It was
not his wish to become singular or solitary. But he was much alone,
and while he waited for Ian he wandered in the rich Paris of old,
packed life. Street and Seine-side and market knew him; he stood in
churches, and before old altarpieces smoked by candles. Booksellers
remarked him. Where he might he heard music; sometimes he would go to
the play. He carried books to his lodging. He sat late at night over
volumes new and old. The lamp burned dim, the fire sank; he put aside
reading and knowledge gained through reading, and sat, sunk deep into
a dim desert within himself; at last got to bed and fell to sleep and
to dreams that fatigued, that took him nowhere. When the next day was
here he wandered again through the streets.
One of his old acquaintances he saw oftener than he did others. This
was a scholar, a writer, an encyclopedist of to-morrow who liked the
big Scot and to be in his company. One day, chance met, they leaned
together upon the parapet of a bridge, and watched the crossing
throng. "One's own particles in transit! Can you grasp that,
Deschamps?"
"I have heard it advanced. No. It is hard to hold."
"It is like a mighty serpent. You would think you had it and then it
is gone.... If one could hold it it would transform the world."
"Yes, it would. At what are you staring?"
"The serpent is gone.
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