I hesitated to give it the solemn and graceful name of Sorrow, which haunted me with its troubled and sweet taste. It's a feeling so comprehensive, so self-serving, that I'm almost ashamed of it, and melancholy always seems respectable to me.I'm not familiar with this feeling, but I'm familiar with worry, regret, and a little bit of guilt. Today, something wraps around me like a soft, uncomfortable silk, separating me from others. That summer, I was 2 years old.I am very happy. By "others" I mean my father and his mistress Elsa.This situation may seem false, and I shall have to explain a few words at once.My father is young, but he has been a widower for 15 years.This is a man who is alive and full of life, full of possibilities.When I came out of boarding school two years ago, it was impossible not to understand that he was living with a woman.He changes women every six months, and before I can accept it, he changes again!

However, his efforts, this new ease of life, and my own disposition quickly adapted to the situation.This is a frivolous man who is capable of handling things, curious about everything, but soon gets bored.But he pleases women.I fell in love with him at once, and loved him dearly, for he was kind, generous, gay, and full of tenderness for me.I can't imagine a better, more delightful friend.In the first few days of summer he was even so nice that he asked me if it would bore me if his current mistress, Elsa, accompanied us on vacation.I can only support him to take Elsa, because I know he needs women, and Elsa doesn't hate it.She was a tall, red-haired woman, half flirtatious, half high-society lady.She mingles between studios and bars on the Champs-Elysées.She was amiable, rather down-to-earth, without putting on an air of prudence.Besides, my father and daughter were so happy to be off on vacation that it was impossible to dispute anything.My father rented a beautiful white villa on the Mediterranean Sea.We were eager to live there when the weather just turned hot in June.The villa stood alone on a corner overlooking the sea, separated from the main road by a pine forest.A goat track descends to a golden cove.There are brown-red cliffs on the bay.The sea water sloshes in the bay.

The first few days were very sunny.We were so hot that we spent hours on the beach getting a healthy tan.The only exception was Elsa, who was flushed from the sun, and her skin was peeling off, which was very painful.My dad did complex leg exercises to shrink his disproportionate midsection when his flirtatious beginnings began.I went into the water at dawn, and the water was cool, clear and transparent.I dipped in it, shuffled around to wash away all the shadow and dust of Paris, and was exhausted.I lay on the beach, grabbed a handful of sand, and let it trickle slowly through my fingers.I feel like they're passing like time, and it's a light thought; it's nice to have light thoughts.Because it's summer.

On day 6, I saw Cyril for the first time.He sailed along the coast in a small schooner, and capsized just before our little bay.I helped him turn the boat over.As we laughed, I learned that his name was Cyril, a law student who was on vacation with his mother in a villa nearby.He had a Latin face, dark brown, with a very frank expression, and he had the calmness of a guardian, which I liked very much.But I keep my eyes off those college students, because they are rude and only care about themselves, especially their youth, and find tragic themes or silly excuses in them. I don't like young people.I prefer my father's friend. 40 year old man.They spoke to me with tenderness and affection, showing me the kindness of a father and the tenderness of a lover.But Cyril pleases me.He is tall and handsome.It's a beauty that inspires trust.My father hated ugliness, which brought us into constant contact with stupid people.I'm not like him, but I'm embarrassed and lost when I'm confronted with a physically unattractive person.It seems to me that their willingness to be unpleasant is a disrespectful shortcoming.Because, if we don't seek happiness, what else do we seek?It is still not clear to me today whether this taste for conquest belied an excess of energy, a penchant for domination, or a secret need for support to reassure myself.

When Cyril parted from me, he offered to teach me how to sail.I went back to dinner, thinking about him, not participating in the conversation, or saying a few words.I barely noticed my father's restlessness.After dinner, we fell on the deck chairs on the platform as usual at night.The sky is full of stars.I looked at the stars, vaguely wishing that they would move ahead of time and start to cut through the sky with falling.But in early July, they didn't move at all.On the gravel of the platform, cicadas were singing.There were probably a thousand of them, intoxicated by the moonlight and the heat, making eerie calls like this all night long.I've been told they just rub against the sheath gauge, but I'm still willing to believe it's an instinctive song in the throat, like a cat meowing for spring.We are very comfortable.

Only the grains of sand in my shirt protect me from the slow onset of drowsiness.At this time, my father coughed a few times, stood up from the bench, and said: "I'm going to tell you that a man is coming." I close my eyes in disappointment.We are too peaceful to last! "Tell us, who is it?" cried Elsa, always eager for social interaction. "Anna Larsan," my father said, turning to me. I looked at him, so surprised that I didn't respond. "I used to tell her to come to me if she got too tired with her outfits. So she...she came." It never occurred to me that Anna Larsan was an old friend of my poor mother's, with whom my father had but a few connections.

But two years ago, after I got out of boarding school, my father took me very hard and sent me to her.During the week, she dressed me elegantly and taught me how to live.I therefore felt a passionate admiration for her, which she deftly transferred to a young man at her side.Because of her, I began to dress elegantly, and because of her, I first fell in love.I am very grateful to her for that.Although she was in her forties, she was still very attractive and popular because of her beautiful, proud, tired and indifferent face.The only thing one could accuse her of was that indifference.She is both kind and cold.

There was a firmness of purpose in her, a disturbing composure of mind.Although she was divorced and free, she was not seen to have any lovers.Besides, the people we associate with are all different.She often associates with elegant, intelligent, and steady people, while we associate with loud, greedy characters.From these people, my father asked for nothing else, as long as they were good-looking or weird.I think she looked down on us a little - me and my father - because of our intention to have fun and leisure, because she despised any excess.Only business dinners—she ran the clothing business, my father ran the advertising business—remembered my mother and my efforts to bring us together.Although I was afraid of her, I still admired her very much.In short, as long as one thinks of Elsa's presence and Anna's views on education, her sudden arrival seems out of place.

Elsa asks a lot of questions about Anna's status in high society, and then goes to bed.I am alone with my father. I went to sit on the steps at his feet.He leaned over and put both hands on my shoulders: "Honey, why are you so skinny? Like a stray cat. I wish there was a blonde with a strong body. Beautiful daughter with watery eyes..." "That's not the problem," I said, "Why did you invite Anna? Why did she accept your invitation?" "Maybe, to see your old father, who would have guessed?" "You're not the man Anna is interested in," I said. "She's too shrewd and self-respecting. And Elsa? Have you ever thought about Elsa? Have you imagined the conversation between Anna and Elsa?" ? I didn't think so!"

"I didn't think about it," he confessed. "Indeed, it's a terrible thing. Cécile, my dear, let's go back to Paris, shall we?" He stroked my neck and smiled softly, I turned my head and looked at him.His dark eyes were shining brightly, and there were some strange lines around them.His mouth turned up slightly.Like a faun in that way.I started laughing with him, like every time he got into trouble. "My old accomplice," he said, "what would I do without you?" His voice was so sure, so kind, that I knew he would suffer without me.Although it was already a yellow night, we still talked about love and his troubles.From my father's point of view, these troubles were purely imaginary.He obstinately rejects notions of fidelity, dignity, and restraint.These concepts, he explained to me, were dry, meaningless, and free to use.If it were another person, these words would have aroused my disgust.But I know that in him, these words neither reject warmth nor love.He knows that these feelings are temporary things, so they are especially easy to have when he needs them.This idea appeals to me: quick, intense, short-lived love.I have not yet reached the age at which fidelity attracts me.

I don't know much about love, other than dating, kissing, and getting tired.