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The bearded man went to get her scarf and basket. She had left them on a rock a few feet away. He came back shaking the sand out of them, and said, "Don't take my words so seriously. Sometimes I think that if I am able to arouse your curiosity— But please don't be angry."

When he went to get her things, and then again on the way back, he stepped on my garden. Did he do it deliberately, or did he just not happen to notice it? Faustine saw it, I swear that she did, and yet she would not spare me that insult. She smiled and asked questions with a great show of interest; it was almost as if she surrendered her whole being to him, so complete was her curiosity. But I do not like her attitude. The little garden is no doubt in wretched taste. But why should she stand there calmly and let a disgusting man trample on it? Have I not been trampled on enough already?

But then—what can you expect of people like that? They are the sort you find on indecent postcards. How well they go together: a pale bearded man and a buxom gypsy girl with enormous eyes—I even feel I have seen them in the best collections in Caracas.

And still I wonder: what does all this mean? Certainly she is a detestable person. But what is she after? She may be playing with the bearded man and me; but then again he may be a tool that enables her to tease me. She does not care if she makes him suffer. Perhaps Morel only serves to emphasize her complete repudiation of me, to portend the inevitable climax and the disastrous outcome of this repudiation!

But if not— Oh, it has been such a long time now since she has seen me. I think I shall kill her, or go mad, if this continues any longer. I find myself wondering whether the disease-ridden marshes I have been living in have made me invisible. And, if that were the case, it would be an advantage: then I could seduce Faustine without any danger—

Yesterday I did not visit the rocks. I told myself over and over again that I would not go today either. But by the middle of the afternoon I knew that I had to go. Faustine was not there, and now I am wondering when she will come back. I suppose that her trampling of my garden has brought her fun with me to an end. Now I will bore her like a joke that was amusing once but does not bear repeating. And I will see to it that it is not repeated!

But, as I sat on the rocks waiting, I was miserable. "It's all my fault," I said to myself (that Faustine did not come), "because I was so sure I was not coming!"

I climbed the hill, hoping for a glimpse of her. I came out

from behind a clump of bushes, and found myself facing two men and a woman. I stood still, I did not dare to breathe; there was nothing separating us but twenty feet of empty, crepuscular space. The men had their backs to me, but the woman faced them, and she was looking right at me. I saw her shudder. She turned quickly and looked toward the museum. I crouched down behind some bushy plants. I heard her say, "This is not the proper time for ghost stories. We'd better go in now!"

I still do not know whether they were actually telling such stories, or if she mentioned ghosts only to announce a strange occurrence (my presence).

They went away. I saw a man and woman strolling by, not far away. I was afraid they would see me. As they approached, I heard a familiar voice say, "Today I didn't go to see—" (I began to tremble violently. I was sure that she was talking about me.)

"And are you sorry?"

I did not hear Faustine's answer. I noticed that the bearded man had made some progress, because they were using the intimate form of address.

I have come back to the lowlands. I have decided to stay here until the sea carries me away. If the intruders come to get me, I shall not surrender; I shall not try to escape.

My plan not to let Faustine see me again lasted for four days (and was helped by two tides that gave me a lot of work to do).

The fifth day I went to the rocks early. Then I saw Faustine and that damned tennis player. They spoke French