"
Lingard seemed not to have heard a word. His chin rested on his breast.
D'Alcacer appraised the remaining length of his cigarette and went on in
an equable tone through which pierced a certain sadness:
"No, there are not many of them. And yet they are all. They decorate our
life for us. They are the gracious figures on the drab wall which lies
on this side of our common grave. They lead a sort of ritual dance, that
most of us have agreed to take seriously. It is a very binding agreement
with which sincerity and good faith and honour have nothing to do.
Very binding. Woe to him or her who breaks it. Directly they leave the
pageant they get lost."
Lingard turned his head sharply and discovered d'Alcacer looking at him
with profound attention.
"They get lost in a maze," continued d'Alcacer, quietly. "They wander in
it lamenting over themselves. I would shudder at that fate for anything
I loved. Do you know, Captain Lingard, how people lost in a maze end?"
he went on holding Lingard by a steadfast stare. "No? . . . I will
tell you then. They end by hating their very selves, and they die in
disillusion and despair."
As if afraid of the force of his words d'Alcacer laid a soothing hand
lightly on Lingard's shoulder. But Lingard continued to look into the
embers at his feet and remained insensible to the friendly touch.
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