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Updated: May 17, 2025
I should have kept a notebook, just as I had arranged to do when I thought I was going on the yachting excursion among the Greek Islands with Gertrude; but, having no notes, I can only appeal to the reader's imagination. I must ask him to remember the week of cruel abstinence I had been through, and to take it into his consideration. "Orelay? Nearly two hours from Orelay."
You have been far away. This is the first time we have been separated, and we are not yet five miles from Orelay." "Five miles! Ah, if it were only five!" We did not speak for a long time, and watching the midday sun, I thought that peradventure it was not farther from us than yesterday.
At Plessy I had heard all accents, Swiss, German, Italian; there was plenty of Parisian accent there, and I had told a Parisian flower-woman, whose husband was a Savoyard, that I declined to believe any more in the Southern accent "C'est une blague qu'on m'a faite"; but at Orelay I had discovered the true accent, and I listened to the old man for the sake of hearing it.
"You see, dear, it would be impossible for me to travel all the way to Paris a journey of at least twenty-four hours would kill me, and I'm not strong; nothing tires me more than railway traveling. We must stop somewhere. Why not at Orelay?"
But suddenly two names caught my eye, Orelay and Verlancourt, and we agreed that we preferred either of these names to Armance. "Which name shall give shelter to two unfortunate lovers flying in search of solitude?" "Orelay is a beautiful name." "Orelay it shall be," I said. "We shall be able to get there from Marseilles in a few hours."
There is something ghostlike in the out-of-date. The landscape about Plessy had transported us back into antiquity, making us dream of nymphs and dryads, but the gilt cornices and damask hangings and the salon at Orelay had made us dream of a generation ago, of the youth of our parents.
"I must fall back on the personal then," said Sitgreaves, now really at bay, "and say that I am less moved and interested when Moore is describing Evelyn Innes, than when he tells of his affair with Doris at Orelay." "I am glad that you mentioned 'Evelyn Innes' again," I said, "because it is in this very book that he is said to have painted so many of his friends. Ulick Dean is undoubtedly Yeats.
The hall delighted us, and I said to Doris as we passed through that the hotel must have been a nobleman's house some long while ago, when Orelay had a society of its own, perhaps a language, for in the seventeenth or the eighteenth century Provencal or some other dialect must have been written or spoken at Orelay. We admired the galleries overlooking the hall, and the staircase leading to them.
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