On the bridge at Is, I met mademoiselle of the café, whose beaming countenance revealed to me, before she spoke, the news that she had found my book. So far so good; but how to pass the four hours before the next train? I was cold and clammy; and much too tired to explore that savage étang de Marcilly hard by—lonely and desolate enough for the site of a Cistercian house. Such places need a receptive mood. Moreover, here was no fit place to dine—and I had within me a Creux du Diable. Surely my good angel had left me.
I dined at last—very badly—and there were still two hours to wait. Time flew no longer; it crept. Thoughts came no longer; nothing came; nothing happened. I was bored, bored stiff. Reader, do you know what it is to be bored?
"I wish to goodness you wouldn't be so garrulous—all about nothing."
"That's all very well, Reader; but what the dickens is a fellow to do, cast away for four mortal hours in this benighted hole—except talk?"
"Well its your own fault. You ought to have known, when you started, that it was Easter morning, and——"
"Oh! G r r r r r r r!"
"Monsieur, it is time you left. If you miss this train you will be here all night!"
"Et bien; au revoir, Mademoiselle."
Footnotes:
[179] The Carte-Taride marks it incorrectly as being outside the wood, whereas it is within it.