Now, the silence felt strange to me. It made me almost uncomfortable. You strained to hear each sound, in spite of yourself; but there was nothing except the rush of water. I went over the footbridge; here you are hit by a cold smell: the water, the darkness, the damp reeds. The night was so clear that you could see the white foam on the fast-flowing stream. There was a light on upstairs: Colette waiting for her husband. The wooden boards creaked beneath my feet; she heard me coming. The door opened and I could see Colette running towards me, but when she was a few steps away from me she stopped.

"Who's there?" she asked, her voice faltering.

I said my name. "You were expecting Jean, I suppose?" I continued.

She didn't reply. She walked slowly towards me so I could kiss her forehead. She wasn't wearing a hat and was dressed in a light dressing gown, as if she had just got out of bed. Her forehead was burning hot; her entire manner seemed so peculiar that I suddenly wondered what was going on.

"Am I disturbing you? I thought I would ask for some supper."

"Well . . . I'd be very happy to," she murmured, "but, it's just that I wasn't expecting you, and . . . I'm not feeling well . . . Jean's away . . . I sent the maid home and had some milk for my supper, in bed."

The longer she spoke, the more confident she became. She ended up telling me a very plausible little story: she had a touch of flu ... if I touched her hands and cheeks, I'd see she had a fever; the maid was in the village, at her daughter's house, and wouldn't be back until the next day. She was very sorry not to be able to offer me a proper supper, but if I would be happy with some fried eggs and fruit ... Nevertheless, she made no move to invite me inside. Quite the opposite. She blocked the door and, when I got closer to her, I could sense she was shaking all over.