NEW PATCHWORK 14 / POLYMORPHIC LIFE IN SPRING

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Vie Polymorphe

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Fuchet, Serge-René

Reliure : BrochéFormat : ln-8 = Format petit cahier d'écolier : 20 à 25 cm Edition limitée Vie polymorphe, par Serge-René Fuchet, est parue aux éditions du Panthéon, à Paris en 2001 :...

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Everybody knows that almond trees bloom in spring. Some know that the revolutions are about born in this period of the year. But who knows in this city what arrived at Elise Clermont? Imbecile question I said myself. Nevertheless, to think about it well, I have the impression that the parallel is not ridiculous when I keep rehearsing these memories which haunted my nights of teenager, before I leave to the war to forget everything.

This memory nevertheless turned out in time immortal and I realize by writing you that I always saw inside my being the same strange, unusual sensations. I do not manage to forget what arrived at Elise Clermont to spring, 1869. It seems to me even so improbable as I wonder why and how I am well to be able to tell you what took place in its apartment of the square Albert Ier to Aubel, on April 15th, 1869.

This morning there, she had got up very early and had had breakfast only, letting me sleep in her guest room. She had then made a walk along the public garden, still closed at the present time there. The street was deserted and darkened by the sky, which the brightness of the rare streetlights succeeded hardly in qualifying. She had since the railings of the garden open then she had gone to sit down on a bench, in the shade of a troop of almond trees in flowers.

The garden was still abandoned and Elise Clermont was allowed rock by some dark musing. She felt rather good when I approached him. She realized my presence on the bench, next to her, only having heard a shot which made her go out of its bliss. She snuggles up to me, her senses on the alert, the misled glance. There seemed be still nobody in this garden and the sound had nevertheless been so close. I did not dare to get up, thinking of protecting Elise who well needed it.

Suddenly, she got up with some strange violence which left me stunned. She ran in the direction of the small pond, in the middle of the garden, so that she could not be seen by whoever. I did not understand her reaction, obviously. Release itself from what she could conceive as my influence could get. But to rush so to the danger seemed to me unreasonable. Openly, I was very afraid for her. Who says that the shot had not been pulled inside the public garden?



Naturally, I did not remain for a long time sat, and I rushed in my tour to the pond, thinking only of saving the one that I estimated to be my future soul mate. However, same mid-term step, I already felt a pleasant reassurance, understanding that nothing took place, because I heard nothing. It had to make now one quarter of an hour which the shot had rung. If he resulted from the outside from the garden, as I suppose it, maybe it was the fact of some walker at a loose end, or then somebody will have fired through an opened window.

It is a fact that there was a moment when we had not heard any more shot in the district since constabulary had intervened to release a young man taken hostage by a bandit. But I put practically at once a term in my deductions to face the evidence: Elise was not there. I sat down then at the edge of the pond, embarrassed by the contradictory feelings which had invaded my spirit.

I began crying. Why had Elise left as it? All right, there had been a shot, it had not been very pleasant and even if a symbol of the war can have something romantic, it did not please me. Not openly, this morning there, with Elise Clermont, I wanted to spend an intimate moment, quite printed by sweetness and by delicacy, my hand caressing slowly the fold of its silk dress, touching the skin up to the breast, with the aim of embracing her and feeling her body squeezing up against mine.

I liked too much Elise Clermont's fragrance to forget it. And even after the war I still remember it myself. It got me an unforgettable sensation of exoticism, little as an unknown flower which my eyes could not discern within the plethora of floral species which I had been able to see to there. Really, more than her fragrance , I loved Elise Clermont. I was desperately in love with it, and it since the beginning of this spring, 1869.



Ten minutes had just passed by since I had noticed her improbable disappearance. She had gone well and truly to the pond, in the middle of the public garden. I had seen her. No, she had not taken the direction of the unique exit that the railings of the garden offered to the users. Maybe she was hidden behind a tree, or a copse. But it was not all the same any more a kid. She was not either of the genre to climb on trees or to climb the fence. No, if she had wanted to go out, she would naturally have taken the direction of railings, which she knew opened. Anyway, she knew too well the public garden and could not make a mistake about direction.

But now, it was almost ten o'clock, it was daylight and some curious onlookers approached me. I had the bizarre impression that these people there wanted me something but I did not know them: I had never met them. They stopped a few meters away from me, as to stare at me. It got me a real sensation of embarrassment and the sensual pleasure which I had felt in the thought of Elise right now had completely disappeared. But fortunately, these people boldly resumed their route, which I did not miss to wish them unpleasant.

However Elise Clermont was absent. I was now certain that she was not in the public garden at the moment when I observed the perspective of trees aligned on both sides by the path leading to railings. Seeing the walkers becoming more and more numerous, I decided to leave the place and to turn to the apartment of the square Albert Ier. Then returned in me the desire of her body, sound to be which spread so much my senses. I remember myself too much first day of this spring, 1869 when I met her.

The meeting took place in the same public garden, on the same bench where we sat at the very beginning of the morning. She was calmed by some musing when I approached it, attracted by her soft fragrance printed by exoticism. I sit next to her and we stayed there ten minutes silently. She did not look at me and I did not dare to look at her. Suddenly, she asked me for the hour, with a small accent of the South of France which was not to displease me. I gave her happy of the pretext that it was given to me to engage with her a small conversation.



But curiously, she seemed not to want to go farther, even not thanking me. However, she remained sat next to me. I did not dare to get up. It was not the punishment because I had to make nothing this morning there. No, I did not want to leave. She was, next to me, immovable and silent there. Nevertheless, the sky made threatening. I indeed saw smoothing some black clouds. I had perceived in front of the bench a small roaming cat the leg behind the head. It is harmless but it seems that cats so behave when it is going to rain. The thunderstorm announced and I shivered with it of fear.

The atmosphere had become lugubrious. I decided to leave when the hand of the girl held(retained) me by the arm, so that I was obliged to sit down again. I say word and was allowed make, the hand beginning to caress me slowly, with discretion, everything in delicacy. The more the thunderstorm made threatening, the more the pressure of her body against mine became intensified. An intense pleasure invaded my whole etre. My senses on the alert had entered communion with his. We had forgotten everything around us and the first rainy gouts did not succeed in breaking the carnal link which united us. It is only when the first thunderclaps rang that we decided to leave the place. And it is arm in arm that we gained her apartment of the square Albert Ier.

Serge-René Fuchet
Writer