during the last months of spring and the first months of summer in 1833, the rare passersby in the marais, the petty shopkeepers, the loungers on thresholds, noticed an old man neatly clad in black, who emerged every day at the same hour, towards nightfall, from the rue de l'homme arme, on the side of the rue sainte-croix-de-la-bretonnerie, passed in front of the blancs manteaux, gained the rue culture-sainte-catherine, and, on arriving at the rue de l'echarpe, turned to the left, and entered the rue saint-louis.

there he walked at a slow pace, with his head strained forward, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, his eye immovably fixed on a point which seemed to be a star to him, which never varied, and which was no other than the corner of the rue des filles-du-calvaire. the nearer he approached the corner of the street the more his eye lighted up; a sort of joy illuminated his pupils like an inward aurora, he had a fascinated and much affected air, his lips indulged in obscure movements, as though he were talking to some one whom he did not see, he smiled vaguely and advanced as slowly as possible. one would have said that, while desirous of reaching his destination, he feared the moment when he should be close at hand. when only a few houses remained between him and that street which appeared to attract him his pace slackened, to such a degree that, at times, one might have thought that he was no longer advancing at all. the vacillation of his head and the fixity of his eyeballs suggested the thought of the magnetic needle seeking the pole. whatever time he spent on arriving, he was obliged to arrive at last; he reached the rue des filles-du-calvaire; then he halted, he trembled, he thrust his head with a sort of melancholy timidity round the corner of the last house, and gazed into that street, and there was in that tragic look something which resembled the dazzling light of the impossible, and the reflection from a paradise that was closed to him. then a tear, which had slowly gathered in the corner of his lids, and had become large enough to fall, trickled down his cheek, and sometimes stopped at his mouth. the old man tasted its bitter flavor. thus he remained for several minutes as though made of stone, then he returned by the same road and with the same step, and, in proportion as he retreated, his glance died out.

little by little, this old man ceased to go as far as the corner of the rue des filles-du-calvaire; he halted half way in the rue saint-louis; sometimes a little further off, sometimes a little nearer.

one day he stopped at the corner of the rue culture-sainte-catherine and looked at the rue des filles-du-calvaire from a distance. then he shook his head slowly from right to left, as though refusing himself something, and retraced his steps.

soon he no longer came as far as the rue saint-louis. he got as far as the rue pavee, shook his head and turned back; then he went no further than the rue des trois-pavillons; then he did not overstep the blancs-manteaux. one would have said that he was a pendulum which was no longer wound up, and whose oscillations were growing shorter before ceasing altogether.

every day he emerged from his house at the same hour, he undertook the same trip, but he no longer completed it, and, perhaps without himself being aware of the fact, he constantly shortened it. his whole countenance expressed this single idea: what is the use?-- his eye was dim; no more radiance. his tears were also exhausted; they no longer collected in the corner of his eye-lid; that thoughtful eye was dry. the old man's head was still craned forward; his chin moved at times; the folds in his gaunt neck were painful to behold. sometimes, when the weather was bad, he had an umbrella under his arm, but he never opened it.

the good women of the quarter said: "he is an innocent." the children followed him and laughed.

在一八三三年晚春和初夏的时候，沼泽区稀少的过路人，店里的商人，站在门口的闲人，都注意到一个穿着整洁的黑色服装的老人，每天黄昏在一定的时候，从武人街出来，靠圣十字架街那一边，走过白大衣商店，经圣卡特琳园地街，到披肩街，再向左转走进圣路易街。

到了这里他就放慢脚步，头冲向前，什么也看不见，什么也听不到，目不转睛地注视着一个目标，这对他是一个星光闪烁的地方，这不是别的，就是受难修女街的转角。他越走近这条街的拐角，他的眼睛就越射出光芒，某种欢乐，好象内在的晨曦，使他眼珠发亮，他的神情象是被吸引，又象被感动，他的嘴唇微微颤动着，好象在向一个看不见的人说话，他恍惚在微笑，于是他尽量越走越慢。好象他一方面想走到，同时又怕已走得太近。当他离这条好象吸引他的街只有几幢房子远的地方，他的脚步缓慢得有时会使人以为他并不在走。他的头摇摆着，目光固定，好象指南针在寻找两极。虽然他拖延到达的时间，但终究也到了；到了受难修女街后，就停下来，浑身发抖，带着一种忧郁的胆怯神气，把头从最后一幢房屋的角落里伸出来，望着这条街，他那凄惨的目光好象因一件办不到的事而眼花，又好象是关闭了的天堂的反射。于是一滴眼泪，一点一点地积聚在眼角上，聚成了大泪珠就掉下来，流在腮上，有时停在嘴角边。老人尝到了泪水的苦味。他这样待上几分钟，好象石头人一样；后来他又走原路回去，以同样的步伐，越走越远，他的目光也随之暗淡下来。

慢慢地，这老人已不再走到受难修女街的拐角上，他停在圣路易街的半路上；有时远一点，有时近一点。有一天，他停在圣卡特琳园地街的拐角上，远远望着受难修女街。接着他静静地摇着头，好象拒绝自己的一点要求，就折了回去。

不久，他连圣路易街也走不到了。他走到铺石街，摇摇脑袋就往回走；后来他不超过三亭街；最后他不超过白大衣商店；好比一个没有拧上发条的钟，钟摆摇晃的距离逐渐缩短，在等待完全的停止。

天他在同一时间走出家门，他开始他的原路程，但不再走完，也许他不自觉地不断在缩短。他整个面部表情说明了这惟一的想法：何苦来呢！眼睛已没有神，没有光彩；泪珠也已干了，它不再积在眼角上；沉思的眼睛是干涩的，老人的头却总是冲向前；下巴有时摆动；可怜他脖子瘦得打皱。有时天气不好，他手臂下挟着一把伞，他从不打开，那个地区的妇女说：

“这是个傻子。”孩子们跟在他后面笑。