Crossing the busy factory, we meet acquaintances who smile at me, not knowing the turn of affairs.
The night is cold and nasty, with a keen wind.

The sky drips with rain.

We jump over puddles as we walk.

I stare fixedly at Benoit's square shoulders in front of me, and the dancing tails of his coat as the wind hustles them along the nocturnal way.
Passing through the suburban quarter, the wind comes so hard between the infrequent houses that the bushes on either side shiver and press towards us, and seem to unfurl.

Ah, we are not made for the greater happenings! * * * * * * I meet first in the room the resounding glare of a wood fire and an almost repelling heat.