All he could do was to remain invisible, there in the South of France. He lay in the long grass, held its sharp-edged blades in his hands, letting his mind drift upward into the surrounding buzz of nighttime insects. He was nowhere, he was out of the world, de Rodellec du Porzic could not touch him, nothing could touch him, he was swept clean of feeling, he was hardly a man, hardly alive at all. ________
