You, her friends, her horses, her dogs [blank]. Friends, one of whom perhaps is her lover, horses, playing cards, Russian cigarettes, all of you who please her, all of you whom she brings out or handles, how I envy you for knowing the secret of her heart and her thoughts, the intense and confined dream that reigns in that blonde head. Little white dog who often keep your eyes fixed on her, you have interrupted her sorrows, laid in wait for her hopes, been in receipt of her gaze, of her lips perhaps, the confidences of her happiness. Beautiful gardens who often entice her footsteps, you have been the chosen frame for her elegance, for her promenades, for her conversations, for her thoughts. Why do you tell me things, but things as mysterious as she. I tremble and do not understand. I do not regret not being able to speak to her. Sentiment does not move her, and would not be able to tell me anything about her. Perhaps she will dispel by vanities the strange charm of her eyes, so difficult to interpret. The scent-bottle left open will lose its perfume. No matter, you her friends, her dogs, her horses, her cards, her cigarettes, her preferred walks, the phrase from Lohengrin at which her attention is opened up to infinite depths, I think of you often, I envy you and you tell me many things about her that no doubt she does not know. Because I am possessed of this sterile happiness, but which draws me close to her, to whom I have never spoken, that if it is she who lives her life it is I who dream it.
Alternate early draft of Reliques in Les Plaisirs et les jours.