"I have a terrible buzzing in my ear: it's from the wind."

I mentioned the money he owes me. He sighed, pulled a big key out of his pocket and pushed his chair over to the cupboard. But the drawer he wanted to open was much too high; he made several vain attempts to reach it, refused to give me the key when I asked for it and finally said that his wife would surely be home soon and would pay me.

"You have a beautiful young wife, Declos."

"Too young for my old carcass, is that what you think, Monsieur Sylvestre? Well, if she finds the nights long, at least the days pass quickly."

At that moment Brigitte came in. She was wearing a black skirt and a red jacket, and there was a young man with her: the same one who had danced with her at Colette 's wedding. In my mind I finished the old man's sentence: "Quicker than you might think, Declos."

But the old man didn't seem like a fool. He looked at his wife, and his half-dead face lit up with passion and anger. "Well, finally! I've been waiting for you since midday."

She shook my hand and introduced the young man who was with her. He's called Marc Ohnet; he lives on his father's land. He has a reputation for getting into fights and for being a womaniser. He's very handsome. I hadn't realised that Brigitte Declos and Marc Ohnet "stepped out together," as the locals say. But around here, malicious gossip stops at the edge of town; in the countryside, in these isolated houses separated by fields and deep woods, many things happen that no one knows about. As for me, well, even if I hadn't seen that red jacket near the lake an hour before, I would have guessed that these young people were in love: their calm, arrogant demeanour, and a kind of stifled passion concealed in their movements, in their smiles, gave them away. Especially her. She was burning. "She finds the nights long," old Declos had said. I could picture those nights, nights in her old husband's bed, dreaming of her lover, counting her husband's sighs, wondering, "When will he finally stop breathing?"

She opened the cupboard, which I imagined to be stuffed full of money beneath piles of sheets; this isn't the kind of place where we make bankers even richer; everyone keeps his possessions close, like a cherished child. I glanced at Marc Ohnet to see if I could catch a glimmer of envy on his face, for no one's rich in his family: his father was the eldest of fourteen children and his share of the property is small. But no. As soon as he saw the money he quickly turned away. He went over to the window and stared out of it for a long time: you could see the valley and the woods in the clear night. It was the kind of March weather when the wind seems to chase every single speck of cloud and fog from the sky; the stars sparkled brightly above.

"How's Colette?" I asked. "Did you see her today?" "She's fine."

"And her husband?"

"Her husband's away. He's in Nevers and won't get back until tomorrow."

She answered my questions but never took her eyes off the tall, dark young man's face. His whole being looks supple and strong, not exactly brutal, but a bit wild; his hair is black, his forehead narrow, his teeth white, close together and rather sharp. He brought to this dismal room the smell of the woods in spring, a sharp, invigorating smell that brings life to my old bones. I could have gone on walking all night. When I left Coudray the idea of going home was unbearable, so I headed towards the Moulin-Neuf where I would ask to have supper. I crossed the wood; it was totally deserted this time, mysterious in the whistling wind.

I walked towards the river; I had only ever been to the mill in daylight before, when it was working. The noise of the wheel turning-powerful but gentle at the same time-soothes the heart.