MORAL USE OF INVENTORIES

November 13th, Nine Oclock P.M.

I had well stopped up the chinks of my window; my little carpet wasnailed down in its place; my lamp, provided with its shade, cast asubdued light around, and my stove made a low, murmuring sound, as ifsome live creature was sharing my hearth with me.

All was silent around me. But, out of doors the snow and rain swept theroofs, and with a low, rushing sound ran along the gurgling gutters;sometimes a gust of wind forced itself beneath the tiles, which rattledtogether like castanets, and afterward it was lost in the empty corridor.

Then a slight and pleasurable shiver thrilled through my veins: I drewthe flaps of my old wadded dressing-gown around me, I pulled mythreadbare velvet cap over my eyes, and, letting myself sink deeper intomy easy-chair, while my feet basked in the heat and light which shonethrough the door of the stove, I gave myself up to a sensation ofenjoyment, made more lively by the consciousness of the storm which ragedwithout. My eyes, swimming in a sort of mist, wandered over all thedetails of my peaceful abode; they passed from my prints to my bookcase,resting upon the little chintz sofa, the white curtains of the ironbedstead, and the portfolio of loose papers--those archives of theattics; and then, returning to the book I held in my hand, they attemptedto seize once more the thread of the reading which had been thusinterrupted.

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