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Bertha Broadfoot； Beatrice； Alice；
Ermengarde； princess of Maine；
And Joan； the good Lorraine；
Burned by the English at Rouen；
Where are they； Virgin Queen？
And where are last year's snows？
〃When I got home again I felt an irresistible longing to see my singular
treasure； and I took it out and； as I touched it； I felt a shiver go all
through me。
〃For some days； however； I was in my ordinary condition； although the
thought of that tress of hair was always present to my mind。
〃Whenever I came into the house I had to see it and take it in my； hands。
I turned the key of the cabinet with the same hesitation that one opens
the door leading to one's beloved； for in my hands and my heart I felt a
confused； singular； constant sensual longing to plunge my hands in the
enchanting golden flood of those dead tresses。
〃Then； after I had finished caressing it and had locked the cabinet I
felt as if it were a living thing； shut up in there； imprisoned； and I
longed to see it again。 I felt again the imperious desire to take it in
my hands； to touch it； to even feel uncomfortable at the cold； slippery；
irritating； bewildering contact。
〃I lived thus for a month or two； I forget how long。 It obsessed me；
haunted me。 I was happy and tormented by turns； as when one falls in
love； and after the first vows have been exchanged。
〃I shut myself in the room with it to feel it on my skin； to bury my lips
in it； to kiss it。 I wound it round my face； covered my eyes with the
golden flood so as to see the day gleam through its gold。
〃I loved it！ Yes； I loved it。 I could not be without it nor pass an
hour without looking at it。
〃And I waitedI waitedfor what？ I do not know For her！
〃One night I woke up suddenly； feeling as though I were not alone in my
room。
〃I was alone； nevertheless； but I could not go to sleep again； and； as I
was tossing about feverishly； I got up to look at the golden tress。 It
seemed softer than usual； more life…like。 Do the dead come back？ I
almost lost consciousness as I kissed it。 I took it back with me to bed
and pressed it to my lips as if it were my sweetheart。
〃Do the dead come back？ She came back。 Yes； I saw her； I held her in my
arms； just as she was in life； tall； fair and round。 She came back every
eveningthe dead woman； the beautiful； adorable； mysterious unknown。
〃My happiness was so great that I could not conceal it。 No lover ever
tasted such intense； terrible enjoyment。 I loved her so well that I
could not be separated from her。 I took her with me always and
everywhere。 I walked about the town with her as if she were my wife； and
took her to the theatre； always to a private box。 But they saw herthey
guessedthey arrested me。 They put me in prison like a criminal。 They
took her。 Oh； misery！〃
Here the manuscript stopped。 And as I suddenly raised my astonished eyes
to the doctor a terrific cry； a howl of impotent rage and of exasperated
longing resounded through the asylum。
〃Listen；〃 said the doctor。 〃We have to douse the obscene madman with
water five times a day。 Sergeant Bertrand was the only one who was in
love with the dead。〃
Filled with astonishment； horror and pity； I stammered out：
〃Butthat tressdid it really exist？〃
The doctor rose； opened a cabinet full of phials and instruments and
tossed over a long tress of fair hair which flew toward me like a golden
bird。
I shivered at feeling its soft； light touch on my hands。 And I sat
there； my heart beating with disgust and desire； disgust as at the
contact of anything accessory to a crime and desire as at the temptation
of some infamous and mysterious thing。
The doctor said as he shrugged his shoulders：
〃The mind of man is capable of anything。〃
ON THE RIVER
I rented a little country house last summer on the banks of the Seine；
several leagues from Paris； and went out there to sleep every evening。
After a few days I made the acquaintance of one of my neighbors； a man
between thirty and forty； who certainly was the most curious specimen I
ever met。 He was an old boating man； and crazy about boating。 He was
always beside the water； on the water； or in the water。 He must have
been born in a boat； and he will certainly die in a boat at the last。
One evening as we were walking along the banks of the Seine I asked him
to tell me some stories about his life on the water。 The good man at
once became animated； his whole expression changed； he became eloquent；
almost poetical。 There was in his heart one great passion； an absorbing；
irresistible passion…the river。
Ah； he said to me； how many memories I have； connected with that river
that you see flowing beside us！ You people who live in streets know
nothing about the river。 But listen to a fisherman as he mentions the
word。 To him it is a mysterious thing； profound； unknown； a land of
mirages and phantasmagoria； where one sees by night things that do not
exist； hears sounds that one does not recognize； trembles without knowing
why； as in passing through a cemeteryand it is； in fact； the most
sinister of cemeteries； one in which one has no tomb。
The land seems limited to the river boatman； and on dark nights； when
there is no moon； the river seems limitless。 A sailor has not the same
feeling for the sea。 It is often remorseless and cruel； it is true； but
it shrieks； it roars； it is honest； the great sea； while the river is
silent and perfidious。 It does not speak； it flows along without a
sound； and this eternal motion of flowing water is more terrible to me
than the high waves of the ocean。
Dreamers maintain that the sea hides in its bosom vast tracts of blue
where those who are drowned roam among the big fishes； amid strange
forests and crystal grottoes。 The river has only black depths where one
rots in the slime。 It is beautiful； however； when it sparkles in the
light of the rising sun and gently laps its banks covered with whispering
reeds。
The poet says； speaking of the ocean；
O waves； what mournful tragedies ye know
Deep waves； the dread of kneeling mothers' hearts！
Ye tell them to each other as ye roll
On flowing tide； and this it is that gives
The sad despairing tones unto your voice
As on ye roll at eve by mounting tide。〃
Well； I think that the stories whispered by the slender reeds； with their
little soft voices； must be more sinister than the lugubrious tragedies
told by the roaring of the waves。
But as you have asked for some of my recollections； I will tell you of a
singular adventure that happened to me ten years ago。
I was living； as I am now； in Mother Lafon's house； and one of my closest
friends； Louis Bernet who has now given up boating； his low shoes and his
bare neck； to go into the Supreme Court； was living in the village of C。；
two leagues further down the river。 We dined together every day；
sometimes at his house； sometimes at mine。
One evening as I was coming home along and was pretty tired； rowing with
difficulty my big boat； a twelve…footer； which I always took out at
night； I stopped a few moments to draw breath near the reed…co