of time, I succumbed to the pleasure of eating and drinking and to the no less intoxicating one of being on a balcony above the lake in this ancient landscape, where I was happy to stop and peer out at its smallest folds. Over more than forty-eight hours I’d lost my way a thousand times in this collage of mountains and an awe-inspiring valley, never breaking away from it. Only the axis had changed since the moment when I spotted the woman I love near Place de la Riponne.
And it was that same motionless lake, spied the next day at dawn, that flowed in us after a twelve-month separation, and that we returned to yesterday when we emerged from our caress at the hour when the sun slants towards the Dent du Chat and the Grand Chartreuse. In two days of slow travel from Place de la Riponne to the Hôtel d’Angleterre, from the Château d’Ouchy to the Tour de Peilz, from Clarens to Yvorne and Aigle, from Aigle to Château d’Oex by way of the Col desMosses, from Château d’Oex to Carouge, and then from Echandens to Geneva and Geneva to Coppet, I have only circumscribed the same inverted vault, thereby circling the great river bed that enthralls me even now as I abandon myself to the effusive course of words …
W HEN I TURNED my attention to the cheese, a Tomme de Savoie and a small portion of Vacherin, washed down with a Côtes du Rhône, it was already a quarter to two, and nearly five past when I tossed back a Williamine to revive myself before leaving this memorable restaurant. Outside on Coppet’s Grand-Rue, all was calm. A good tourist, I took a few steps along the sidewalk. Released from all obsessions and immunized against a certain H. de Heutz by the wines and the Williamine, I savoured the pure pleasure of ambling along as I liked to do in Leysin every morning, strolling to Trumpier to buy the Lausanne
Gazette
, then climbing up to the cog-railway station, where I could lean on the balustrade and gaze out at the network of the great Alps from the Pic Chaussy as far as the Grand Muveran and then, in the background just in front of me, the Tour Noir, the Chardonnets, the Aiguille du Druz and the Dents du Midi, and, on my right in a chain running south, the Crête de Linges, the Cornettes de Bise, the Jumelles and a sort of hazy screen whose condensation indicated Lac Léman. That same deformed cordillera still surrounded me when I was idling around Coppet’s Grand-Rue, carefree and happy.
I stopped to look at a bookstore window: there was a photo of Charles-Ferdinand Ramuz, surrounded by copies of
Derborence
and
La Beauté sur la Terre
. Out of curiosity, and probably because I wanted to postpone the moment when I’d have nothing to do but think about H. de Heutz, I stepped inside. The interior of the shop gave an impression of serenity. Books covered the walls: clearly organized and arranged by collection, they formed geometric spots of various colours and sizes. I was careful to let the bookseller know that I wasn’t looking for anything specific, and he kindly urged me to browse to my heart’s content. First, I took down the
Blue Guide
to Switzerland and opened it to Coppet. I expected to find a small-scale map of the town that would help me locate my position and that of the Opel, which was still at the edge of the woods, and also to reconstitute the route I’d taken through the little forest to the promontory. There was nothing of the sort though, only a host of information about the families of Necker and Madame de Staël, who’d been placed under surveillance in her own chateau. I replaced the
Guide
as if I’d changed my mind about doing more travelling in Switzerland. Aware that time was passing and that I seemed unaware of it, I wasn’t really interested in the titles that paraded past my eyes. Suddenly, I spoke to the bookseller:
“Excuse me, Monsieur … I’m looking for a historical work on Caesar and the Helvetians by a writer called H. de Heutz …”
“H. de Heutz … that
And it was that same motionless lake, spied the next day at dawn, that flowed in us after a twelve-month separation, and that we returned to yesterday when we emerged from our caress at the hour when the sun slants towards the Dent du Chat and the Grand Chartreuse. In two days of slow travel from Place de la Riponne to the Hôtel d’Angleterre, from the Château d’Ouchy to the Tour de Peilz, from Clarens to Yvorne and Aigle, from Aigle to Château d’Oex by way of the Col desMosses, from Château d’Oex to Carouge, and then from Echandens to Geneva and Geneva to Coppet, I have only circumscribed the same inverted vault, thereby circling the great river bed that enthralls me even now as I abandon myself to the effusive course of words …
W HEN I TURNED my attention to the cheese, a Tomme de Savoie and a small portion of Vacherin, washed down with a Côtes du Rhône, it was already a quarter to two, and nearly five past when I tossed back a Williamine to revive myself before leaving this memorable restaurant. Outside on Coppet’s Grand-Rue, all was calm. A good tourist, I took a few steps along the sidewalk. Released from all obsessions and immunized against a certain H. de Heutz by the wines and the Williamine, I savoured the pure pleasure of ambling along as I liked to do in Leysin every morning, strolling to Trumpier to buy the Lausanne
Gazette
, then climbing up to the cog-railway station, where I could lean on the balustrade and gaze out at the network of the great Alps from the Pic Chaussy as far as the Grand Muveran and then, in the background just in front of me, the Tour Noir, the Chardonnets, the Aiguille du Druz and the Dents du Midi, and, on my right in a chain running south, the Crête de Linges, the Cornettes de Bise, the Jumelles and a sort of hazy screen whose condensation indicated Lac Léman. That same deformed cordillera still surrounded me when I was idling around Coppet’s Grand-Rue, carefree and happy.
I stopped to look at a bookstore window: there was a photo of Charles-Ferdinand Ramuz, surrounded by copies of
Derborence
and
La Beauté sur la Terre
. Out of curiosity, and probably because I wanted to postpone the moment when I’d have nothing to do but think about H. de Heutz, I stepped inside. The interior of the shop gave an impression of serenity. Books covered the walls: clearly organized and arranged by collection, they formed geometric spots of various colours and sizes. I was careful to let the bookseller know that I wasn’t looking for anything specific, and he kindly urged me to browse to my heart’s content. First, I took down the
Blue Guide
to Switzerland and opened it to Coppet. I expected to find a small-scale map of the town that would help me locate my position and that of the Opel, which was still at the edge of the woods, and also to reconstitute the route I’d taken through the little forest to the promontory. There was nothing of the sort though, only a host of information about the families of Necker and Madame de Staël, who’d been placed under surveillance in her own chateau. I replaced the
Guide
as if I’d changed my mind about doing more travelling in Switzerland. Aware that time was passing and that I seemed unaware of it, I wasn’t really interested in the titles that paraded past my eyes. Suddenly, I spoke to the bookseller:
“Excuse me, Monsieur … I’m looking for a historical work on Caesar and the Helvetians by a writer called H. de Heutz …”
“H. de Heutz … that
Similar Books
