several times on the jetty, and on those days the
thought of Juliette was less oppressive. I wandered
in the neighborhood of the chateau which looked to
me as desolate as the Priory. Grass was sprouting in
the courtyard, the lawns were not well kept, the
alleys of the park were broken up by the heavy carts
of nearby farmers. The grey stone facade, turned
green by rain, was as gloomy as the large granite
rocks that one saw on the waste land. . . . The following Sunday I went to mass, and I saw demoiselle
Landudec praying among the peasants and fishermen.
Kneeling on her prayer stool, her slim body bent like
a primitive virgin, her head over a book, she prayed
with fervor. Who knows? Perhaps she understood
that I was unhappy and mentioned my name in her
prayers? And while the priest was chanting his orison in a tremulous voice, while the nave of the church
was being filled with the noise of wooden shoes beating against the slabs and with the whisper of lips
in prayer, while the incense in the censer rose to the
ceiling together with the shrill voices of the children
in the choir, while the young lady prayed as Juliette
would have done had she prayed at all, I was dreaming. . . . I was in the park, and the young lady approached, bathed in moonlight. She took my hand, and we walked on the lawns and in the shadow of
rustling trees.
"Jean," she said to me, "y u are suffering and I have come to you. I have asked God if I could love you. God permits. I love you!"
"You are too beautiful, too pure, too holy to love me! You must not love me!"
"I love you! Put your arm in mine, rest your head on my shoulder and let us walk together, always!"
"No, no! Is it possible for the lark to love the owl? Is it possible for the dove that flies in heaven to
