‘Tell the driver the address,’ I whispered.
The driver, with head turned and a grin on his face, was waiting.
‘Rue de Douai,’ said Diaz sullenly.
‘What number?’ the driver asked.
‘Does that regard you?’ Diaz retorted crossly in French. ‘I will tell you later.’
‘Tell him now,’ I pleaded.
‘Well, to oblige you, I will. Twenty-seven. But what I can’t stand is the impudence of these fellows.’
The driver winked at me.
‘Just so,’ I soothed Diaz, and we drove off.
I have never been happier than in unhappiness. Happiness is not joy, and it is not tranquillity. It is something deeper and something more disturbing. Perhaps it is an acute sense of life, a realization of one’s secret being, a continual renewal of the mysterious savour of existence. As I crossed Paris with the drunken Diaz leaning clumsily against my shoulder, I was profoundly unhappy. I was desolated by the sight of this ruin, and yet I was happier than I had been since Frank died. I had glimpses and intimations of the baffling essence of our human lives here, strange, fleeting comprehensions of the eternal wonder and the eternal beauty.... In vain, professional writer as I am, do I try to express myself. What I want to say cannot be said; but those who have truly lived will understand.