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wonderful to place a mahogany
box full of letters on her lap and say to her, “I was waiting for you.”
    She will open the box and slowly, when she so desires, she will read the letters one by one, and as she works her way back up the interminable thread of blue ink she will gather up the
years—the days, the moments—that that man, before he even met her, had already given to her. Or perhaps, more simply, she will overturn the box and, astonished at that comical snowstorm
of letters, she will smile, saying to that man, “You are mad.”
    And she will love him forever.

CHAPTER 4

    “F ATHER P LUCHE . . .”
    “Yes, my lord.”
    “Tomorrow my daughter will be fifteen years old.”
    “. . .”
    “It has been eight years now since I entrusted her to your care.”
    “. . .”
    “You have not cured her.”
    “No.”
    “She must take a husband.”
    “. . .”
    “She must go out from this castle, and see the world.”
    “. . .”
    “She must have children and . . .”
    “. . .”
    “In other words, she must begin to live, once and for all.”
    “. . .”
    “. . .”
    “. . .”
    “Father Pluche, my daughter must be cured.”
    “Yes.”
    “Find someone who can cure her. And bring him here.”
    T HE MOST FAMOUS DOCTOR in the land was called Atterdel. Many had seen him raise the dead, people who had one foot in the grave, already as good as gone,
done for, really, and he had fished them back from Hell and brought them back to life, which was also an embarrassment if you will, sometimes even inconvenient, but it should be understood that
that was his job, and no one could do it like he could, and so those people came back to life,
pace
friends and relatives all, who were obliged to start all over again, postponing tears
and inheritances until better times, perhaps the next time they will consider things beforehand and seek the services of a normal doctor, one of those who does them in and that’s that, not
like this one who gets them back on their feet, only because he is the most famous doctor in the land. Not to mention the dearest.
    And so Father Pluche thought of Dr. Atterdel. Not that he had much belief in doctors, it wasn’t that, but for everything that concerned Elisewin he was obliged to think with the
Baron’s head, not with his own. And the Baron’s head thought that where God had failed, science might succeed. God had failed. Now it was up to Atterdel.
    He arrived at the castle in a shiny black coach, which seemed somewhat sinister but was also very dramatic. He rapidly climbed the flight of steps, and when he came up to Father Pluche, almost
without looking at him, asked, “Are you the Baron, sir?”
    “I wouldn’t half mind.”
    This was typical of Father Pluche. He was unable to restrain himself. He would never say what he ought to have said. Something else would come to mind first. Only a moment before. But it was
more than enough time.
    “Then, sir, you are Father Pluche.”
    “That’s me.”
    “It was you who wrote to me.”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, you have a strange way of writing.”
    “In what sense?”
    “There was no need to write everything in rhyme. I would have come in any case.”
    “Are you sure?”
    For example: the right thing to say here was, “Excuse me, it was a silly game.”
    And in fact these words arrived all perfectly prepared in Father Pluche’s head, all lined up in a nice neat row, but they came a fraction late, just enough time to be overtaken by a stupid
gust of words that no sooner emerged on the surface of the silence than they crystallized into the incontrovertible brilliance of a question that was completely out of place.
    “Are you sure?”
    Atterdel looked up at Father Pluche. It was something more than a look. It was a medical examination.
    “I am sure.”
    That’s the good thing about men of science: they are sure.
    “Where is this girl?”
    “Y ES . . . E LISEWIN . . . It’s my name. Elisewin.”
    “Yes, Doctor.”
    “No,