Meanwhile, Mulet is telling a story. It is always the same story, but it is always interesting.
An almost imperceptible voice, perhaps Legras', hums slowly:
Si tu veux fair' mon bonheur.
Who talks of happiness here?
I recognise the accents of obstinate, generous life. I recognise thine accents, artless flesh! Only thou couldst dare to speak of happiness between the pain of the morning and that of the evening, between the man who is groaning on the right, and the man who is dying on the left.
Truly, in the utmost depths of Hell, the damned must mistake their need of joy for joy itself.
I know quite well that there is hope here.
So that in hell too there must be hope.
IX
But lately, Death was the cruel stranger, the stealthy-footed visitor.... Now, it is the romping dog of the house.