Marie pointed out a man who was crossing over, yonder.

"Monsieur Rampaille is rich now, because of the War."

Then it was a woman, dressed in fluttering white and blue, disappearing
round the corner of a house:

"That's Antonia Veron. She's been in the Red Cross service. She's got
a decoration because of the War."

"Ah!" I said, "everything's changed."

Now we are in sight of the house. The distance between the corner of
the street and the house seems to me smaller than it should be. The
court comes to an end suddenly; its shape looks shorter than it is in
reality. In the same way, all the memories of my former life appear
dwindled to me.

The house, the rooms. I have climbed the stairs and come down again,
watched by Marie. I have recognized everything; some things even which
I did not see. There is no one else but us two in the falling night,
as though people had agreed not to show themselves yet to this man who
comes back.

"There--now we're at home," says Marie, at last.

We sit down, facing each other.

"What are we going to do?"

"We're going to live."

"We're going to live."

I ponder. She looks at me stealthily, with that mysterious expression
of anguish which gets over me. I notice the precautions she takes in
watching me. And once it seemed to me that her eyes were red with
crying. I--I think of the hospital life I am leaving, of the gray
street, and the simplicity of things.

* * * * * *

A day has slipped away already. In one day all the time gone by has
reestablished itself. I am become again what I was. Except that I am
not so strong or so calm as before, it is as though nothing had
happened.

But truth is more simple than before.

I inquire of Marie after this one or the other and question her.

Marie says to me:

"You're always saying Why?--like a child."

All the same I do not talk much. Marie is assiduous; obviously she is
afraid of my silence. Once, when I was sitting opposite her and had
said nothing for a long time, she suddenly hid her face in her hands,
and in her turn she asked me, through her sobs:

"Why are you like that?"

I hesitate.

"It seems to me," I say at last, by way of answer, "that I am seeing
things as they are."

"My poor boy!" Marie says, and she goes on crying.

I am touched by this obscure trouble. True, everything is obvious
around me, but as it were laid bare. I have lost the secret which