intrude, I went away to explore the town. In passing a small square planted with trees, I paused to consider a school, the windows of which stood open. For some reason the sight of a school always makes me sad: those cardboard alphabets with their large letters, the maps, the black tables with their inkpots bring back my childhood, that preface to life which is seldom pleasant. I was engaged in this sad contemplation when one of the men I had spoken with on the balcony of the church, the one with the foreign accent, addressed me:
"Do you like Labraz?"
"Very much."
"Are you an artist?"
"I am merely fond of art."
"If you will come inside I will show you some old pictures that are not bad. This is my house," he added, pointing to one with a vine, the trunk of which was protected by four walls.
"I have had to protect my vine. That is what I cannot forgive the inhabitants of Labraz: their hatred of trees."
I followed him through a porch and up a flight of stairs to a large room with two balconies. Some fine pictures hung on the walls: one by Tristan, the portrait of a friar; another by Ribera, dark and gloomy, representing the martrydom of a saint who was being flayed. There were also in this room small carved figures, some of which were beautiful. Having seen everything, I was about to go away
