The frost webs in crisp increments the department’s windows. A perfect cold clear winter’s day. I have watched the sun incise its blank parabola from seven thirty this a.m. until this hour–past three p.m., as it sinks into the abyss of Paris. And what do I have to show for these hours’ passage? Nothing. Shuffled memoranda immemorially. I could have been distinctly sauced by now, or taking a chilled tour around the park doing absolutely nothing, down by Malmorte. All that has happened is that I am now seven-and-one-half hours older.
Finis! The Minister no longer knows my name. Pierre pinches all the juicy ‘initiatives’ and I’m left with nada. Who am I?
Other Servants of the Service are in the limelight. Widgetsonne, Martin-Sobriquet (both), Melmott (hated by every man in the service), and even little Dumus.
It has been conveyed to me that, after starting out so prominently last year, a period of obscurity and ‘good behavior’ would be prudent and beneficial, show I was ‘serious,’ etc. All that has happened is that I have become obscure and passe. I should have realized that my enemies, who are innumerable (why?!) will now do their best to exploit my downcast condition in the most wretched fashion.
And this will also ruin my gelid and discreet afternoons with magnificent Marie (for which I am late!)–
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