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Finally I saw the old…fashioned vehicle e round the corner and heard its tinny rattle。 Like those who had gone before me； I squeezed in between a sleepy customs guard and a few glum government clerks。 The bus smelled musty； smelled of the dust of government offices into which the life of a man sinks as into a quicksand。 It stopped every five hundred yards to take on another scrivener； another guard； another inspector。
Those in the bus who had already gone back to sleep responded with a vague grunt to the greeting of the newer； while he crowded in as well as he was able and instantly fell asleep himself。 We jolted mournfully over the uneven pavements of Toulouse； I in the midst of these men who in the rain and the breaking day were about to take up again their dreary diurnal tasks； their red tape； their monotonous lives。
Morning after morning； greeted by the growl of the customs guard shaken out of sleep by his arrival； by the gruff irritability of clerk or inspector； one mail pilot or another got into this bus and was for the moment indistinguishable from these bureaucrats。 But as the street lamps moved by； as the field drew nearer and nearer； the old omnibus rattling along lost little by little its reality and became a grey chrysalis from which one emerged transfigured。
Morning after morning a flyer sat here and felt of a sudden； somewhere inside the vulnerable man subjected to his neighbor's surliness； the stirring of the pilot of the Spanish and African mails； the birth of him who； three hours later； was to confront in the lightnings the dragon of the mountains； and who； four hours afterwards； having vanquished it； would be free to decide between a detour over the sea and a direct assault upon the Alcoy range； would be free to deal with storm； with mountain； with ocean。
And thus every morning each pilot before me； in his time； had been lost in the anonymity of daybreak beneath the dismal winter sky of Toulouse； and each one； transfigured by this old omnibus； had felt the birth within him of the sovereign who； five hours later； leaving behind him the rains and snows of the North； repudiating winter； had throttled down his motor and begun to drift earthward in the summer air beneath the shining sun of Alicante。
The old omnibus has vanished； but its austerity； its disfort； still live in my memory。 It was a proper symbol of the apprenticeship we had to serve before we might possess the stern joys of our craft。 Everything about it was intensely serious。 I remember three years later； though hardly ten words were spoken； learning in that bus of the death of Lecrivain； one of those hundred pilots who on a day or a night of fog have retired for eternity。
It was four in the morning； and the same silence was abroad when we heard the field manager； invisible in the darkness； address the inspector：
〃Lecrivain didn't land at Casablanca last night。〃
〃Ah！〃 said the inspector。 〃Ah？〃
Torn from his dream he made an effort to wake up； to display his zeal； and added：
〃Is that so？ Couldn't he get through？ Did he e back？〃
And in the dead darkness of the omnibus the answer came： 〃No。〃
We waited to hear the rest； but no word sounded。 And as the seconds fell it became more and more evident that that 〃no〃。 would be followed by no further word； was eternal and without appeal； that L6crivain not only had not landed at Casablanca but would never again land anywhere。
And so； at daybreak on the morning of my first flight with the mails； I went through the sacred rites of the craft； and I felt the self…confidence oozing out of me as I stared through the windows at the macadam shining and reflecting back the street lights。 Over the pools of water I could see great palms of wind running。 And I thought： 〃My first flight with the mails！ Really； this is not my lucky day。〃
I raised my eyes and looked at the inspector。 〃Would you call this bad weather ？〃 I asked。
He threw a weary glance out of the window。 〃Doesn't prove anything；〃 he growled finally。
And I wondered how one could tell bad weather。 The night before； with a single smile Guillaumet had wiped out all the evil omens with which the veterans overwhelmed us； but they came back into my memory。 〃I feel sorry for the man who doesn't know the whole line pebble by pebble； if he runs into a snow…storm。 Oh； yes； I pity the fellow。〃 Our elders； who had their prestige to think of； had all bobbed their heads solemnly and looked at us with embarrassing sympathy； as if they were pitying a flock of condemned sheep。
For how many of us had this old omnibus served as refuge in its day？ Sixty？ Eighty？ I looked about me。 Luminous points glowed in the darkness。 Cigarettes punctuated the humble meditations of worn old clerks。 How many of us had they escorted through the rain on a journey from which there was no ing back？
I heard them talking to one another in murmurs and whispers。 They talked about illness； money； shabby domestic cares。 Their talk painted the walls of the dismal prison in which these men had locked themselves up。 And suddenly I had a vision of the face of destiny。
Old bureaucrat； my rade； it is not you who are to blame。 No one ever helped you to escape。 You； like a termite； built your peace by blocking up with cement every chink and cranny through which the light might pierce。 You rolled yourself up into a ball in your genteel security； in routine； in the stifling conventions of provincial life； raising a modest rampart against the winds and the tides and the stars。 You have chosen not to be perturbed by great problems； having trouble enough to forget your own fate as man。 You are not the dweller upon an errant planet and do not ask yourself questions to which there are no answers。 You are a petty bourgeois of Toulouse。 Nobody grasped you by the shoulder while there was still time。 Now the clay of which you were shaped has dried and hardened； and naught in you will ever awaken the sleeping musician； the poet； the astronomer that possibly inhabited you in the beginning。
The squall has ceased to be a cause of my plaint。 The magic of the craft has opened for me a world in which I shall con