Since, while convalescing, I can not move to the Luxembourg Gardens, I close my eyes and move there with my imagination. The transfer is quick because the Gardens are a stone’s throw from the rue de Medicis where I live. Then I start the daily walk through the well-known paths and alleys. One day, when I was walking near the bandstand, I found a handkerchief. It smelled of roses. Surely some lady would have dropped it as though by chance, with the intention that the gentleman who came after her would pick it up and returned it to her, giving thus him a pretext to start a conversation. But the gentleman had passed by. That handkerchief, I reflected, was a symbol of what could have been but won’t be. Suddenly, I heard a commotion. A group of people shouted and gesticulated with indignant attitude. I approached and, as I did it, all eyes turned towards me. Right in the center of the group, there was a nursemaid with the face of Madame Verdurin. She was pointing at me shouting hysterically: “It’s him! It’s him! The one who pinched me!” Immediately, some of the men rushed towards me. For a moment, I vacillated between “cutting and running” and “opening my eyes” thus abruptly interrupting the flight of my imagination. I opted for the latter. But all this worries me. I fear that someone is interfering in my imagination with evil purposes. Maybe everything obeys that misunderstanding with Monsieur Verdurin’s shotgun. When he said “I am bloated”, I understood “It’s unloaded”. In any case, the doctor says his wife will be able to walk again, if only limping.