midnight
I had no money , I had few friends ; but I had youth , I had ambition , I had , I think , genius , till she killed it . I loved my art with a great love , and I was happy . Even in Paris one can be so happy without wealth , while one is young . The mirth of the Barriere -- the grotesques of the Halles -- the wooden booths on New Year 's Day -- the bright midnight crowds under the gaslights -- the bursts of music from the gay cafes -- the gray little nuns flitting through the snow -- the Mardi Gras and the Old-World fooleries -- the summer Sundays under the leaves while we laughed like children -- the silent dreams through the length of the Louvre -- dreams that went home with us and made our garret bright with their visions -- one was happy in them -- happy , happy ! '' His eyes were still fastened on the blank , white wall before him while he spoke , as though the things that his words sketched so faintly were painted in all their vivid colors on the dull , blank surface . And so in truth they were , as remembrance pictured all the thousand perished hours of his youth . `` Happy -- until she looked at me , '' he pursued , while his voice flew in feverish haste over the words .