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"So you no longer trust me?"

"No."

"But you used to have faith in me—"

There was a coolness between them now. I was reminded of persons who slip back into their old habits of formal speech soon after beginning to speak with intimacy. Their conversation might have made me think of that. But I thought about the idea of a return to the past in a different sense also.

"Would you believe me if I said I could take you back to a time before that afternoon in Vincennes?"

"No, I could never believe you again. Never."

"The influence of the future on the past," said Morel enthusiastically, almost inaudibly.

They stood together, looking at the sea. The man seemed to be trying to break an oppressive tension between them.

"Please believe me, Faustine—"

I remember thinking what a stubborn person he was. He was repeating the same demands I had heard him make the week before.

"No— Now I know what you really want—"

Conversations are subject to repetition, although one cannot explain this phenomenon. I would not have the reader attribute that statement to any bitterness on my part, nor to the very facile association of the words "fugitive," "recluse," "misanthrope." But I gave the matter some study before my trial—conversations are an exchange of news (example: meteorological), of joy or irritation already known or shared by the participants (example: intellectual). But all conversations spring from the pleasure of speaking, from the desire to express agreement and disagreement.

Watching Morel and Faustine, listening to them, I felt that something strange was happening; I did not know what it was. All I knew was that Morel infuriated me.

"If I told you what I really wanted—"

"Would I take offense?"

"No, I think it would help us to understand each other better. We have only a short time left. Three days. What a pity that we cannot come to an understanding!"

I began to realize that the words and movements of Faustine and the bearded man coincided with those of a week ago. The atrocious eternal return. But today one element was missing. My little garden, mutilated by Morel's footsteps, is a mud- hole now, with parts of dead flowers crushed into the ground.

I felt elated. I thought I had made this discovery: that there are unexpected, constant repetitions in our behavior. The right combination of circumstances had enabled me to observe them. One seldom has the chance to be a clandestine witness of several talks between the same people. But scenes are repeated in life, just as they are in the theatre.

After hearing Faustine and Morel speak, I turned back to the page (in my diary) where I reported their previous conversation, and I was able to verify that their words and actions were, essentially, the same (the few minor lapses I noticed were due to my own inaccuracy in reporting).

And then I began to suspect angrily that they were merely putting on a comic performance as a joke at my expense.

But let me explain. I never doubted for a minute the importance of trying to make Faustine realize that she and I were all that mattered (and that the bearded man had no place in our plans). I had begun to feel the desire to castigate him in some way—I played with the idea without acting upon it—to insult him by making him look ridiculous to her.

Now I had the chance. But how could I take advantage of it? I found it hard to think because of my anger.

I stood still, pretending to be lost in thought, waiting for the moment when I would be face to face with him. The bearded man went to get Faustine's scarf and basket. He came back shaking the sand out of them, saying (as he had said before): "Don't take my words so seriously. Sometimes I think—"

He was only a few feet away from Faustine. I was not sure what I was going to do. Spontaneity is the mother of crudity. I pointed at the bearded man, as if I were introducing

him to Faustine, and shouted, "La femme a barbe, Madame Faustine!"

It was a very bad joke,- in fact, it was not even clear whether I was speaking to her or to him.