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But
for
de
Deukans
it
was
simply
a
collectable
,
and
the
religious
or
indeed
human
blasphemy
it
represented
had
no
significance
for
him
.
This
is
true
of
all
collecting
.
It
extinguishes
the
moral
instinct
.
The
object
finally
possesses
the
possessor
.
"
We
never
discussed
religion
or
politics
.
He
went
to
mass
.
But
only
,
I
think
,
because
the
observance
of
ritual
is
a
form
of
the
cultivation
of
beauty
.
In
some
ways
,
perhaps
because
of
the
wealth
that
had
always
surrounded
him
,
he
was
an
extremely
innocent
man
.
Self
-
denial
was
incomprehensible
to
him
,
unless
it
formed
part
of
some
aesthetic
regimen
.
I
stood
with
him
once
and
watched
a
line
of
peasants
laboring
a
turnip
field
.
A
Millet
brought
to
life
.
And
his
only
remark
was
:
It
is
beautiful
that
they
are
they
and
that
we
are
we
.
For
him
even
the
most
painful
social
confrontations
and
contrasts
,
which
would
have
stabbed
the
conscience
of
even
the
vulgarest
nouveau
riche
,
were
stingless
.
Without
significance
except
as
vignettes
,
as
interesting
discords
,
as
pleasurable
because
vivid
examples
of
the
algedonic
polarity
of
existence
.
"
Altruistic
behavior
—
what
he
termed
le
diable
en
puritain
—
upset
him
deeply
.
For
instance
,
since
the
age
of
eighteen
I
have
refused
to
eat
wild
birds
in
any
form
at
table
.
I
would
as
soon
eat
human
flesh
as
I
would
an
ortolan
,
or
a
wild
duck
.
This
to
de
Deukans
was
distressing
,
like
a
false
note
in
a
music
manuscript
.
He
could
not
believe
things
had
been
written
thus
.
And
yet
there
I
was
,
in
black
and
white
,
refusing
his
pâté
d
’
alouettes
and
his
truffled
woodcock
.
"
But
not
all
his
life
was
to
do
with
the
dead
.
He
had
an
observatory
on
the
roof
of
his
château
,
and
a
well
-
equipped
biological
laboratory
.
He
never
walked
out
in
the
park
without
carrying
a
small
étui
of
test
tubes
.
To
catch
spiders
.
I
had
known
him
over
a
year
before
I
discovered
that
this
was
more
than
another
eccentricity
.
That
he
was
in
fact
one
of
the
most
learned
arachnologists
of
his
day
.
There
is
even
a
species
named
after
him
:
Theridion
deukansii
.
He
was
delighted
that
I
also
knew
something
of
ornithology
.
And
he
encouraged
me
to
specialize
in
what
he
jokingly
called
ornithosemantics
—
the
meaning
of
birdsound
.
"
He
was
the
most
abnormal
man
I
had
ever
met
.
And
the
politest
.
And
the
most
distant
.
And
certainly
the
most
socially
irresponsible
.
I
was
twenty
-
five
—
your
age
,
Nicholas
,
which
will
perhaps
tell
you
more
than
anything
I
can
say
how
unable
I
was
to
judge
him
.
It
is
,
I
think
,
the
most
difficult
and
irritating
age
of
all
.
Both
to
be
and
to
behold
.
One
has
the
intelligence
,
one
is
in
all
ways
treated
as
a
grown
man
.
But
certain
persons
reduce
one
to
adolescence
,
because
only
experience
can
understand
and
assimilate
them
.
In
fact
de
Deukans
,
by
being
as
he
was
—
certainly
not
by
arguing
—
raised
profound
doubts
in
my
philosophy
.
Doubts
he
was
later
to
crystallize
for
me
,
as
I
will
tell
you
,
in
five
simple
words
.
"
I
saw
the
faults
in
his
way
of
life
and
at
the
same
time
found
myself
enchanted
.
That
is
,
unable
to
act
rationally
.
I
have
forgotten
to
tell
you
that
he
had
manuscript
after
manuscript
of
unpublished
music
of
the
seventeenth
and
eighteenth
centuries
.
A
paradise
.
To
sit
at
one
of
the
magnificent
old
harpsichords
in
his
musicarium
—
a
long
rococo
gallery
in
faded
gold
and
pomona
green
,
always
in
sunlight
,
as
tranquil
as
an
orchard
…
such
experiences
,
such
happiness
,
always
gives
rise
to
the
same
problem
:
of
the
nature
of
evil
.
Why
should
such
complete
pleasure
be
evil
?
Why
did
I
believe
that
de
Deukans
was
evil
?
You
will
say
,
Because
children
were
starving
while
you
played
in
your
sunlight
.
But
are
we
never
to
have
palaces
,
never
to
have
refined
tastes
,
complex
pleasures
,
never
to
let
the
imagination
fulfill
itself
?
Even
a
Marxist
world
must
have
some
destination
,
must
develop
into
some
higher
state
,
which
can
only
mean
a
higher
pleasure
and
richer
happiness
for
the
human
beings
in
it
.
"
And
so
I
began
to
comprehend
the
selfishness
of
this
solitary
man
.
More
and
more
I
came
to
see
that
his
blindness
was
a
pose
and
yet
his
pose
was
an
innocence
.
That
he
was
a
man
from
a
perfect
world
lost
in
a
very
imperfect
one
.
And
determined
,
with
a
monomania
as
tragic
,
if
not
quite
so
ludicrous
,
as
Don
Quixote
’
s
,
to
maintain
his
perfection
.
But
then
one
day
—
"
Conchis
never
finished
his
sentence
.
With
an
electrifying
suddenness
a
horn
clamored
out
of
the
darkness
to
the
east
.
I
thought
immediately
of
an
English
hunting
horn
,
but
it
was
bronzier
,
harsher
,
more
archaic
.
Lily
’
s
previously
wafting
fan
was
frozen
,
her
eyes
on
Conchis
.
He
was
staring
out
to
sea
,
as
if
the
sound
had
turned
him
to
stone
.
As
I
watched
,
his
eyes
closed
,
almost
as
if
he
was
silently
praying
.
But
prayer
was
totally
foreign
to
his
face
.
The
horn
broke
the
tense
night
again
.
Three
notes
,
the
middle
the
highest
.
The
player
was
in
the
trees
,
somewhere
near
the
place
where
I
had
seen
Foulkes
.
I
said
to
Lily
,
"
What
is
it
?
"
She
held
my
eyes
for
a
moment
,
and
strangely
.
I
had
an
odd
feeling
that
she
thought
I
knew
.
But
then
she
raised
her
closed
fan
to
her
lips
and
looked
down
.
The
lamplight
,
the
waiting
silence
.
Conchis
had
not
moved
or
opened
his
eyes
.
I
let
a
few
seconds
pass
,
then
whispered
to
her
.
"
What
the
devil
’
s
happening
?
"
She
lifted
her
eyes
momentarily
to
mine
.
"
Apollo
has
come
.
"
"
Apollo
!
"
"
My
brother
.
"
"
Your
brother
!
"
I
smiled
,
and
she
smiled
back
;
but
my
face
was
full
of
uncertainty
and
hers
of
knowledge
.
Her
mouth
was
incredibly
like
that
of
the
stone
statue
.
Again
the
horn
was
sounded
,
but
at
a
higher
pitch
.
She
said
,
"
I
am
called
.
I
must
go
.
"
We
rose
together
.
She
held
out
her
hand
.
"
But
where
?
"
"
Where
I
came
from
.
"
Her
eyes
impressed
some
hidden
significance
into
mine
.
Then
she
began
to
walk
away
.
I
looked
quickly
at
Conchis
,
still
with
his
oblivious
face
,
and
strode
after
her
,
stopping
her
at
the
door
.
"
Look
,
for
goodness
sake
…
"
Her
eyes
were
down
,
avoiding
mine
.
"
Please
let
me
pass
.
"
"
Are
you
coming
back
?
"
Again
the
horn
sounded
,
more
urgently
,
closer
,
near
the
edge
of
the
trees
.
She
looked
up
at
me
.
A
quick
oblique
look
at
Conchis
’
s
dark
figure
.
Then
for
a
moment
she
seemed
to
drop
the
pretense
.
At
any
rate
she
dropped
her
voice
.
"
Go
and
watch
.
Over
there
.
"
Her
mouth
curved
unexpectedly
into
a
smile
that
hovered
between
mischief
and
sympathy
.
"
And
pretend
to
believe
.
"
I
could
have
sworn
that
one
of
her
eyelids
fluttered
;
the
ghost
of
a
very
contemporary
wink
.
But
she
was
gone
so
quickly
that
I
was
left
only
the
more
confused
.
I
went
to
the
parapet
that
faced
east
.
The
gravel
,
and
then
across
the
.
clearing
,
the
trees
.
I
could
see
nothing
unusual
.
Darkness
and
stillness
.
I
listened
for
the
sound
of
her
footsteps
downstairs
,
but
there
was
silence
there
too
.
Then
the
sound
came
again
.
It
echoed
faintly
from
some
steep
hillside
inland
,
its
primitive
timbre
seeming
to
wake
the
landscape
and
the
trees
,
to
summon
from
some
evolutionary
sleep
.
Another
long
silence
.
Then
suddenly
there
was
a
movement
in
the
pines
.
A
dim
figure
stood
out
in
the
starlight
some
fifty
or
sixty
yards
away
.
I
had
an
impression
of
whiteness
.
Then
from
beyond
the
cottage
there
was
a
beam
of
light
;
not
very
strong
,
as
a
hand
-
held
torch
might
give
.
With
a
shock
I
realized
that
the
figure
was
that
of
an
absolutely
naked
man
.
He
raised
the
horn
he
was
carrying
and
again
came
the
call
.
He
was
near
enough
for
me
to
see
,
with
the
aid
of
the
weak
beam
of
light
,
dark
pubic
hair
and
the
pale
scape
of
his
penis
.
He
was
tall
,
well
built
,
well
cast
to
be
Apollo
.
On
his
head
I
made
out
a
crown
of
leaves
;
the
glint
of
golden
leaves
,
laurel
leaves
.
The
light
made
his
skin
even
paler
,
so
that
he
stood
out
like
marble
against
the
black
trees
.
He
was
facing
the
house
,
facing
me
,
the
horn
in
his
right
hand
.
Suddenly
there
was
a
new
sound
,
even
stranger
,
of
a
woman
or
a
boy
,
I
couldn
’
t
tell
,
calling
from
where
the
track
out
of
Bourani
disappeared
into
the
trees
.
It
was
a
chanted
sound
,
a
triphthong
hauntingly
prolonged
,
an
echo
of
the
horn
’
s
echo
.
Eia
.
Eia
.
The
man
dropped
his
arm
and
turned
and
went
a
pace
or
two
to
the
north
.
I
saw
him
raise
his
yard
-
long
horn
,
a
narrow
crescent
with
a
flared
end
.
He
called
back
;
and
the
other
call
came
back
at
once
,
so
that
the
echoes
of
the
two
calls
intermingled
.
Eia
.
Eia
.
Like
the
man
I
was
watching
the
trees
to
the
north
,
the
dark
tunnel
where
the
track
disappeared
.
A
running
girl
appeared
;
and
I
thought
at
first
by
the
apparent
whiteness
of
her
skin
—
the
torch
did
not
shift
to
her
—
that
she
was
also
naked
.
I
thought
too
,
with
increasing
shock
,
that
it
was
Lily
.
If
she
had
gone
very
quickly
round
the
back
of
the
house
…
but
then
I
could
distinguish
a
white
chiton
,
and
dark
hair
.
A
wig
?
The
girl
had
a
slim
body
,
the
right
height
.
She
ran
towards
the
sea
,
between
Apollo
and
myself
on
the
terrace
.
Then
a
third
figure
appeared
behind
her
.
Another
man
,
running
from
out
of
the
dark
tunnel
through
the
trees
.
The
girl
was
being
chased
.
I
flashed
a
look
round
.
Conchis
sat
exactly
as
before
,
as
if
he
disapproved
sternly
of
this
interruption
.
The
nymph
-
girl
ran
through
the
beam
of
light
that
shone
on
Apollo
and
had
almost
reached
the
seaward
side
of
the
clearing
when
several
things
happened
.
Apollo
blew
his
horn
again
,
but
this
time
it
was
a
single
wild
note
,
sustained
then
abruptly
ended
.
He
struck
a
new
pose
,
his
hand
pointing
at
the
satyr
-
man
,
who
stopped
at
the
sound
.
Simultaneously
a
much
stronger
beam
shone
out
from
directly
underneath
me
.
Someone
else
was
standing
under
the
colonnade
.
The
beam
moved
,
caught
up
the
still
running
figure
of
the
girl
,
her
white
back
and
her
black
dishevelled
hair
and
her
seemingly
near
-
exhausted
legs
,
as
she
plunged
into
the
trees
.
She
disappeared
.
The
light
went
out
for
two
moments
.
And
then
,
in
a
brilliant
coup
de
théatre
,
it
went
on
again
,
and
standing
there
,
exactly
in
the
place
where
the
first
girl
had
disappeared
,
a
place
where
the
ground
rose
a
little
,
was
yet
another
,
the
most
striking
figure
of
all
.
It
was
Lily
,
but
metamorphosed
.
She
had
changed
into
a
long
saffron
chiton
.
It
had
a
thin
blood
-
red
hem
where
it
ended
at
the
knees
.
On
her
feet
were
black
buskins
with
silver
greaves
,
which
gave
her
a
grim
gladiatorial
look
,
in
strange
contrast
to
her
bare
shoulders
and
arms
.
The
skin
was
unnaturally
white
,
the
eyes
elongated
by
black
makeup
,
and
her
hair
was
also
elongated
backwards
in
a
way
that
was
classical
yet
sinister
.
Over
her
shoulders
she
had
a
quiver
.
In
her
left
hand
she
held
a
long
silver
painted
bow
.
Something
in
her
stance
,
as
well
as
her
distorting
makeup
,
was
genuinely
frightening
.
She
stood
,
cold
and
outraged
and
ominous
for
a
long
second
,
and
then
she
reached
back
with
her
free
hand
and
with
a
venomous
quickness
pulled
an
arrow
out
of
the
quiver
.
But
just
as
she
began
to
fit
it
to
the
bow
string
,
the
beam
tracked
like
lightning
back
to
the
arrested
man
.
He
was
standing
,
darker
-
skinned
,
in
a
black
chiton
,
spectacularly
terrified
,
his
arms
flung
back
,
and
his
head
averted
.
It
was
a
pose
without
realism
,
yet
effectively
theatrical
.
The
beam
swept
back
to
the
goddess
.
She
had
the
bow
at
full
stretch
,
the
horn
blew
again
,
the
arrow
went
.
I
saw
it
fly
,
but
lost
its
flight
in
the
abrupt
darkness
as
the
torch
flicked
off
again
.
A
moment
later
it
shone
on
the
man
.
He
was
clutching
the
arrow
—
or
an
arrow
—
in
his
heart
.
He
fell
slowly
to
his
knees
,
swayed
a
second
,
then
slumped
sideways
among
the
stones
and
thyme
.
The
torch
lingered
a
moment
on
him
,
then
went
out
.
Apollo
stood
impassively
,
surveying
,
a
pale
marmoreal
shadow
,
like
some
divine
umpire
,
president
of
the
arena
.
The
goddess
began
to
walk
,
a
striding
huntress
walk
,
towards
him
,
her
silver
bow
slung
like
a
rifle
over
one
shoulder
.
As
she
came
near
,
into
the
diffuse
beam
of
weak
light
,
he
held
out
his
hand
.
They
stood
like
that
,
facing
me
,
hand
in
hand
,
Apollo
and
his
sister
,
Artemis
-
Diana
.
The
beam
went
out
.
I
saw
them
retreat
into
the
dark
penumbra
of
the
trees
.
Silence
.
Night
.
As
if
nothing
had
happened
.
I
looked
back
at
Conchis
.
He
had
not
moved
.
I
tried
to
understand
.
I
tried
to
think
what
connection
there
was
between
the
elderly
man
on
the
road
by
the
hotel
,
the
"
pre
-
haunting
,
"
and
this
scene
.
During
the
telling
I
thought
I
had
grasped
the
point
of
the
caractêre
of
de
Deukans
;
Conchis
had
been
talking
of
himself
and
me
;
the
parallels
were
too
close
for
it
to
be
anything
else
.
And
discouraged
every
kind
of
question
…
how
unable
I
was
to
judge
him
…
very
few
friends
and
no
relations
…
but
what
had
that
to
do
with
what
had
just
happened
?
Plainly
it
was
meant
to
be
mythical
,
but
it
had
awakened
in
me
vague
memories
of
Oscar
Wilde
—
the
Wilde
of
Salomé
—
and
of
Maeterlinck
;
something
Germanic
,
fin
de
siècle
,
had
floated
over
it
all
.
It
was
also
an
attempt
at
the
sort
of
scandalous
evocation
mentioned
in
Le
Masque
Francais
.
There
was
some
very
nasty
,
some
very
perverse
,
drift
in
Conchis
’
s
divertimenti
.
The
naked
man
.
What
were
they
doing
now
,
inside
those
trees
?
Because
the
girl
acted
one
thing
for
an
hour
,
there
was
no
reason
why
she
shouldn
’
t
act
something
else
,
anything
else
,
the
next
.
I
remembered
wryly
that
she
had
said
"
I
am
called
.
"
I
had
given
it
a
spiritualistic
significance
;
but
it
had
a
normal
other
meaning
—
for
actresses
.
I
felt
,
irrationally
,
betrayed
;
and
envious
and
jealous
of
those
other
mysterious
young
men
who
had
appeared
from
nowhere
to
poach
in
"
my
"
territory
;
and
walked
off
with
the
prize
.
I
tried
to
be
objective
,
content
to
be
a
spectator
,
to
let
these
weird
incidents
flow
past
me
as
one
sits
in
a
cinema
and
lets
the
film
flow
past
.
But
even
as
I
thought
that
,
I
knew
it
to
be
a
bad
analogy
.
I
went
and
stood
behind
her
empty
chair
.
"
Very
strange
.
"
Conchis
didn
’
t
answer
.
I
moved
round
the
table
,
to
where
I
could
see
his
face
.
His
eyes
were
open
,
but
his
stare
to
the
south
was
fixed
,
and
for
a
moment
I
was
frightened
.
I
said
urgently
,
"
Mr
.
Conchis
?
"
and
touched
his
shoulder
.
He
looked
up
then
,
for
all
the
world
like
a
man
coming
out
of
a
trance
.
"
Are
you
all
right
?
"
"
I
fell
asleep
.
I
apologize
.
"
He
shook
his
head
as
if
to
wake
himself
up
.
"
But
your
eyes
were
open
.
"
"
A
kind
of
sleep
.
"
He
smiled
at
me
,
one
of
his
smiles
that
was
intended
,
flagrantly
,
to
make
me
wonder
what
he
really
meant
.
I
smiled
warily
back
.
"
Or
a
kind
of
mystification
?
"
He
stood
up
and
took
my
arm
,
then
walked
me
silently
to
the
western
end
of
the
terrace
—
probably
,
I
guessed
,
to
give
the
man
with
the
arrow
in
his
heart
time
to
decamp
.
He
breathed
deeply
for
a
moment
,
facing
the
distant
mountains
,
his
hand
on
my
elbow
.
Then
he
said
,
"
I
am
rich
in
many
things
,
Nicholas
.
Richer
even
in
some
than
I
am
in
money
.
"
"
I
realize
that
.
"
"
Richer
in
forgotten
powers
.
In
strange
desires
.
"
He
pressed
my
elbow
lightly
,
then
let
go
of
it
.
His
face
was
inscrutable
,
but
his
tone
aroused
old
suspicions
in
me
.
Young
men
,
young
women
.
Perhaps
I
should
soon
find
myself
asked
to
take
part
in
some
kind
of
orgy
,
some
sexual
fantasy
;
and
I
knew
that
if
I
was
faced
with
it
,
joining
in
or
not
,
I
might
not
know
what
to
do
—
sexually
or
morally
.
A
double
lack
of
savoir
vivre
.
I
was
out
of
my
depth
;
I
had
a
quick
self
-
protective
need
to
be
debunking
,
English
.
I
lit
a
cigarette
;
put
on
a
smile
and
a
light
voice
.
"
I
saw
your
’
visitor
’
meet
her
boyfriend
over
there
.
"
There
was
a
long
pause
;
in
the
shadow
his
eyes
were
like
black
phosphorus
.
"
An
uncensored
rendezvous
with
Apollo
.
"
Still
he
forced
me
to
go
on
.
"
I
have
no
program
,
Mr
.
Conchis
.
I
don
’
t
know
.
"
More
silence
.
