The night was splendid, and deep silence reigned in the cemetery;
the black trees threw motionless shadows over the white tombs. When I
endeavored to ascertain my bearings I noticed that one half of the
sky was ruddy, as if lit by a huge conflagration; Paris lay in that
direction, and I moved toward it, following a long avenue amid the
darkness of the branches.
However, after I had gone some fifty yards I was compelled to stop,
feeling faint and weary. I then sat down on a stone bench and for the
first time looked at myself. I was fully attired with the exception
that I had no hat. I blessed my beloved Marguerite for the pious thought
which had prompted her to dress me in my best clothes--those which I had
worn at our wedding. That remembrance of my wife brought me to my feet
again. I longed to see her without delay.
At the farther end of the avenue I had taken a wall arrested my
progress. However, I climbed to the top of a monument, reached the
summit of the wall and then dropped over the other side. Although
roughly shaken by the fall, I managed to walk for a few minutes along a
broad deserted street skirting the cemetery. I had no notion as to
where I might be, but with the reiteration of monomania I kept saying
to myself that I was going toward Paris and that I should find the Rue
Dauphine somehow or other.
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