CRONIAMANTAL
(In another age, near the Forest of Malverne and a little before the passage of the monks.)
The winds disperse before me, the forests fall away and become a wide track with corpses here and there. The travellers meet with too many corpses for some time, with garrulous corpses.
THE RED-HAIRED MONK
I don't want to work any more, I want to dream and pray.
He sleeps, his face turned to the sky, on the road bordered with willows of the color of mist.
The night had come with the moonlight. Croniamantal saw the monks bent over the nonchalant bodies of their brothers. Then he heard a little plaint, a feeble cry that died in a last sigh. And slowly they passed in Indian file before Croniamantal, who was hidden behind a clump of willows.
THE GLORIDE FOREST
I should love to send this man astray amid the spectres that float among the bubbles. But he flees toward the times that come, and whither he is already arrived.
The banging of distant doors changes into the sound of trains in motion. A large, grassy track, barred by trunks and fenced with enormous joined stones. Life commits suicide. A path that people follow. They never tire. Subways where the air is poisoned. Corpses. Voices call Croniamantal. He runs, he runs, he descends.