The snow was falling faster now, in fragile flakes. The wind, which had been raging in the streets before, had disappeared around a corner. On either side of his running feet, carpets of snow lay like scattered flour on the pavement, with a wet, black path running down the middle. Opposite the Urania building he crossed the road without looking right or left, and was almost run over by a tram, whose warning bell he did not hear, and whose driver only managed by a miracle to stop at the last minute. A crowd instantly collected round him. Someone cursed. Without understanding why these people were blocking his way, Gurdweill gazed dumbly around him. A policeman, who popped up in front of him with a little notebook, asked him for his name.

‘It’s not my fault,’ muttered Gurdweill. ‘Really, it’s not my fault … I’m ready to leave …’ His eyes begged the onlookers for help.

‘Your name, please, sir!’ the law repeated sternly.

‘Me? Gurdweill, of course. Rudolf Gurdweill.’

‘And your address?’

After writing everything down in his notebook, he offered him a piece of good advice: ‘You must be careful when you cross the road!’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Gurdweill, as if to himself, and continued on his way.