ABSTRACT
In his apartment on the rue de Médicis, looking out over the Luxembourg Gardens, Francis Poulenc has nearly finished putting stamps on some letters. With his distracted attitude and his arms hanging down by his sides, he looks like Watteau’s Gilles. 1 His large nose is bent to one side like an oar. His loosely held chin pulls his face downwards as if waiting for some new surprise. His eyes betray innumerable nuances of amazement and sleepiness. He is not bothered by his destiny. The blows of fate will find him unmoved and listless.
