This is not a novel. Nor is it a short story. It is a tale. It begins with a man crossing the world and ends with a lake that is there, on a day with wind. The man's name is Hervé Joncour. It is not known what the lake is called. One could say that it is a love story. But if it were only that, it would not be worth telling.

There are in the middle desires and pain, which you know very well what they are, but you do not have a word to define them. (This is an old habit. When you do not have a word to define things, you use stories instead. It works. It has for centuries.)

All stories have their music. This one has a white music. It is important to say this because white music is a strange music, sometimes it unsettles you... It is like listening to silence being played, and those who dance it well look motionless to you. White music is extremely difficult.

There is not much to add. Perhaps it is good to clarify that this is a story from the 19th century, so that no one expects airplanes, washing machines, and psychoanalysts. There are none. Maybe another time...