+8 
A pack of red rabbits comes bounding out of a grove at the 
right. Their ears back. Their bodies a straight line of speed. 
They are stopped in the air. They strain to another leap. They 
are compelled to remain motionless. A smile of indifference 
points their faces. They slowly change to glistening fish. They 
fall into a long line . . . abreast. They close their eyes and 
swim towards the river, singing softly in the night. 
MARCOUSSIS 
I T IS now almost a month since three young cyclists told us 
that spring was here. Since that evening when they passed 
along the avenues arm in arm, gentle, in beige trousers, I 
have seen new signs each day. Yesterday I remembered 
that the scenic railways appreciate nougat. Tomorrow the 
wise swallow will be changing his swallow-tail for a summer 
frock. Today the Opera tottered under its weight of sparrows. 
A little later the grey hour came out from the windows to go and 
give a lecture to the poor Czech students. This evening all the 
glittering signs had a tinge of salmon pink, a ministry had just 
fallen. Outside the Deux-Magots before Saint-Germain des 
Pres, Marcoussis offered me his pretty aperitif, towns green and 
calm in the springtime: the Eiffel Tower and two lemons in a 
spoon. 
Lovely advertising pencil, O Eiffel Tower, smoke writing in 
an English hand on the asbestos of the sky . . . Citroen would 
offer any price to make you write “ten horse power.” But for 
us, dear, remain a little faithful, shepherdess of May, remember 
the wind-mills. 
Hope is made from the milk of green lemons. Beautiful 
Pharaoh, for whom so many women intercede, spring, keep your 
promises. The swallows are flying away and what will return? 
A beautiful bird? What sweet beautiful bird? It is called the 
“Firmament,” a beautiful many coloured bird above the moun 
tains. 
He came ... at every flap of his wings rainbows leaped forth, 
great primroses ... in the growing shadows the violets died, 
swollen with repentance. A single hydrangea and this was the 
earth, overflowering with sweetness. 
Marcoussis, in the evening, we have found your guitar, 
cracked. Each cord had broken in the heart of the night. 
JACQUES VIOT