As soon as he was on his own, the rest of the crowd seemed to draw nearer. The rustic company was eating, drinking, smoking. There was muffled singing coming from the far end of the room. The maidservants shot out of the kitchen, like bullets, and flew back in. He had never expressed anything more beautiful, or more difficult, than that “Good evening, madame.” He repeated it to himself, in a state of ecstasy, for what might have been half an hour. He was blind to everything . . . even a maidservant, barely more than a girl, in an unpleated skirt, who came in through the big doorway. Carrying neither plate nor pitcher, she went up to a group of farmers and started talking to them. It was only when she drew back that he recognized with a shock the straw-colored hair under her headdress. But she’d already left. He followed her. The vestibule was empty. He thought: No, I must be imagining I see her everywhere. He was going to climb the stairs, when a chambermaid, coming out of the laundry room, passed by him and went on ahead. In her hand she was carrying the stays for the bodice of a petticoat and, folded over her arm, that dress, which he easily recognized. She stopped on the first floor while he carried on; he heard her knock gently on a door; the voice asked who was there. The servant said, “It’s the dress,” and the person inside opened the door.

All of this was difficult to account for. For more than an hour, he had no trouble coming up with explanations. Each explanation was conclusive, but then he would come up with an even more conclusive explanation. At last he said to himself that, really, all of this was difficult to account for. He remained wide-eyed, stark naked on his bed of hay, ever so happy, ever so peaceful, seeing clearly, but not fully understanding anything . . . other than the beautiful face. It must have been late; there were no more noises from the inn; outside, two men went on singing, trying to harmonize their voices. Herman wasn’t sleeping. He felt flushed with a sort of victory, similar to the one of the past spring when he invincibly fended off thousands of men and finally crushed them beneath his feet of flowers. Little by little, he started to fall asleep. But repeatedly, as he was about to drop off—just as he was about to unmoor himself and surrender his powers—he woke up with a start, as though he was unwilling to enter this realm that eradicated everything.

There was no more sound. Like little red birds, the last flickerings from the fireplace flitted against the windowpanes. He thought: Tomorrow, I have to talk to her. It was the easiest thing in the world; all he had to do was go up and talk to her. It was so easy, it was already said and done. So he went to sleep.