Afterwards, going up the great gallery, I discovered the room where the Great Meaulnes fell asleep for a moment, during this mysterious feast where he met for the first time, Irene, that woman with the mysterious perfume, who was the woman of his life. At the beginning of this century, it was the Belle Epoque, carefree; the Great War had not yet ravaged hearts and souls. Leaving my gaze drifting towards the window, I lost myself in the contemplation of the park with its majestic trees, pierced by light. Adjacent to the bedroom, a small salon invited the writer to settle there, waiting for inspiration to crystallize...