That evening, when I had come in and was alone for a moment--Marie was busy below in the kitchen--alone in our unattractive room, I retired to the starry window, beset by immense thoughts.

These spaces, these separations, these incalculable durations--they all reduce us to dust, they all have a sort of fearful splendor from which we seek defense in our hiding.
* * * * * * I have not retained a definite recollection of a period of jealousy from which I suffered for a year.

From certain facts, certain profound changes of mood in Marie, it seemed to me that there was some one between her and me.

But beyond vague symptoms and these terrible reflections on her, I never knew anything.

The truth, everywhere around me, was only a phantom of truth.