"pauline_reage_-_return_to_the_chateau" - читать интересную книгу автора (Reage Pauline)

his house, his room his daily bed, return to those to whom he wa joined by
another kind of inexpiable love, those whom fate, youth, or you yourself
had given you once and for all, those whom you can neither leave nor hurt
when you're involved in their lives. He, in his room, was not alone. She
was alone in hers.

One evening, after that "Do you really think so?" of the first page, and
without ever having the faintest idea that she would one day find the name
R=E9age in a real estate register and would borrow first name from two
famous profligates, Pauline Borghese and Pauline Roland, one day this girl
of whom I am speaking, and rightly so, since if I hay nothing of hers she
has everything of mine, the voice to begin with, one evening this girl,
instead o taking a book to read before she fell asleep, lying on her left
side with her feet tucked up under her, soft black pencil in her right
hand, began to writ the story she had promised. Spring was almost over. The
Japanese cherry trees in the big Paris parks, the Judas trees, the
magnolias near the fountains, the elder trees bordering the old embankments
of the tram lines that used to encircle the city, had lost their flowers.
The days lingered on forever, and the morning light penetrated at unwonted
hours to the dusty black curtains of passive resistance, the last remaining
vestiges of the war. But beneath the little lamp still lighted at the head
of the bed, the hand holding the pencil raced over the paper without the
least concern for the hour or the light. The girl was writing the way you
speak in the dark to the person you love when you've held back the words of
love too long and they flow at last.

=46or the first time in her life she was writing without hesitation,
without stopping, rewriting, or discarding, she was writing the way one
breathes, the way one dreams. The constant hum of the cars grew fainter,
one no longer heard the banging of doors, Paris was slipping into silence.
She was still writing when the street cleaners came by, at the first touch
of dawn. The first night entirely spent the way sleepwalkers doubtless
spend theirs, wrested from herself or, who knows, returned to herself.

In the morning she gathered up the sheets of paper that contained the two
beginnings with which you're already familiar, since if you are reading
this it means you have already taken the trouble to read the entire tale
and therefore know more about it today than she knew at that time. Now she
had to get up, wash, dress, arrange her hair, resume the strict harness,
the everyday smile, the customary silent sweetness. Tomorrow, no, the day
after, she would give him the notebook.

She gave it to him as soon as he got into the car, where she was waiting
for him a few yards from an intersection, on a small street near a metro
station and an outdoor market. (Don't try and situate it, there are many
like it, and what difference does it make anyway?) Read it immediately? Out
of the question. Besides, this encounter turned out to be one of those
where you come simply to say that you can't come, when you learn too late
that you won't be able to make it and don't have time to tell the other
party. It was already a stroke of luck that he had been able to get away at