If death were merely the annihilation of the flesh it
had been foolish of me to harbor so much dread. I experienced a selfish
kind of restfulness in which all my cares were forgotten. My memory had
become extraordinarily vivid. My whole life passed before me rapidly
like a play in which I no longer acted a part; it was a curious and
enjoyable sensation--I seemed to hear a far-off voice relating my own
history.
I saw in particular a certain spot in the country near Guerande, on the
way to Piriac. The road turns sharply, and some scattered pine trees
carelessly dot a rocky slope. When I was seven years old I used to pass
through those pines with my father as far as a crumbling old house,
where Marguerite's parents gave me pancakes. They were salt gatherers
and earned a scanty livelihood by working the adjacent salt marshes.
Then I remembered the school at Nantes, where I had grown up, leading
a monotonous life within its ancient walls and yearning for the broad
horizon of Guerande and the salt marshes stretching to the limitless sea
widening under the sky.
Next came a blank--my father was dead. I entered the hospital as clerk
to the managing board and led a dreary life with one solitary diversion:
my Sunday visits to the old house on Piriac road.
Pages:
857
858
859
860
861
862
863
864
865
866
867
868
869
870
871
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881