He was still afraid of that white face with its red lips, but his fear gave him an exquisite, sensual thrill. Concealed behind a curtain, he let the terror she filled him with pour through his body, until it made him feel ill, his legs shaking as if he had been walking for hours. He would dream that she suddenly caught sight of him and smiled at him, and that his fear would vanish.

And then he had the idea of seducing her with the help of his flute. On warm evenings, he started to play once more. He left the two casements open, and in the darkness he played his oldest tunes, pastorales as sweet and innocent as little girls dancing in a ring. He played notes that were sustained and tremulous, fading away one after the other in simple cadences, like lovelorn ladies of olden days, twirling their skirts. He would choose moonless nights; the square was pitch black, no one knew where such a sweet melody was coming from as it floated past the sleeping houses on the gentle wings of a nocturnal bird. And, on the very first evening, he was startled to see Thérèse as she prepared for bed coming to the window all in white, and leaning there, surprised to recognise this music she had already heard the day she arrived.

‘Just listen, Françoise,’ she said in her grave voice, turning to the interior of the room. ‘It’s not a bird.’

‘Oh!’ replied an old woman, of whom Julien could make out only the shadow, ‘it must be a travelling player having a good time on the outskirts of town – he sounds a long way off.’

‘Yes, a long way off,’ repeated the girl, after a silence, as she bathed her bare arms in the freshness of the night air.

From then on, every evening, Julien started to play louder. His lips swelled the sound, his feverish desire passed into the old flute of yellow wood. And Thérèse, who listened every evening, was astonished to hear this living music, whose phrases, fluttering from rooftop to rooftop, waited until nightfall before launching on their way towards her. She had the strong impression that the serenade was marching towards her window, she sometimes stood on tiptoes as if to see over the houses. Then, one night, the music broke out so close to her that she felt its breath on her skin; she guessed it was coming from the square, one of those old houses wrapped in sleep. Julien was blowing with the full strength of his passion, the flute was vibrating with crystal chimes. The shadows emboldened him to such an extent that he hoped to bring her to him by the force of his song. And Thérèse did indeed lean forward, as if drawn out and conquered.

‘Come back in,’ said the voice of the old lady. ‘It’s a thundery night, you’ll have nightmares.’

That night, Julien couldn’t sleep. He was sure Thérèse had guessed at his presence, had perhaps even seen him. And he tossed and turned feverishly on his bed, wondering whether or not to show himself the following day. To be sure, it would be ridiculous for him to go on hiding. But he decided that he wouldn’t make an appearance, and he was at his window, at six o’clock, putting his flute back in its case, when Thérèse’s shutters abruptly opened.

The girl, who never got up before eight, appeared wearing a dressing-gown, and leaned out of the window, her hair twisted on the nape of her neck. Julien remained thunderstruck, staring straight across at her, unable to turn away; meanwhile his hands clumsily and unsuccessfully tried to take his flute apart. Thérèse was examining him, too, with an unblinking, queenly gaze. She seemed for an instant to study his big-boned frame, his huge, rough-hewn body, his whole ugly appearance, that of a timid giant. And she was no longer the feverish child he had seen the night before; she was haughty and very white, with her black eyes and her red lips. When she had made up her mind about him, with the tranquil deliberation she would have brought to deciding whether or not she liked a dog she saw in the street, she passed sentence on him with a light pout; then, turning her back unhurriedly on him, she closed the window.

Julien, his legs turned to jelly, collapsed into his armchair. And broken words emerged from his lips.

‘Oh God! She doesn’t like me… And I love her, I’m going to die of love!’

He put his head in his hands, he burst into tears. And why on earth had he shown himself? When you are a clodhopper, you hide away, you don’t go round frightening the girls. He cursed himself, furious at his ugliness. Shouldn’t he have continued to play the flute in the darkness, like a night bird that seduces his listeners’ hearts with its song, and must never appear in daylight if it wishes to please? He would have still been for her a sweet music, nothing but the old melody of a mysterious love.