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All the same, without unduly lingering on a description of this idyllic location (it is not going to remain so for long), let us place ourselves in thought on the sidewalk, at one of the two corners where meet Rue des Grands-Edredons and Rue des Milleguiettes: the right-hand corner, if you have your back to the square, as we do at this very moment.

Just who is this “we”?

By “we” I mean quite precisely:

a) You, my Reader: there is room for one reader, representing the crowd of my dear, innumerable future readers. You’ll excuse me for choosing only one among you, but how would you all be able to stand together on the corner of Rue Milleguiettes? It’s so narrow! In the days of my mad youth (I mean my youth as an Author, for I had already attained a respectable age), at the time of first starting out in the noble but exhausting career of a novelist, I had saddled myself with a Narrator. This was not out of any desire for originality, nor any concern for modernism, which is quite far removed, believe me, from my preoccupations. It was out of scruple, of modesty. I wished in a way to disappear behind the characters of my tale, so as not to trouble them, so that they might feel free. So that the adventures might move forward all by themselves, in their truth. By the way, I recount only true things: I loathe inventing, and I do not know how to lie. But lo and behold, the character of the narrator in the book I’m speaking about, my first novel, because I had unwisely permitted him to say “I” like all narrators, got caught up in the game. He said “I,” then “I myself,” then “Me”! In a word, he did not leave off saying “I” and didn’t let me get in a single word. Furthermore, he proved himself to be, as the novel progressed (toward its final climax full of unexpected twists and turns), tremendously insolent. Such pretension! He constantly intervened to contradict me, claiming he knew better than I what was happening. He shifted the course of events to give himself the best role. And he even ended up by publishing his own version of the story, accusing me of errors, omissions, lies, plagiarism! I decided to make do without his services, to rid myself of him as Narrator. But, let me be clear on this point, only as Narrator. You will see him here as a Character, and he will get only what he deserves, believe me.

b) Me. Here’s the reason that there are two of us at the corner of Rue des Milleguiettes for the beginning of this terrible story, and not three (but, as the English say, two’s company, three’s a crowd).

Let us place ourselves in thought on this hot sidewalk. We remain motionless for a moment, invisible and silent in the great nocturnal silence under the springtime moon. Invisible, unspeaking, but seers, united. (If “I” is an Other, is it not None-Other than you, Reader, mon semblable, mon frère?) Let us place ourselves in thought on the sidewalk of Rue des Milleguiettes; then, from that point, let us stride ten or so yards down the narrow street, and press (mentally) upon the series of buttons composing the (secret) entrance code PL 317. Let us push the heavy ancient door. And let us enter. Let us cross the courtyard, go into the garden. Let us pause for a moment to study the small villa, the two floors occupying the rear. This is Père Sinouls’s residence, organist at Sainte-Gudule, and his family’s. But for the moment the family is not there. It’s spring vacation: Madame Sinouls is visiting her own family; the Sinouls girls, Armance and Julies, are gallivanting around: one gallivanting blondly (Julie); the other, redheadedly (Armance). The Sinouls boy, Marc, is playing bass viol in Japan. Père Sinouls is by himself. He is snoring away.