Of course, on every page of my exercise-books, I wrote out, in endless repetition, her name and address, but at the sight of those vague lines which I might trace, without her having to think, on that account, of me, I felt discouraged, because they spoke to me, not of Gilberte, who would never so much as see them, but of my own desire, which they seemed to shew me in its true colours, as something purely personal, unreal, tedious and ineffective.
Egia da, neure kaieretako orrialde guztietan, behin eta birritan idatzi ohi nituela haren izena eta helbidea, baina, zirriborratzen nituèn lerro lauso haiek ikustean-hark nigan pentsa zezan, ordea, erabat antzuak-, lerro haiek, alegia, nire inguruan hain ageriko esparru zabala harrarazten ziotenak-hura nire bizitzan nahas zedin lortu gabe, ordea-, etsipena sentitzen nuen, ez baitzidaten Gilberteri buruz hitz egiten-hark ikusi ere egingo ez-eta-, baizik eta neure desirari berari buruz, zeina lerrook bere gordintasun osoan erakusten baitzuten, nire apeta neurekoi, eldarniotsu, gogaikarri eta indarge huts gisa.