Little Poems in Prose

open by a sort of stupefaction called up by what he still felt, and the rays of the setting sun, slipping through the red curls of his tan- gled hair, enkindled as it were a sulphurous aureole of passion. It was easy to guess that he would not waste his life looking for Divinity in clouds, and that he would find it often enough elsewhere. Finally the fourth said, “You know that I hardly ever play in the house, they never take me to the theatre; my governor is too stingy. God takes no trouble over me and my weari- ness, and I have not a pretty nurse to cuddle me. It has often seemed to me that my pleas- ure would be in going always straight in front of me without knowing where, without any person troubling themselves about it, and see- ing always new countries. I am never comfort- able anywhere, and I always believe that I should be better anywhere else but where I am. Well, let me tell you! I saw at the last Fair in the next village three men, who live as I should like to live. You never noticed them; they were tall, almost black, and very proud, although in rags, with the air of having need of nobody. Their large dark eyes became quite brilliant while they made music; a music so surprising, so exciting, that it makes one want first to dance and then to weep and then to do