"And I, I do not sleep," I continued pacing up and down the street, "I do
not sleep, I who have enough in my pocket at this moment to purchase
sleep for a year; I am so proud and so foolish that I dare not enter a
tavern, and I do not understand that if all unfortunates enter there, it
is in order that they may come out happy. Oh! God! the juice of a grape
crushed under the foot suffices to dissipate the deepest sorrow and to
break all the invisible threads that the fates weave about our pathway.
We weep like women, we suffer like martyrs; in our despair it seems that
the world is crumbling under our feet and we sit down in our tears as did
Adam at Eden's gate. And in order to cure our wound we have but to make a
movement of the hand and moisten our throats. How pitiable our grief
since it can be thus assuaged. We are surprised that Providence does not
send angels to grant our prayers; it need not take the trouble, for it
has seen our woes, it knows our desires, our pride and bitterness, the
ocean of evil that surrounds us, and is content to hang a small black
fruit along our paths. Since that man sleeps so soundly on his bench why
do not I sleep on mine? My rival is doubtless passing the night with my
mistress; he will leave her at daybreak; she will accompany him to the
door and they will see me asleep on my bench. Their kisses will not
awaken me, and they will shake me by the shoulder; I will turn over on
the other side and sleep on.
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