For all over the world lovers the 1999 has begun with a mourning. On January 14th at the Mougins Hospital in France, Raymond Peynet died, the creator of “les amoureux”, a poetic couple of fiancé. Peynet was ninety years old and lived in Antibes, in the Côte d'Azur. His physical decline has been noticed only in 1996, when his wife Denise died, indissoluble life companion. I met and interviewed Peynet in Milan, at the presentation of a book of his. It was on December 1968, an important year if you think about it was the year of the French May and of the young protest. No, “les amourex” haven't been on barricades. In that month of whole spring, they went by woods and gardens hand in hand. “Convince yourself, monsieur - Peynet told me - barricades failed because there was not the will to throw stones and Molotov bombs. By the means of violence not all can be obtained. For example, you cannot get the woman's love. And the young that have upset Paris, courts girls too, they wish them...” It was 1942 when Peynet, son of a trader of wood and coal, young designer of labels for perfumes and candies, made his first vignette. By then France showed a very sad panorama: nazi at home, the wounds of the military defeat, tons of bombs from sky. In the public park of Valence, Peynet stopped and stared at an lonesome “kiosque à musique”. The romantic ruin fascinated him. He drew a spare violinist, bowler and redingote dressed. The other players got far, chairs round were empty. “Don't worry - said the violinist to his mates - I will end alone “. Title of the vignette: “The Incomplete”. The Peynet's world stopped there, under the shelter of the “kiosque à musique”, liberty lampshade sharpened. By then Europe was in war and it was a cruel and spectral continent. When we met at Milan it was a restless continent among beards and long hairs. What's the matter? Love topic does not have time. The 1942 violinist has become “the poet”. It has given to her, as Adam and Eve, a slight girl, pony tail hair-styled. Their earthly paradise did not change anymore. It was learnt by heart: aerial aviary, clouds of hearts, impertinent bustle of cupids, close net of vine shoot, sugar schools as in tales, where the main teaching subject was gallantry. But let's get back to that Milanese evening.I went on, I tried to opposite my scepticism with the tender of Peynet. I told him : “Why don't you get far from your 'amoureux'? Which battle do you want to carry out in a world where there's so few place for whispers, poetry and romanticism?” He answered me showing me two vignette with a little updating, only some thrill of the world laying siege to “les amoureux”. In one vignette “he”, the poet, gets under “her” window with a very little packet in hands. “Have you brought me some chocolates?”. “No, I've brought you a miniskirt “. In the other vignette, “he” soars, wearing the James Bond's pressure suit, accompanied by a flight of swallows with three roses in hand. The destination of the fly was the very high garret where “she” was waiting for him. The joke was: “I've answered to your recall within 007 seconds”.“Love - Peynet says - is necessary for life as well as the blood flowing in the veins “. - Can you image human being without love? “ Without love we would be only stunned and miserable beings “. - But there are also the changes progress imposes... “I know very well that progress cannot be stopped, but not for that love will be destroyed“. Now that Raymond Peynet is dead, that evening of so many years ago at Milan seems to be still more far. The images of the “amoureux” have gone round the world, have decorated foulards, ashtrays, chinaware, bottles of scents, boxes of sweets. “Les amoureux” have become plastic dolls reproduced in millions copies. In honour of Peynet and his two personages two museums have arisen, one in Alvernia and the other opened some months ago at Antibes. That evening at Milan, in the last pages of the book being presented, I saw the couple of the “amoureux” getting married and having a baby. By then I wrote, and I repeat it now, that the fans of Peynet could live in peace. All keeps still as before : a little of dream, a little of irony and the usual grace. And the baby, to be coherent, sleeps in the train of a “rocking grand piano “.