Notwithstanding his haste to arrive at M. Daburon's he did not take a
cab. He felt the necessity of walking. He was one of those who require
exercise to see things clearly. When he moved about his ideas fitted and
classified themselves in his brain, like grains of wheat when shaken in
a bushel. Without hastening his pace, he reached the Rue de la Chaussee
d'Antin, crossed the Boulevard with its resplendent cafes, and turned to
the Rue Richelieu.
He walked along, unconscious of external objects, tripping and stumbling
over the inequalities of the sidewalk, or slipping on the greasy
pavement. If he followed the proper road, it was a purely mechanical
impulse that guided him. His mind was wandering at random through the
field of probabilities, and following in the darkness the mysterious
thread, the almost imperceptible end of which he had seized at La
Jonchere.
Like all persons labouring under strong emotion without knowing it, he
talked aloud, little thinking into what indiscreet ears his exclamations
and disjointed phrases might fall. At every step, we meet in Paris
people babbling to themselves, and unconsciously confiding to the four
winds of heaven their dearest secrets, like cracked vases that allow
their contents to steal away.
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