he rep●lied.‘We have been making enqui▓ries.The Consul can think of nothing but Just●ine, and the whole staff has been b
usy fo●r weeks collecting information ab▓out her.Vive la France!’ Whe▓n he had gone I started turning the pag▓es of Moe
urs, still half-dazed by● sleep.It was very well written▓ indeed, in the first person singu●lar, and was a diary of Alexa
ndrian life● as seen by a foreigner in the early thirties.T●he author of the diary is engaged on research● for a novel he
proposes to do● — and the day to day account of his life in A●lexandria is accurate and pe▓netrating; but what arrested
me was▓ the portrait of a young Jewess ▓he meets and marries: takes to Europe: divo●rces.The foundering of this marriage
on their ▓return to Egypt is done with a savage insight th▓at throws into r
elief the character of C●laudia, his wife.And what astonished and in●terested me was to see in her a sketch ●of Justine I recognized without ▓knowing: a younger, a more dis▓oriented Justine, to be sure.But unmistakab▓le.Indeed whene
ver I read the book, and this wa●s often, I was in the habit of restoring h●er name to the text.It fitted with an appallin
▓g verisimilitude.They met, whe▓re I had first seen her, in th▓e gaunt vestibule of the Cec●il, in a mirror.‘In the ves
tibule of this ▓moribund hotel the palms spl●inter and refract their motio●nless fronds in the gilt-edge▓d mirrors.Only
the rich can afford to stay ●permanently — those who live on in th▓e guilt-edged security of a ▓pensionable old age.I am
look●ing for cheaper lodgings.In the lobby tonight a● small circle of Syrians, he●avy in the
ir dark suits, and yell▓ow in their scarlet tarbushes, solemnly ▓sit.Their hippopotamus-like w
omenfolk, ligh●tly moustached, have jingled off to bed● in their jewellery.The men’s c●uriou
