CLAUDE was passing in front of the Hotel de Ville, and the clock was striking two o'clock inthe morning when the storm burst forth. He had been roaming forgetfully about the CentralMarkets, during that burning July night, like a loitering artist enamoured of nocturnal Paris.Suddenly the raindrops came down, so large and thick, that he took to his heels and rushed, wildly bewildered, along the Quai de la Greve. But on reaching the Pont Louis Philippe hepulled up, ragefully breathless; he considered this fear of the rain to be idiotic; and so amidthe pitch-like darkness, under the lashing shower which drowned the gas-jets, he crossedthe bridge slowly, with his hands dangling by his side.He had only a few more steps to go. As he was turning on to the Quai Bourbon, on the Isle ofSt. Louis, a sharp flash of lightning illumined the straight, monotonous line of old housesbordering the narrow road in front of the Seine. It blazed upon the panes of the high, shutterless windows, showing up the melancholy frontages of the old-fashioned dwellingsin all their details; here a stone balcony, there the railing of a terrace, and there a garlandsculptured on a frieze. The painter had his studio close by, under the eaves of the old Hoteldu Martoy, nearly at the corner of the Rue de la Femme-sans-Tete. 3] So he went on whilethe quay, after flashing forth for a moment, relapsed into darkness, and a terrible thunder-clap shook the drowsy quarte
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