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Winter is here: the air in the morning becomes fresher, and Paris puts on her mantle of fog. This is the season of social soirées. Chilly lips search for kisses; lovers, driven from the country, take refuge beneath the mansardes, and, huddling together before the hearth, enjoy, amid the noise of the rain, their eternal spring. As for me, I live in sadness: I have the winter without the spring, without a sweetheart. My garret, away up a damp staircase, is large and irregular; the corners lose themselves in the gloom, the bare and slanting walls make of the chamber a sort of corridor which stretches out in the form of a bier. The wretched furniture, the narrow planks, ill fitted and painted a horrible red color, crack funereally when they are touched. Shreds of faded damask hang from the canopy of the bed, and the curtainless window opens upon a huge black wall, never changing and always repulsive. In the evening, when the wind shakes the door and the walls are dimly outlined by the flame of my lamp, I feel a sad and icy weariness press upon me. I pause before the expiring fire on the hearth, before the ugly brown roses on the wall paper, before the faïence vases in which the last flowers have faded, and I imagine I hear everything complain of solitude and poverty. This complaint is heart-rending. The entire mansarde demands of me laughter, the riches of its sisters. The hearth exacts a huge, joyous blaze; the vases, forgetting the snow, sigh for fresh roses; the very air speaks to me of flaxen hair and white shoulders. I listen and cannot help feeling sorrowful. I have no chandelier to suspend from the ceiling, no carpet to hide the irregular and broken planks. And, when my chamber refuses to smile save upon a beautiful white curtain, upon plain but shining furniture, I grow more sorrowful still because I cannot satisfy it. Then it seems to me more deserted and miserable than ever: the wind comes in colder gusts, the gloom grows denser; the dust gathers in heaps on the floor, the wall paper tears showing the plaster. There is a general pause, and, in the silence, I hear the sobs of my heart. Brothers, do you remember the days when life for us was a dream? We had friendship, we had visions of love and glory. Do you recall those cool evenings in Provence, when, as the stars came out, we sat down in the furrows still glowing with the heat of the sun? The crickets chirped; the harmonious breath of summer nights enveloped our chat. All three of us let our lips say what our hearts thought, and, in our simplicity, we adored queens, we crowned ourselves with laurels. You told me your dreams, I told you mine. Then, we deigned to come back to earth. I confided to you my plan of life, consecrated to toil and struggles. Feeling the wealth of my mind, I was pleased at the idea of poverty. You were ascending, like me, the stairway of the mansardes, you hoped to nourish yourselves on high thoughts; in your ignorance of the reality, you seemed to believe that the artist in his sleepless night gains the bread of the morrow.