I am sitting in the retreat of the little chimney-piece hidden from their eyes, and I should like to ask their forgiveness for not knowing their fervid song and not being in harmony with them. I should like to ask pardon of all of them for everything.
I should like to ... I should like to....
Breathes there a human being on earth who has nothing to forgive, whom one has nothing to forgive?...
To be with him, his equal, close to him, face to face with him, and alone with one.
VI
The two Loiseaus and I were sitting in their dining-room, a narrow rectangle with waxed floor and small straw mats here and there exactly like a convent parlor.
The evening—a dark evening out of doors—encompassed the walls with mystery. The darker it grew the less we felt like getting up and lighting the lamp. Why bother after all? There was a whole grate full of flames. They leaped and emitted a lively red crackling, shot forth luminous circles, hung high in the hearth, dancing tongues of fire, orange-colored mountain crests, aigrettes of blue light, grimaces of demons ... whirlpools ... fairyland ... crash and collapse ... foolery....
All of us felt drowsy, each imprisoned in his own silence. The shadows quivered gently above our shoulders. The silence, a trifle stagnant emanating from the three of us, seemed to be compressed up under the toned-down white of the ceiling.
I was curled up in front of the hearth, my eyes at the mercy of the glowing surge, my chin thrust forward. A languid sense of well-being spread all around, played over the hollow of your arms, and padded the nape of your neck: you thought of nothing.
The two Loiseaus are people who know how to be silent; you spend Friday evening with them, and everything—except themselves—tells you that they are pleased with the presence that makes three silhouettes dance in the room.