Pierre Benoît: Stories

I hear a step outside. It is our Targa guide, the man who in three days is to lead us across the unknown plateaus of the mysterious Imoschaoch. The lamp casts a yellow light on the paper. Strange fate, which, I never knew exactly why, decided one day when I was a lad of sixteen that I should prepare myself for Saint Cyr, and gave me there André de Saint-Avit as classmate. A great insect has flown in through the window. It is an African May bug, big, black, with spots of livid grey...