Page:The Career of a Nihilist.djvu/30

Knowing the house well, Andrey groped his way down the stone staircase, and came out into the fresh air. The night was clear and bright, the full moon shone from the vault of the sky. He went down the narrow street in which his house stood, and turned to the left through a small square, shadowed by a few gigantic lime trees, under which, according to tradition, Jean Jacques Rousseau had often rested. Keeping on in the same direction, in a few minutes he found himself in an open space facing the Botanical Gardens, surrounded by gold-tipped railings, which glistened upon the dark background of exotic vegetation. A breeze so gentle, that he could hardly determine from whence it blew, fanned his face refreshingly. As he rapturously inhaled the invigorating perfumes of the night, the lake, and the gardens, he felt another man. A new sense of enjoyment took possession of him. He delighted in the world about him, in his peace of mind, in his bodily health and vigour, which imparted a peculiar elasticity to his limbs. He wanted to move, to go somewhere—but where?

The slumbering city, with its rows of shopkeepers' palaces,—the gorgeous hotels,—stretched on his left along the Rhône. He loved the powerful stream, with its blue-green or jet-black foaming waters rushing impetuously between the narrow steeps of its stony banks. On sunny suffocating days he would stand for hours watching the magical play of light upon the tremulous mosaic of the river-bed, shining amidst the dark clusters of hairy weeds.

But there were all these palaces to pass,—this congeries of prosaic and money-grubbing littlenesses, slumbering after their daily exertions. No; he could not bear this to-night, and he strode away in the opposite direction along the lake.

This favourite holiday walk of the Genevan citizens and their families was now completely deserted. Not a footstep,