At the far end one may just espy the dying
embers of the gipsies' fires, and at times shadows slink noiselessly
into the dense darkness. The place becomes quite sinister, particularly
in winter time.
One Sunday evening, at about seven o'clock, a young man stepped lightly
from the Impasse Saint-Mittre, and, closely skirting the walls, took
his way among the timber in the wood-yard. It was in the early part of
December, 1851. The weather was dry and cold. The full moon shone with
that sharp brilliancy peculiar to winter moons. The wood-yard did not
have the forbidding appearance which it wears on rainy nights; illumined
by stretches of white light, and wrapped in deep and chilly silence, it
spread around with a soft, melancholy aspect.
For a few seconds the young man paused on the edge of the yard and gazed
mistrustfully in front of him. He carried a long gun, the butt-end of
which was hidden under his jacket, while the barrel, pointed towards the
ground, glittered in the moonlight. Pressing the weapon to his side, he
attentively examined the square shadows cast by the piles of timber. The
ground looked like a chess-board, with black and white squares clearly
defined by alternate patches of light and shade. The sawyers' tressels
in the centre of the plot threw long, narrow fantastic shadows,
suggesting some huge geometrical figure, upon a strip of bare grey
ground. The rest of the yard, the flooring of beams, formed a great
couch on which the light reposed, streaked here and there with the
slender black shadows which edged the different pieces of timber.
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