice was heard cursing
inside the house: it issued from the master,
the retired ex-captain of infantry, Joseph Maramballe.
Then could be heard the noise of doors being slammed,
chairs being pushed about, and hasty footsteps; then
nothing more. After a few seconds, Alexandre
reappeared on the threshold, supporting with all his
strength Madame Maramballe, who was exhausted from
the exertion of descending the stairs. When she
was at last settled in the rolling chair, Alexandre
passed behind it, grasped the handle, and set out toward
the river.
Thus they crossed the little town every day amid the
respectful greeting, of all. These bows were
perhaps meant as much for the servant as for the mistress,
for if she was loved and esteemed by all, this old
trooper, with his long, white, patriarchal beard,
was considered a model domestic.
The July sun was beating down unmercifully on the
street, bathing the low houses in its crude and burning
light. Dogs were sleeping on the sidewalk in
the shade of the houses, and Alexandre, a little out
of breath, hastened his footsteps in order sooner
to arrive at the avenue which leads to the water.
Madame Maramballe was already slumbering under her
white parasol, the point of which sometimes grazed
along the man’s impassive face. As soon
as they had reached the Allee des Tilleuls, she awoke
in the shade of the trees, and she said in a kindly
voice: “Go more slowly, my poor boy; you
will kill yourself in this heat.”
