A trifling incident, and yet—of infinite import. Jeannine sending her brother away. Jeannine in favour of our being alone together.
The sea glitters in the west. Elsewhere it borrows vermilion and wine-coloured reflections from the conflict of sun and shade.
I consider Jeannine, her heaving bosom, her quivering eyelashes—and her hand, her adorable child's hand, lying on the rail, hypnotises me.
I am dreaming—I no longer recognise myself; with my leg stretched out and relaxed, I dream that I am like others—a man, young and impassioned; and this girl, pale and tender, the promised creature.
Then I say:
"Our letters—were delightful."
Jeannine does not answer, but her hand contracts convulsively. I dare everything. I dare to stretch out towards it my man's hand, big and strong. I seize it, limp and warm.
"Do you remember Le Suchet? That sunrise on the Alps."