At the bottom of the orange bay, there lie white houses with red roofs and blazing windows, flaming as if the darkness were not near at hand. And that is the way of my destiny. The last moment of radiance, on the threshold of the eternal night! Jeannine is still silent. André chatters, and I am glad of it, and keep him up to it. I profess an interest in the hairy cactus creeping along the wall. I ask him the names of certain plants, and pretend to get muddled in order to make him laugh. Is it I who am talking and joking, I, who smile? There is another desperate I, coiled up at the centre of my being. A tinkle. The door-bell. André peeps between the branches. "I bet it's Maurice!" I mechanically ask: "Who's Maurice?" "A little neighbour," Jeannine replies. "Yes, that's him all right." The child bounds down the steps and leaves us alone. How awkward! Just the very thing which should have been avoided. I try to fill up the silence with a commonplace remark--Good God! This moment of _tête-à-tête_, for which my whole being longed in desperation in the hours of Death! André's voice makes itself heard. He comes running back. "I say, Jeannine, he wants to know if I may go and play with him." I hardly listen to the reply. Turning away, I contemplate the violet crest of the Estérel, which has just revealed itself in the gloaming so boldly that it might be taken for the outline of a cloud. One would almost say that Jeannine was hesitating. I listen, in spite of myself, for the words that will fall from her lips--I know she will recall her brother. The child is too useful here. But, no; she says nothing. And now the little fellow begins again: "May I, Jeannine? May I?" That colourless voice, changed and dejected. "Very well, run along," Jeannine has said. The boy makes her repeat it: "I may go?" "Yes--yes." His footsteps fly along the gravel. * * * * * A deep chord vibrates within me. A trifling incident, and yet--of infinite import. Jeannine sending her brother away. Jeannine in favour of our being alone together. The sea glitters in the west. Elsewhere it borrows vermilion and wine-coloured reflections from the conflict of sun and shade. I consider Jeannine, her heaving bosom, her quivering eyelashes--and her hand, her adorable child's hand, lying on the rail, hypnotises me. I am dreaming--I no longer recognise myself; with my leg stretched out and relaxed, I dream that I am like others--a man, young and impassioned; and this girl, pale and tender, the promised creature. Then I say: "Our letters--were delightful." Jeannine does not answer, but her hand contracts convulsively. I dare everything. I dare to stretch out towards it my man's hand, big and strong. I seize it, limp and warm. "Do you remember Le Suchet? That sunrise on the Alps." She turns round and looks into my eyes. The dear, tormented face--I would give the world to banish even the shadow of a grief from it. "Michel----"