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ture？　Wouldn't　it　look　like　a　sign　of　ill　will？　He　wanted　to　remain　friends　with　her；　after　all！　Yet　getting　into　bed　with　her　was　out　of　the　question。　He　could　just　hear　her　asking　him　ironically　why　he　didn't　prefer　Sabina's　bed。　He　took　a　room　in　a　hotel。
The　next　day；　he　rang　Sabina's　doorbell　morning；　noon；　and　night。
The　day　after；　he　paid　a　visit　to　the　concierge；　who　had　no　information　and　referred　him　to　the　owner　of　the　flat。　He　phoned　her　and　found　out　that　Sabina　had　given　notice　two　days　before。
During　the　next　few　days；　he　returned　at　regular　intervals；　still　hoping　to　find　her　in；　but　one　day　he　found　the　door　open　and　three　men　in　overalls　loading　the　furniture　and　paintings　into　a　van　parked　outside。
He　asked　them　where　they　were　taking　the　furniture。
They　replied　that　they　were　under　strict　instructions　not　to　reveal　the　address。
He　was　about　to　offer　them　a　few　francs　for　the　secret　address　when　suddenly　he　felt　he　lacked　the　strength　to　do　it。　His　grief　had　broken　him　utterly。　He　understood　nothing；　had　no　idea　what　had　happened；　all　he　knew　was　that　he　had　been　waiting　for　it　to　happen　ever　since　he　met　Sabina。　What　must　be　must　be。　Franz　did　not　oppose　it。
He　found　a　small　flat　for　himself　in　the　old　part　of　town。　When　he　knew　his　wife　and　daughter　were　away；　he　went　back　to　his　former　home　to　fetch　his　clothes　and　most　essential　books。　He　was　careful　to　remove　nothing　that　Marie…Claude　might　miss。
One　day；　he　saw　her　through　the　window　of　a　cafe。　She　was　sitting　with　two　women；　and　her　face；　long　riddled　with　wrinkles　from　her　unbridled　gift　for　grimaces；　was　in　a　state　of　animation。　The　women　were　listening　closely　and　laughing　continually。　Franz　could　not　get　over　the　feeling　that　she　was　telling　them　about　him。　Surely　she　knew　that　Sabina　had　disappeared　from　Geneva　at　the　very　time　Franz　decided　to　live　with　her。　What　a　funny　story　it　would　make！　He　was　not　the　least　bit　surprised　at　becoming　a　butt　to　his　wife's　friends。
When　he　got　home　to　his　new　flat；　where　every　hour　he　could　hear　the　bells　of　Saint…Pierre；　he　found　that　the　department　store　had　delivered　his　new　desk。　He　promptly　forgot　about　Marie…Claude　and　her　friends。　He　even　forgot　about　Sabina　for　the　time　being。　He　sat　down　at　the　desk。　He　was　glad　to　have　picked　it　out　himself。　For　twenty　years　he　had　lived　among　furniture　not　of　his　own　choosing。　Marie…Claude　had　taken　care　of　everything。　At　last　he　had　ceased　to　be　a　little　boy；　for　the　first　time　in　his　life　he　was　on　his　own。　The　next　day　he　hired　a　carpenter　to　make　a　bookcase　for　him。　He　spent　several　days　designing　it　and　deciding　where　it　should　stand。
And　at　some　point；　he　realized　to　his　great　surprise　that　he　was　not　particularly　unhappy。　Sabina's　physical　presence　was　much　less　important　than　he　had　suspected。　What　was　important　was　the　golden　footprint；　the　magic　footprint　she　had　left　on　his　life　and　no　one　could　ever　remove。　Just　before　disappearing　from　his　horizon；　she　had　slipped　him　Hercules'　broom；　and　he　had　used　it　to　sweep　everything　he　despised　out　of　his　life。　A　sudden　happiness；　a　feeling　of　bliss；　the　joy　that　came　of　freedom　and　a　new　life—these　were　the　gifts　she　had　left　him。
Actually；　he　had　always　preferred　the　unreal　to　the　real。　Just　as　he　felt　better　at　demonstrations　（which；　as　I　have　pointed　out；　are　all　playacting　and　dreams）　than　in　a　lecture　hall　full　of　students；　so　he　was　happier　with　Sabina　the　invisible　goddess　than　the　Sabina　who　had　accompanied　him　throughout　the　world　and　whose　love　he　constantly　feared　losing。　By　giving　him　the　unexpected　freedom　of　a　man　living　on　his　own；　she　provided　him　with　a　halo　of　seductiveness。　He　became　very　attractive　to　women；　and　one　of　his　students　fell　in　love　with　him。
And　so　within　an　amazingly　short　period　the　backdrop　of　his　life　had　changed　completely。　Until　recently　he　had　lived　in　a　large　upper…middle…class　flat　with　a　servant；　a　daughter；　and　a　wife；　now　he　lived　in　a　tiny　flat　in　the　old　part　of　town；　where　almost　every　night　he　was　joined　by　his　young　student…mistress。　He　did　not　need　to　squire　her　through　the　world　from　hotel　to　hotel；　he　could　make　love　to　her　in　his　own　flat；　in　his　own　bed；　with　his　own　books　and　ashtray　on　the　bedside　table！
She　was　a　modest　girl　and　not　particularly　pretty；　but　she　admired　Franz　in　the　way　Franz　had　only　recently　admired　Sabina。　He　did　not　find　it　unpleasant。　And　if　he　did　perhaps　feel　that　trading　Sabina　for　a　student　with　glasses　was　something　for　a　comedown；　his　innate　goodness　saw　to　it　that　he　cared　for　her　and　lavished　on　her　the　paternal　love　that　had　never　had　a　true　outlet　before；　given　that　Marie…Anne　had　always　behaved　less　like　his　daughter　than　like　a　copy　of　Marie…Claude。
One　day；　he　paid　a　visit　to　his　wife。　He　told　her　he　would　like　to　remarry。
Marie…Claude　shook　her　head。
But　a　divorce　won't　make　any　difference　to　you！　You　won't　lose　a　thing！　I'll　give　you　all　the　property！　
I　don't　care　about　property；　she　said。
Then　what　do　you　care　about？　
Love；　she　said　with　a　smile。
Love？　Franz　asked　in　amazement。
Love　is　a　battle；　said　Marie…Claude；　still　smiling。　And　I　plan　to　go　on　fighting。　To　the　end。　
Love　is　a　battle？　said　Franz。　Well；　I　don't　feel　at　all　like　fighting。　And　he　left。
10
After　four　years　in　Geneva；　Sabina　settled　in　Paris；　but　she　could　not　escape　her　melancholy。　If　someone　had　asked　her　what　had　come　over　her；　she　would　have　been　hard　pressed　to　find　words　for　it。
When　we　want　to　give　expression　to　a　dramatic　situation　in　our　lives；　we　tend　to　use　metaphors　of　heaviness。　We　say　that　something　has　become　a　great　burden　to　us。　We　either　bear　the　burden　or　fail　and　go　down　with　it；　we　struggle　with　it；　win　or　lose。　And　Sabina—what　had　come　over　her？　Nothing。　She　had　left　a　man　because　she　felt　like　leaving　him。　Had　he　persecuted　her？　Had　he　tried　to　take　revenge　on　her？　No。　Her　drama　was　a　drama　not　of　heaviness　but　of　lightness。　What　fell　to　her　lot　was　not　the　burden　but　the　unbearable　lightness　of　being。
Until　that　time；　her　betrayals　had　filled　her　with　excitement　and　joy；　because　they　opened　up　new　paths　to　new　adventures　of　betrayal。　But　what　if　the　paths　came　to　an　end？　One　could　betray　one's　parents；　husband；　country；　love；　but　when　parents　husband；　country；　and　love　were　gone—what　was　left　to　betray？
Sabina　felt　emptiness　all　around　her。　What　if　that　emptiness　was　the　goal　of　all　her　betrayals？
Naturally　she　had　not　realized　it　until　now。　How　could　she　have？　The　goals　we　pursue　are　always　veiled。　A　girl　who　longs　for　marriage　longs　for　something　she　knows　nothing　about。　The　boy　who　hankers　after　fame　has　no　idea　what　fame　is。　The　thing　that　gives　our　every　move　its　meaning　is　always　totally　unknown　to　us。　Sabina　was　unaware　of　the　goal　that　lay　behind　her　longing　to　betray。　The　unbearable　lightness　of　being—was　that　the　goal？　Her　departure　from　Geneva　brought　her　considerably　closer　to　it。
Three　years　after　moving　to　Paris；　she　received　a　letter　from　Prague。　It　was　from　Tomas's　son。　Somehow　or　other　he　had　found　out　about　her　and　got　hold　of　her　address；　and　now　he　was　writing　to　her　as　his　father's　closest　friend。　He　informed　her　of　the　deaths　of　Tomas　and　Tereza。　For　the　past　few　years　they　had　been　living　in　a　village；　where　Tomas　was　employed　as　a　driver　at　a　collective　farm。　From　time　to　time　they　would　drive　over　to　the　next　town　and　spend　the　night　in　a　cheap　hotel。　The　road　there　wound　through　some　hills；　and　their　pickup　had　crashed　and　hurtled　down　a　steep　incline。　Their　bodies　had　been　crushed　to　a　pulp。　The　police　determined　later　that　the　brakes　were　in　disastrous　condition。
She　could　not　get　over　the　news。　The　last　link　to　her　past　had　been　broken。
According　to　her　old　habit；　she　decided　to　calm　herself　by　taking　a　walk　in　a　cemetery。　The　Montparnasse　Cemetery　was　the　closest。　It　was　all　tiny　houses；　miniature　chapels　over　each　grave。　Sabina　could　not　understand　why　the　dead　would　want　to　have　imitation　palaces　built　over　them。　The　cemetery　was　vanity　transmogrified　into　stone。　Instead　of　growing　more　sensible　in　death；　the　inhabitants　of　the　cemetery　were　sillier　than　they　had　been　in　life。　Their　monuments　were　meant　to　display　how　important　they　were。　There　were　no　fathers；　brothers；　sons；　or　grandmothers　buried　there；　only　public　figures；　the　bearers　of　titles；　degrees；　and　honors；　even　the　postal　clerk　celebrated　his　chosen　profession；　his　social　significance—his　dignity。
Walking　along　a　row　of　graves；　she　noticed　people　gathering　for　a　burial。　The　funeral　director　had　an　armful　of　flowers　and　was　giving　one　to　each　mourner。　He　handed　one　to　Sabina　as　well。　She　joined　the　group。　They　made　a　detour　past　many　monuments　before　they　came　to　the　grave；　free　for　the　moment　of　its　heavy　gravestone。　She　leaned　over　the　hole。　It　was　extremely　deep。　She　dropped　in　the　flower。　It　sailed　down　to　the　coffin　in　graceful　somersaults。　In　Bohemia　the　graves　were　not　so　deep。　In　Paris　the　graves　were　deeper；　just　as　the　buildings　were　taller。　Her　eye　fell　on　the　stone；　which　lay　next　to　the　grave。　It　chilled　her；　and　she　hurried　home。
She　thought　about　that　stone　all　day。　Why　had　it　horrified　her　so？
She　answered　herself：　When　graves　are　covered　with　stones；　the　dead　can　no　longer　get　out。
But　the　dead　can't　get　out　anyway！　What　difference　does　it　make　whether　they're　covered　with　soil　or　stones？
The　difference　is　that　if　a　grave　is　covered　with　a　stone　it　means　we　don't　want　the　deceased　to　come　back。　The　heavy　stone　tells　the　deceased；　Stay　where　you　are！　
That　made　Sabina　think　about　her　father's　grave。　There　was　soil　above　his　grave　with　flowers　growing　out　of　it　and　a　maple　tree　reaching　down　to　it；　and　the　roots　and　flowers　offered　his　corpse　a　path　out　of　the　grave。　If　her　father　had　been　covered　with　a　stone；　she　would　never　have　been　able　to　communicate　with　him　after　he　died；　and　hear　his　voice　in　the　trees　pardoning　her。
What　was　it　like　in　the　cemetery　where　Tereza　and　Tomas　were　buried？
Once　more　she　started　thinking　about　them。　From　time　to　time　they　would　drive　over　to　the　next　town　and　spend　the　night　in　a　cheap　hotel。　That　passage　in　the　letter　had　caught　her　eye。　It　meant　they　were　happy。　And　again　she　pictured　Tomas　as　if　he　were　one　of　her　paintings：　Don　Juan　in　the　foreground；