me. . . . Don't you believe it! I saw it from afar, I
saw its black opening yawning fearfully, and I ran
toward it. I leaned over the edge to inhale the infected odor of its filth, I said to myself: "There is
where wasted lives and corrupted beings are dashed
and swallowed up. . . . Here one can never come up
again, never!" And I plunged into it. . . .
Despite the threatening sky overcast with clouds, the balcony of the cafe is crowded with people. There is not a vacant table, the cabarets, the circus shows, the theatres have poured forth the scum of their habitues here. Everywhere are bright-colored dresses and black frock coats, ladies adorned with plumes like horses in a parade, weary, sick looking and sallow; flurried fops with heads drooped upon their button holes without flowers, and nibbling the ends of their canes with ape-like gestures. Some of them with legs crossed in order to show their black silk socks embroidered with red flowerets, hats pushed over slightly toward the back, are whistling the latest hit—the air which has just now been sung at the Ambassadeur, to the accompaniment of the creaking of seats, the clatter of glasses and bottles.
The last of the lights in front of the opera has been extinguished. But all around it the windows of the club-houses and brothels are a red blaze, like openings into hell. On the street, parked near the curb, are worn-out and dilapidated open coaches strung out in triple file. Some of the drivers are drowsing in their seats; others gathering into small groups which present a comical appearance in their ill-fitting liveries, are munching cigar stubs, and talking with loud bursts of laughter, telling salacious stories about their clients. One incessantly hears the shrill voice of the newspaper vendors who run back and forth shouting, in the midst of their crisp outcries, the name of some well-
