“Jean, bring me file 117.... Now then, M. Boscheron, let’s get this
circular done. Take this down: _I draw your special attention, M. le
Préfet, to the following point. An end must be put at the earliest
possible moment to an abuse which, if suffered to continue, would tend
to--tend to--I draw your special attention to the following point, M. le
Préfet. An end must be put as soon as possible to an abuse_. Take that
down, M. Boscheron.”
But M. Boscheron, my secretary, respectfully remarks that I keep on
dictating the same sentence. Jean deferentially places a file on my
table.
“What’s that, Jean?”
“File number 117. You asked me to fetch it, sir.”
“I asked you for file number 117?”
“Yes, sir.”
Jean gives me an anxious glance and retires.
“Where were we, M. Boscheron?”
“An end must be put as soon as possible to an abuse . . . .”
“That’s right... _an abuse which would tend to diminish popular respect
for government servants and to transform_... transform, what a wealth
of hidden things that word conceals. I cannot so much as pronounce it
but a world of ideas and sentiments come thronging pell-mell to invade
the secret recesses of my being.” “I beg pardon, monsieur?” “What did
you say, M. Boscheron?” “Please repeat, monsieur; I didn’t quite follow
you.”
“Really, Monsieur Boscheron? Possibly I was not very clear. Well, well!
we will stop there if you like. Give me what I have dictated, I will
finish it myself.”
[Illustration: 036]
M. Boscheron gives me his notes, gathers up his papers, bows and
retires. Left alone in my office, I fall to examining the wallpaper with
a sort of idiotic minuteness. It has the appearance of green felt with
here and there a yellow stain; I begin to draw little men on my paper;
I make an effort to write; for the fact is my Chief has asked for the
circular three times and has promised the government deputies that it
shall go to the prefects forthwith. I am bound to let him have it. I
begin reading it through: _to diminish popular respect for government
servants and to transform them_. I make a blot; then with my pen I
adorn it with hair. I transform it into a comet. I dream of Marguerite’s
tresses. The other day, in the Champs-Elysées, little filaments of gold,
little delicate spirals stood out from the rest of her graceful tresses,
with a singular brightness. You can see their like in fifteenth century
miniatures, also in some of an earlier date. Dante says in his _Vita
Nuova_: “One day when I was busy drawing angel’s heads . . .” And now
here am I trying to draw angels’ heads on a government circular. Come
now, we must get on with it: _government servants and to transform
them--transform them_ . . . How is it I simply cannot write a single
word after that? How is it I am here dreaming still, as I have been ever
since I rediscovered my _ego_ on the Pont de la Concorde that evening
of the lovely sunset? Transform, did I say? O God of mystery, nature,
truth, if she whose name even now after four years I dare not utter, if
she died in giving life to Marguerite, I should believe, I should know
with the certainty of instinct, that the soul of the mother had passed
into the daughter and that they are one and the same being.
[Illustration: 040]
[Illustration: 042]