"What a lot of things we have hidden away, little by little, in spite of ourselves! How strong people must be to forget so much!"
She was beginning to catch a glimpse of a bottomless abyss, and to despair. Suddenly she broke in:
"That's enough! We can't read them again. We can't understand what's written. That's enough—don't take my illusion away."
She spoke like the poor madwoman of the streets, and added in a whisper:
"This morning, when I opened that box where the letters were shut up, some little flies flew out."
We stop reading the letters a moment, and look at them. The ashes of life! All that we can remember is almost nothing. Memory is greater than we are, but memory is living and mortal as well. These letters, these unintelligible flowers, these bits of lace and of paper, what are they? Around these flimsy things what is there left? We are handling the casket together. Thus we are completely attached in the hollow of our hands.
* * * * * *
And yet we went on reading.
But something strange is growing gradually greater; it grasps us, it surprises us hopelessly—every letter speaks of the future.
In vain Marie said to me: