Never was the Luxembourg so beautiful as on that fragile spring day. March had come and gone boisterously, cold winds blew in April, and then the immense sunshine came. The pools were transparent, the sky full of ochre clouds, the trees cut through the air with their leaves, the earth was hot. Men came out, old men with coughs and whiskers, and sat by the ponds reading newspapers. The old, fat women removed their kerchiefs and spoke garrulous words. The Sorbonnard girls opened their blouses to let the cool air breathe down them, single silver bangles on their wrists, and cigarettes held lighted in the air. They read D’Alembert or Henri Becque, while the young men basked in the sun and slept.

The children scampered all over the park. I sat under Anne of Austria (1629–87?), grey, big-headed, big-bosomed—some old tragic royalty bulging with posthumous importance. My thoughts were about morganatic marriages, UN statistics, parks and books, and the chocolat chez Alsecia, rue d’Assas whose taste would not leave my mouth. The cold wind blew over my visage. The cold wind blew over my chest, and I sat up. A child of five or six, pink-skinned and clear-eyed, was dragging a wooden camel along the path.

‘Where are you going?’ I asked.

‘To the oasis of Arabia,’ he said, and stopped.

‘Where’s that?’ I asked, trying to see whom he was with. A woman, under a tree—his nanny, no doubt—was standing, her arms round the peeling trunk of the oak. A young man, in kepi and Sunday shine, stood by her, at once disconsolate and happy. He hoped spring would remove his sorrow.

‘Speak to the Monsieur, Pierrot,’ she cried, so as to have more time with the young man.

‘You know where your oasis is?’ I asked.

‘Oh yes, the oasis is all water, and big like this. My camel goes there to drink.’

‘Let’s go there,’ I said. He stopped me, turned back furtively to his nanny and then suddenly, ‘Look, you’ve faces in your buttons. Ah, faces, faces,’ he said, and gazed up at me. He did not know whether to come forward or not, his hand upraised holding the string of his camel.

‘You’ve faces in your buttons,’ he repeated and laughed.

‘Speak to the Monsieur,’ cried the nanny. Her tone of voice was growing lighter. Pierrot started to say something. Then he suddenly fell silent. His camel needed a better string.

‘I am called Raja,’ I said, just to say something.

‘You’ve faces in your buttons,’ he said coming nearer, as though the mention of my name gave assurance of something known. But looking up again, he saw my blue-bronze face, and stopped. He was silent. Again he looked back, and his nanny had slipped behind the tree.