But I shouldn't have roamed all over the world. I should have stayed here and looked after my land; I'd be wealthier today. I'd be the rich uncle. I could take my rightful place in society instead of wandering among these sturdy, calm people like a breeze blowing through the trees.

I decided to go and watch the young people dance. You could see the outline of the enormous marquee in the darkness; you could hear the music of the orchestra. The strings of electric light bulbs that had been rigged up inside cast the dancers' shadows on to the canvas. It's the same tent for Bastille Day and country fairs; that's how things are done here . . . The wind was whispering in the autumn trees and every now and again the marquee seemed to sway, like a ship. And so this sight, seen through the darkness, seemed strange and sad. I don't know why. Perhaps because of the contrast between the stillness of nature and the turbulence of youth. Poor children! They threw themselves into it all with such pleasure. The young girls especially: they're raised so strictly and puritanically around here. Boarding school in Moulins or Nevers until they're eighteen, then lessons in running a household, under the ever-watchful eyes of their mothers, until they get married. Their bodies and souls are bursting with energy, vitality, desire .. .

I went into the marquee and watched them; I listened to their laughter. I wondered how they could get such enjoyment from prancing around in time to the music. For some time now, when I'm with young people, I feel a kind of astonishment, as if I'm looking at a species utterly different from mine, the way an old dog watches the comings and goings of little mice. I asked Helene and Francois if they ever felt anything similar. They laughed and said I was nothing but an old egotist, that they weren't losing contact with their children, thank God. So that's what they believe! I think they're deluding themselves. If they could see their own youth resurrected before them, it would horrify them, or else they wouldn't recognise it; they would stare at it and say, "That love, those dreams, that fire are strangers to us." Their own youth . . . So how can they possibly expect to understand anyone else's?

While the orchestra was having a break, I heard the carriage set off, taking the newlyweds to the Moulin-Neuf. I looked for Brigitte Declos in the crowd. She was dancing with a tall dark young man. I thought of her husband-such a fool.