The wind swirls in between the buildings, sweeps back on itself, enraged like a wild beast caught in a trap.
The men pay no attention to the sky, or to the wind, or to the chilling light of winter; they are thinking of themselves.
They do not know each other; they have been brought here by a cause which is common to all of them. They are so bewildered and exhausted that they cannot even pretend to be indifferent.
On a closer view, there is about them something that sets them all into a class apart: a lack of physical vitality, a sickly look about the body, too much flesh or too little, eyes blazing with fever, sometimes an obvious infirmity, more often a wan skin faintly coloured with very poor blood. Never a joyous relaxation of healthy muscles: all of them have the slow, dragging movement of the snail.
Finding themselves herded together an unendurable thought, some have started a conversation to satisfy their pride; others are silent, too proud to talk.
There are wage-earners there, professional men, and long-haired intellectuals whose bitter looks are veiled by spectacles.
Everybody smokes. Never has it been so clear that tobacco is an anodyne for soul sickness.
From time to time, two or three men reach the garden gate and disappear for a few minutes. They return wiping their mouths, their breath reeking with wine.
Every few minutes the door opens. A gendarme appears and calls out some names. Those who are called push their way through the crowd, as if drawn by threads.
Their mouths twitch a little at the corners. They affect a detached, bored, or chaffing expression, and they vanish under the arch.