the blind!’
She laughed and squeezed his arm to show him she was only teasing.
‘Dreams are so much more beautiful than the stuff they call reality,’ she went on. ‘Imagine a profusion of interweaving colours which penetrate right into you, filling you so completelythat you become like one of those insects which make themselves indistinguishable from the leaf they’re resting on… Every night I dream of… of the other country.’
‘You too!’
Pressed close together, they skirted the Place de la Concorde, not looking at anybody. Flavières hardly knew in what direction his feet were taking him. He was lost in the sweetness of this intimacy, though another part of him was alert and watchful, never losing sight of the problem.
‘When I was a boy I was obsessed myself by that unknown world. If we had a map here I could show you the exact spot where it begins.’
‘That’s not the same one.’
‘Oh yes, it is. My end of it is dark, yours full of colour, but they join. It’s the same world.’
‘That’s when you were a boy. You don’t believe in it any longer, do you?’
Flavières hesitated. But she looked at him so trustfully, and she seemed to attach so much importance to his answer, that he couldn’t help saying:
‘Yes, I do… Particularly since I’ve known you.’
They walked on for a little way in silence—walking in step seemed to make them think in concert. They crossed the immense forecourt of the Louvre and went up some narrow steps and through a dark entrance. Soon they were sauntering among Egyptian gods in the coolness of a cathedral.
‘With me, it’s not a question of belief,’ she began again. ‘I know… That world is just as real as this one. Only, one mustn’t say so.’
The statues, their feet one behind the other, looked at themwith their great blank eyes. Here and there were sarcophagi gleaming like cellophane, blocks of stone covered with indecipherable inscriptions, and, in the solemn depth of the vast rooms, grimacing faces, heads of animals scratched and worn down by the ages, a whole fauna of monstrous, petrified forms.
‘I’ve already walked through these rooms on the arm of a man,’ she murmured. ‘That was long ago, very long ago… He was like you, only he had sidewhiskers.’
‘That’s an illusion, no doubt. It’s a well-known one, the “seen-it-before” illusion, and quite common.’
‘I don’t think it is. I could give you details with startling precision. For instance, I often see a little town whose name I couldn’t give you—I don’t even know whether it is in France—and in my reveries I walk through it as if I had always lived there… A river runs through the middle of it… On the right bank there’s a Gallo-Roman triumphal arch, and if you go up an avenue of huge plane-trees you see an amphitheatre on your left, some vaults and crumbling steps. Behind the amphitheatre, I can see three poplar trees and a herd of sheep…’
‘But… but I know that town,’ cried Flavières. ‘It’s Saintes and the river’s the Charente.’
‘Maybe.’
‘But they’ve cleared the ground round the amphitheatre. You wouldn’t see any poplars now.’
‘There used to be some… in my time… And the little fountain—is that still there?… Girls used to throw pins into the water wishing they’d be married within the year.’
‘The fountain of St. Estelle!’
‘And the church, behind the amphitheatre… a tall church, with a very old tower… I’ve always loved old churches.’
‘St. Eutrope!’
‘You see!’
They made their way slowly past enigmatic objects in a state of ruin, round which floated an odour of wax. Sometimes they met other visitors, attentive, learned, reverentially contemplating the exhibits; but these two had no thoughts for anyone but themselves.
‘What did you say it was called?’ asked Madeleine.
‘The town? Saintes. It’s not far from Royan.’
‘I must have lived there once upon a time.’
‘When
She laughed and squeezed his arm to show him she was only teasing.
‘Dreams are so much more beautiful than the stuff they call reality,’ she went on. ‘Imagine a profusion of interweaving colours which penetrate right into you, filling you so completelythat you become like one of those insects which make themselves indistinguishable from the leaf they’re resting on… Every night I dream of… of the other country.’
‘You too!’
Pressed close together, they skirted the Place de la Concorde, not looking at anybody. Flavières hardly knew in what direction his feet were taking him. He was lost in the sweetness of this intimacy, though another part of him was alert and watchful, never losing sight of the problem.
‘When I was a boy I was obsessed myself by that unknown world. If we had a map here I could show you the exact spot where it begins.’
‘That’s not the same one.’
‘Oh yes, it is. My end of it is dark, yours full of colour, but they join. It’s the same world.’
‘That’s when you were a boy. You don’t believe in it any longer, do you?’
Flavières hesitated. But she looked at him so trustfully, and she seemed to attach so much importance to his answer, that he couldn’t help saying:
‘Yes, I do… Particularly since I’ve known you.’
They walked on for a little way in silence—walking in step seemed to make them think in concert. They crossed the immense forecourt of the Louvre and went up some narrow steps and through a dark entrance. Soon they were sauntering among Egyptian gods in the coolness of a cathedral.
‘With me, it’s not a question of belief,’ she began again. ‘I know… That world is just as real as this one. Only, one mustn’t say so.’
The statues, their feet one behind the other, looked at themwith their great blank eyes. Here and there were sarcophagi gleaming like cellophane, blocks of stone covered with indecipherable inscriptions, and, in the solemn depth of the vast rooms, grimacing faces, heads of animals scratched and worn down by the ages, a whole fauna of monstrous, petrified forms.
‘I’ve already walked through these rooms on the arm of a man,’ she murmured. ‘That was long ago, very long ago… He was like you, only he had sidewhiskers.’
‘That’s an illusion, no doubt. It’s a well-known one, the “seen-it-before” illusion, and quite common.’
‘I don’t think it is. I could give you details with startling precision. For instance, I often see a little town whose name I couldn’t give you—I don’t even know whether it is in France—and in my reveries I walk through it as if I had always lived there… A river runs through the middle of it… On the right bank there’s a Gallo-Roman triumphal arch, and if you go up an avenue of huge plane-trees you see an amphitheatre on your left, some vaults and crumbling steps. Behind the amphitheatre, I can see three poplar trees and a herd of sheep…’
‘But… but I know that town,’ cried Flavières. ‘It’s Saintes and the river’s the Charente.’
‘Maybe.’
‘But they’ve cleared the ground round the amphitheatre. You wouldn’t see any poplars now.’
‘There used to be some… in my time… And the little fountain—is that still there?… Girls used to throw pins into the water wishing they’d be married within the year.’
‘The fountain of St. Estelle!’
‘And the church, behind the amphitheatre… a tall church, with a very old tower… I’ve always loved old churches.’
‘St. Eutrope!’
‘You see!’
They made their way slowly past enigmatic objects in a state of ruin, round which floated an odour of wax. Sometimes they met other visitors, attentive, learned, reverentially contemplating the exhibits; but these two had no thoughts for anyone but themselves.
‘What did you say it was called?’ asked Madeleine.
‘The town? Saintes. It’s not far from Royan.’
‘I must have lived there once upon a time.’
‘When
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