Part I--The Log
December 24, 1849.
I had put on my slippers and my dressing-gown. I wiped away a tear
with which the north wind blowing over the quay had obscured my vision.
A bright fire was leaping in the chimney of my study. Ice-crystals, shaped
like fern-leaves, were sprouting over the windowpanes and concealed
from me the Seine with its bridges and the Louvre of the Valois.
I drew up my easy-chair to the hearth, and my table-volante, and took
up so much of my place by the fire as Hamilcar deigned to allow me.
Hamilcar was lying in front of the andirons, curled up on a cushion, with
his nose between his paws. His think find fur rose and fell with his regular
breathing. At my coming, he slowly slipped a glance of his agate eyes at
me from between his half-opened lids, which he closed again almost at
once, thinking to himself, "It is nothing; it is only my friend."