BETWEEN CLOUDBURSTS, Madeleine hears the wobble of wheels being rolled across the lawn. She peers down into the dark, indignantly: Who else is awake?
It is the photographer, who stumbles about during the night as he does during the day, like a somnambulist. He looks up at her and staggers forward, pulling behind him the wagon that holds his photographic equipment. Either he is very tired, or else the load is very heavy.
You should be in bed! Madeleine hisses. It's too late to be taking pictures!
The photographer shuffles on, without heeding her, his forehead gleaming dimly. When he reaches the foot of the caravan, and Madeleine leans over the edge of the roof to shoo him away, she sees that the wagon has been emptied of its canisters, bellows, and bulbs. She sees that the wagon has been filled, instead, with gravel. He has come to help.
This was my idea! hisses Madeleine, from the rooftop.