I thought I held Anne, Florence, Méline, Susan in my arms: embraces so tight that I pawed only my own shoulder blades. Will you tell me why those girls never let themselves be caught? They weren’t always so elusive - had I not glimpsed Émile, Franck, Thierry, and Willhelm on their arm?
Look at the man before you.
Is he so hideous?
Mademoiselle?
Oh, I’ve always known my appearance alone would never elicit the emotions propitious to coupling. I never left it at that. I spent a fortune on finery. My gaze smouldered with passion. Nothing worked. I might as well have been a dead fish. I might with the same success have set out to seduce a she-fox, a tit-mouse.
Can you explain this to me?
Mademoiselle?
Am I really that ugly?
Do you think I talk too much?
But that’s just it, that can’t be it, because I remained perfectly mute in those women’s presence. They couldn’t get a word out of me. Not one word. The most perfect reserve. Often, in fact, I observed them from the shelter of a tree trunk or a corner cupboard. Could anyone be less importunate? Tell me, you whom I am importuning? And above tell me why they remained so distant, so indifferent? My attempts at invisibility and even inexistence left them utterly unmoved. And yet I disincarnated myself with perfect silence and distance. A real gentleman. I never got fresh, always stayed frozen. And yet my attentions were never repaid, can you believe it, I met with only their disdain!
[The Author and Me, Chevillard, É]
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