exiles? Are they dancing--grotesque spectres--a fantastic
minuet in the moonlight, amid the cypresses of a cemetery, along the
pathways bordered by graves?

Their memory haunts me, obsesses me, torments me, remains with me like a
wound. Why? I do not know.

No doubt you think that very absurd?




THE SON

The two old friends were walking in the garden in bloom, where spring was
bringing everything to life.

One was a senator, the other a member of the French Academy, both serious
men, full of very logical but solemn arguments, men of note and
reputation.

They talked first of politics, exchanging opinions; not on ideas, but on
men, personalities in this regard taking the predominance over ability.
Then they recalled some memories. Then they walked along in silence,
enervated by the warmth of the air.

A large bed of wallflowers breathed out a delicate sweetness. A mass of
flowers of all species and color flung their fragrance to the breeze,
while a cytisus covered with yellow clusters scattered its fine pollen
abroad, a golden cloud, with an odor of honey that bore its balmy seed