Yesterday, I found my pipe while dreaming a long evening of work, of beautiful winter work.  Discarded cigarettes with all the childhood joys of a summer that has passed which illuminates the blue leaves of sun, the muslins, and my grave pipe begun again by a serious man who wants to smoke for a long time without moving, to work better: but I didn’t expect the surprise which prepared this relinquishment, barely had I got the first puff, I forgot the big books I had to write, amazed, moved, I breathed in last winter which returned.  I had not touched the faithful friend since my return to France, and all London appeared, London as I experienced in its entirety myself only one year ago.  At first the dear fogs wrap up our brains and have, over there, a smell to them, when they penetrate under the casement.  My tobacco smelled of a dark room with leather furniture sprinkled with coal dust on which the thin black cat rolled around, the great lights! and the maid with her red arms putting the coal in the iron grate, and the noise of those coals falling from the steel  bucket, in the morning -  while the mailman knocked, solemnly, twice, which made me live!  I saw again through the windows the sick trees in the deserted public garden –I saw the open sea often through that winter, shivering on the deck of the steamer in wet mist, darkened by smoke, with my poor wandering beloved in traveling clothes, a long dun-colored dress, the color of the dirt roads, a wet coat which stuck to her shoulders, one of those straw hats without feathers, and almost without ribbons, that the rich ladies discard on arrival, since they are shredded by the sea air, but which the well-loved poor reline for many seasons to come.  Around her neck the terrible handkerchief wound, which we shake, when we bid goodbye forever.