He was so much under the
influence of liquor that he walked at times on one side of the gutter and
then on the other. Finally he fell on a bench facing another house
opposite me. There he lay still, supported on his elbows, and slept
profoundly.
The street was deserted, a dry wind swept the dust here and there; the
moon shone through a rift in the clouds and lighted the spot where the
man slept. So I found myself tete-a-tete with this man who, not
suspecting my presence, was sleeping on that stone bench as peacefully as
though in his own bed.
He served to divert my grief; I arose to leave him in full possession,
then returned and resumed my seat. I could not leave that door at which I
would not have knocked for an empire. Finally, after walking up and down
for a few times I stopped before the sleeper.
"What sleep!" I said. "Surely this man does not dream. His clothes are in
tatters, his cheeks are wrinkled, his hands hardened with toil; he is
some unfortunate who does not have bread every day. A thousand gnawing
cares, a thousand mortal sorrows await his return to consciousness;
nevertheless, this evening he had a piece of money in his pocket, he
entered a tavern where he purchased oblivion; he has earned enough in a
week to enjoy a night of slumber and he has perhaps purchased it at the
expense of his children's supper. Now his mistress can betray him, his
friend can glide like a thief into his hut; I could shake him by the
shoulder and tell him that he is being murdered, that his house is on
fire; he would turn over and continue to sleep.
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