Spring was at hand; the trees along the quays were becoming covered with
leaves, with light, pale green lacework. The river ran with caressing
sounds below; above, the first sunny rays of the year shed gentle
warmth. Laurent felt himself another man in the fresh air; he freely
inhaled this breath of young life descending from the skies of April
and May; he sought the sun, halting to watch the silvery reflection
streaking the Seine, listening to the sounds on the quays, allowing
the acrid odours of early day to penetrate him, enjoying the clear,
delightful morn.
He certainly thought very little about Camille. Sometimes he listlessly
contemplated the Morgue on the other side of the water, and his mind
then reverted to his victim, like a man of courage might think of
a silly fright that had come over him. With stomach full, and face
refreshed, he recovered his thick-headed tranquillity. He reached his
office, and passed the whole day gaping, and awaiting the time to leave.
He was a mere clerk like the others, stupid and weary, without an
idea in his head, save that of sending in his resignation and taking
a studio. He dreamed vaguely of a new existence of idleness, and this
sufficed to occupy him until evening.
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