"All right, good night. But listen, seriously speaking: if you have another crown to spare—"
And once more Ojen unbuttons his coat.
"A thousand thanks! Oh, you poets, you poets! Where, for instance, may you be going now?"
"I think I'll walk here awhile, and look at houses. I can't sleep, so I count the windows; it is not such a bad occupation at times. I take an exquisite pleasure in satiating my vision with squares and rectangles, with pure lines. Of course, you cannot understand such things."
"I should say I did understand—no one better! But I prefer human beings. Don't you at times—flesh and blood, humans, eh—they have their attraction, don't you think?"
"I am ashamed to say it, but people weary me. No; take for instance the sweep of a solitary, deserted street—have you never noticed the charm of such a view?"
"Haven't I? I am not blind, not entirely. A desolate street, of course, has its own beauty, its own charm, in its kind the highest charm imaginable. But everything in its place—Well, I must not detain you! Au revoir—Thursday!"
Milde saluted with his cane, turned, and strolled up the street. Ojen continued alone. He proved a few moments afterward that he had not lost all his interest in human beings; he had calumniated himself. To the very first hussy who hailed him he gave, absent-mindedly, every penny he had left, and continued his way in silence. He had not spoken a word; his slender, nervous figure disappeared in the darkness before the girl could even manage to thank him—
And at last everything is still; the winches fall to rest along the wharves; the town has turned in. From afar, nobody knows from where, comes the sound of a single footfall; the gas flames flicker in the street lamps; two policemen talk to each other, occasionally stamping their feet to keep warm.
Thus the night passes. Human footsteps here and there; now and then a policeman who stamps his feet to keep warm.