Light, I was wearing a dress and hat that would have made Emilienne d'Alençon green with envy, and thinking about the aimlessness and superficiality of my existence. Wasn't it true that Goodness, Justice, Contentment, Freedom, and Progress called for far more effort and vision than were mine to give? Musing thus, I began to make up my face. I used Mme de Bel-Respiro's cosmetics: kohl, and an Oriental type of henna which, so they say, gives the courtesans their fresh and velvety skin. Professional zeal carried me to the point of dotting my face with beauty marks, heart-, moon-, or comet-shaped. Then, to while away the time, I waited till dawn for the apocalypse.
Five in the afternoon. Sunlight, vast curtains of silence descending on the square. I thought I saw a shadow at the only window where the shutters were not drawn. Who's still living at No. 3 bis ? I ring the bell. Someone's coming down the stairs. The door opens a crack. An old woman. She asks me what I want. To walk through the house. She snaps back that this is out of the question, since the owners are away. Then shuts the door. Now she's watching me, her face hard against the windowpane.
Avenue Henri-Martin. The first paths entering the Bois de Boulogne. Let's go as far as the Lower Lake. I often went over to that island with Coco Lacour and Esmeralda. Ever since then I pursued my ideal: examining from afar – the farthest possible – people, their ceaseless activity, their pitiless scheming. The island seemed a suitable place, with its lawns and its Chinese pavilion. A little farther on. The Pré Catelan. We came there the night I denounced the whole ring. The orchestra was playing a Creole waltz. The elderly gentleman and the elderly lady at the table next to ours … Esmeralda was sipping a grenadine, Coco Lacour was smoking his cigar… Soon the Khedive and Philibert would be badgering me with questions. A chain of figures dancing round me, faster and faster, clamoring louder and louder, and I'll finally give in so they'll let me alone. Meanwhile, I didn't waste those precious moments of respite. He was smiling. She was blowing bubbles through her straw … I see them as dark silhouettes against the light. Time has passed. If I didn't record their names, Coco Lacour, Esmeralda, there'd be no trace of their presence on earth.
A little beyond, to the west, La Grande Cascade restaurant. We never went that far: there were guards on the Pont de Suresnes. It must be a bad dream.
Everything is so still now all along the path bordering the water. Someone on a barge waved to me … I remember feeling sad when we came exploring this far. Impossible to cross the Seine. We had to come back into the Bois. I realized that a hunting party was on our track and they'd finally drive us into the open. The trains weren't running. Too bad. I would have liked to get them off my back once and for all. Reach Lausanne, in a neutral country. Coco Lacour, Esmeralda, and I are strolling along the Lake of Geneva shore. There in Lausanne, all our fears are gone. It's the end of a lovely summer afternoon, like today. Boulevard de la Seine. Avenue de Neuilly. Porte Maillot. After leaving the Bois we sometimes stopped at Luna Park. Coco Lacour liked the ball-throwing stands and the gallery of distorting mirrors. We got into the "Sirocco" caterpillar that whirled faster and faster. Laughter, music. A platform with an inscription in luminous letters: " ASSASSINATION OF THE PRINCESS DE LAMBALLE . " You could see a reclining woman. Above the bed, a red target at which the would-be marksmen were aiming their revolvers. Each time they hit the bull's-eye, the bed teetered and out fell the shrieking woman. Other bloody attractions. We weren't old enough for those things and became frightened, like three children abandoned at the height of some lunatic affair. What's left of all this frenzy, tumult, and violence? A wasteland adjoining the Boulevard Gouvion-Saint-Cyr. I know the district. I used to
Five in the afternoon. Sunlight, vast curtains of silence descending on the square. I thought I saw a shadow at the only window where the shutters were not drawn. Who's still living at No. 3 bis ? I ring the bell. Someone's coming down the stairs. The door opens a crack. An old woman. She asks me what I want. To walk through the house. She snaps back that this is out of the question, since the owners are away. Then shuts the door. Now she's watching me, her face hard against the windowpane.
Avenue Henri-Martin. The first paths entering the Bois de Boulogne. Let's go as far as the Lower Lake. I often went over to that island with Coco Lacour and Esmeralda. Ever since then I pursued my ideal: examining from afar – the farthest possible – people, their ceaseless activity, their pitiless scheming. The island seemed a suitable place, with its lawns and its Chinese pavilion. A little farther on. The Pré Catelan. We came there the night I denounced the whole ring. The orchestra was playing a Creole waltz. The elderly gentleman and the elderly lady at the table next to ours … Esmeralda was sipping a grenadine, Coco Lacour was smoking his cigar… Soon the Khedive and Philibert would be badgering me with questions. A chain of figures dancing round me, faster and faster, clamoring louder and louder, and I'll finally give in so they'll let me alone. Meanwhile, I didn't waste those precious moments of respite. He was smiling. She was blowing bubbles through her straw … I see them as dark silhouettes against the light. Time has passed. If I didn't record their names, Coco Lacour, Esmeralda, there'd be no trace of their presence on earth.
A little beyond, to the west, La Grande Cascade restaurant. We never went that far: there were guards on the Pont de Suresnes. It must be a bad dream.
Everything is so still now all along the path bordering the water. Someone on a barge waved to me … I remember feeling sad when we came exploring this far. Impossible to cross the Seine. We had to come back into the Bois. I realized that a hunting party was on our track and they'd finally drive us into the open. The trains weren't running. Too bad. I would have liked to get them off my back once and for all. Reach Lausanne, in a neutral country. Coco Lacour, Esmeralda, and I are strolling along the Lake of Geneva shore. There in Lausanne, all our fears are gone. It's the end of a lovely summer afternoon, like today. Boulevard de la Seine. Avenue de Neuilly. Porte Maillot. After leaving the Bois we sometimes stopped at Luna Park. Coco Lacour liked the ball-throwing stands and the gallery of distorting mirrors. We got into the "Sirocco" caterpillar that whirled faster and faster. Laughter, music. A platform with an inscription in luminous letters: " ASSASSINATION OF THE PRINCESS DE LAMBALLE . " You could see a reclining woman. Above the bed, a red target at which the would-be marksmen were aiming their revolvers. Each time they hit the bull's-eye, the bed teetered and out fell the shrieking woman. Other bloody attractions. We weren't old enough for those things and became frightened, like three children abandoned at the height of some lunatic affair. What's left of all this frenzy, tumult, and violence? A wasteland adjoining the Boulevard Gouvion-Saint-Cyr. I know the district. I used to
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