TO EVERYONE'S SURPRISE, the photographer, whose fingers are nimble, whose tread is light, whose every movement is small and inconspicuous, has become suddenly, wretchedly, clumsy. Glass plates slip from his grasp and shatter into fragments on the floor. He trips over carpets, over doorstops; he trips as he is walking down the widow's marble hallways. From his darkroom come cries of misery and exasperation. The performers become impatient; many photographs must be retaken. Their necks grow stiff from holding the same stultifying pose.
It is M. Pujol, however, who suffers most. The photographer is forever bumping into him. When he stumbles, it is always in M. Pujol's direction that he falls. The photographer cannot, it seems, refill his wine glass, wash his hands, extract his handkerchief, illustrate a point, without somehow getting in M. Pujol's way. Their soapy knuckles knock against each other in the basin. They reach for the bottle at the same time, and their forearms brush. During the course of a lively conversation, it often happens that the back of Adrien's gesticulating hand will hit M. Pujol in the face.
The flatulent man finds himself apologizing even more often than he usually does. But the photographer is ungracious; though he is the one who always bumps and crowds, he never asks for forgiveness. He never once says, Pardon me. Instead, he skulks behind a caravan, where he furtively examines his knuckles, his arm, the back of his hand, as if it were he who stood the greatest risk of being bruised.