Dream, memory, awakening! These are vain words, and faded, which I used before this day.
I wish now for new words to describe what I had never before felt.
Not only does it seem to me impossible to use the words of other days to describe my feelings of to-day, it seems to me a blasphemy, a profanation.
Am I not the dupe of a delusion? Is it I, my own self, who is writing this at the Grove, in the chalet?
Yes, yes, it is my own self. I am looking at the clock which points to the hour of five. I see the lake reflecting the rays of the sun. I hear the trees rustling in the breeze. I scent the fragrance of the flowers, and in the distance I see her dwelling,—hers.
It is not, then, a dream?
Let me see, let me gather my thoughts, let me go back step by step to the source of that torrent of happiness which intoxicates me.
What day is this? I know not. Ah, yes, it is Sunday. She went to mass this morning, and there she wept, she wept abundantly.
Blessed be those precious tears!
But when did we receive those papers? Ah, here they are,—it was the day before yesterday.