I tried to throw a stone across the narrow part, and
found I could no longer throw stones; so I sat down and rested. How thin
my legs were! and how miserably clad--in old prison trousers, greasy,
stained, and frayed, and ignobly kneed--and what boots!
[Illustration: "I sat down and rested."]
Never had I been shabby in a dream before.
Why could not I, once for all, walk round to the other side and take a
header _a la hussarde_ off those lofty bulwarks, and kill myself for
good and all? Alas! I should only blur the dream, and perhaps even wake
in my miserable strait-waistcoat. And I wanted to see the _mare_ once
more, very badly.
This set me thinking. I would fill my pockets with stones, and throw
myself into the Mare d'Auteuil after I had taken a last good look at it,
and around. Perhaps the shock of emotion, in my present state of
weakness, might really kill me in my sleep. Who knows? it was worth
trying, anyhow.
I got up and dragged myself to the _mare_. It was deserted but for one
solitary female figure, soberly clad in black and gray, that sat
motionless on the bench by the old willow.
I walked slowly round in her direction, picking up stones and putting
them into my pockets, and saw that she was gray-haired and middle-aged,
with very dark eyebrows, and extremely tall, and that her magnificent
eyes were following me.
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