Now we have a man about the place. Torp got him. He digs in the garden
and chops wood. But the odour impregnates Torp and even reaches me.

He makes eyes at Jeanne, who looks at me and smiles. Torp makes a fuss
of him, and every night I smell his pipe in the basement.

* * * * *

I have shut myself upstairs and played patience. The questions I put to
the cards come from that casket of memories the seven keys of which I
believed I had long since thrown into the sea. A wretched form of
amusement! But the piano makes me feel sad, and there is nothing else to
do.

Malthe's letter is still intact. I wander around it like a mouse round a
trap of which it suspects the danger. My heart meanwhile yearns to know
what words he uses.

He and I belong to each other for the rest of our lives. We owe that to
my wisdom. If he never sees me, he will never be able to forget me.

* * * * *

How could I suppose it for a single moment! There is no possibility of
remaining alone with oneself! No degree of seclusion, nor even life in a
cell, would suffice. Strong as is the call of freedom, the power of
memory is stronger; so that no one can ever choose his society at will.
Once we have lived with our kind, and become filled with the knowledge
of them, we are never free again.