“The rain leaps and pirouettes like a chorus of Russian elves. It jumps. It bounces. It hops, skips, and runs. Flocks of little excited silver birds are continually alighting around my feet and chattering in a thousand voices. I should have been a poet.”
Removing his gaze from the ground he looked at the faces which lined the buildings and floated like pale lamps in the darkened vestibules.
“Everyone is watching me,” he thought, “for in my attitude there is the careless courage of an unconscious heroism. I stroll along indifferent to the rain. It splashes down my neck. It takes the crease out of my trousers. It trickles off the brim of my hat.
“And all this stamps me momentarily in these afflicted minds as an unusual human.
“That one with the monogomistic side-whiskers is wondering what a queer fellow I am.
“What can it be that engrosses my attention to the point of making me so oblivious to the rain?
“And that fat woman with the face like a toy balloon is certain I will catch my death of cold.
“The little girl with the wide eyes thinks I am in love.
“There is an infinite source of speculation in my simple conduct.”
The water was making headway down the back of his neck, but Moisse hesitated and then abstained from adjusting his collar more firmly.