The Prodigal Returns

“Ma vie! Where have you been all this time? Sit, sit. I’ll order the both of us a glass.”

“My dear Le Duc! Such a pleasure to see a familiar face along the boulevard. I’ve only recently returned from a sojourn abroad, recovering from my unfortunate encounter with the Peugeot. Gentle winds blow fair from each corner of the globe to commingle in this noble son of Man."

“Proverbs?”

“Spenser, I think. Or Dryden. Or some such other representative of that delicious seventeenth-century literary style. No matter.”

“You don’t fear it might be regarded as a tad, mmm, misogynistic?”

“Misogynistic, no. Sexist, most definitely. Which may go a long way in explaining why Milton is no longer as popular today as he was, well, whenever he was popular.”

“Of course! Les belles filles. Where would we be without them?”

“Probably not here, of course.”

“Of course. But here we are, and we must make the best of it. After all, it can be such fun if not taken too seriously, despite the occasional bumps and shakes.”

“Or famines, wars, and plagues!”

“Ho, ho! What merriment the gods have at our expense! We are Fortune’s playthings. Poor players strutting about making sound and fury that means, well, quite little, actually.”

“Ah! Shakespeare! Most definitely!”

“Really? And I thought it was an original idea. Oh, well. La-de-da, la-de-da.”

“Did you manage to happen upon anything remarkable while on this sojourn of yours?”

“Actually, I did, Monsieur Le Duc. I happened to be at my ease one day (An attitude I generally find best suited for avoiding troubles and their attendant complications.), when I raised my eyes from Froissart’s Chronicles and caught sight of a young woman.”

“Oh, ho! Not too ill for the ladies, I see!”

“Listen and learn, my friend. She presented a most peculiarly sad, dark beauty. I simply could not avert my gaze, even for fear of seeming to stare. Her hair was long, and dark as a raven’s wing. Her skin, pale as the moon. And almost translucent. She was far, far too thin, which may have been the result of illness. There was a time when she may have been regarded as consumptive. But it was the look in her eyes and the set of her lips. I saw in her visage a sadly resigned disengagement. To see that on the face of one so young, well, it simply broke my heart.

“I never did find out her name. She reminded me to some degree of Juliette Greco. Of course, without that woman’s fiery vivacity. Or perhaps Beatrice Dalle, though a trifle more stable.

“As I said, I never did find out who she was. The more I think about it, the more I wonder if she was ever there. I only know for certain that I once saw a thin dark-haired young woman with the most exquisitely sad eyes. And the vision broke my heart, for many different reasons I haven’t yet fully examined.

“I think it to be a Japanese thing, you know? That there is an oddly compelling beauty in damaged things. Things that are complete, perfect, bring an end to inquiry. They fail to seduce the mind with wonder. The wonder of why. Why am I attracted? What is there I’m searching for. What answers does this sad, broken vision hold for me?

“Perhaps I haven’t made myself very clear.”

Une silence longue.

“Ahem! Another glass, my friend?”

“Thank you, Monsieur Le Duc. Most kind.”