On the bridge and under the German gate the silence seemed yet deeper than in the morning, and the night made it seem terrible. A few stars shone between the masses of white cloud that hung over the city. All along the street I met not a soul, and when I reached home, after shutting the door of our lower passage, it seemed warm to me, although the little stream that ran from the yard along the wall was frozen. I stopped a moment to take breath; then I ascended in the dark, my hand on the baluster.
When I opened the door of my room, the cheerful warmth of the stove was grateful indeed. Monsieur Goulden was seated in his arm-chair before the fire, his cap of black silk pulled over his ears, and his hands resting upon his knees.
"Is that you, Joseph?" he asked without turning round.
"It is," I answered. "How pleasant it is here, and how cold out of doors! We never had such a winter."
"No," he said gravely. "It is a winter that will long be remembered."
I went into the closet and hung the cloak and mittens in their places, and was about relating my adventure with Pinacle, when he resumed:
"You had a pleasant day of it, Joseph."
"I have had, indeed. Aunt Grédel and Catharine wished me to make you their compliments."
"Very good, very good," said he; "the young are right to amuse themselves, for when they grow old, and suffer, and see so much of injustice, selfishness, and misfortune, everything is spoiled in advance."
He spoke as if talking to himself, gazing at the fire. I had never seen him so sad, and I asked: