One day, as happy as a child, he picked some blackberries for Francette in a little forest at the edge of the Nivelle river while she ran her bare hands and arms through the water; at every moment they had the magical sense of growing younger, of returning to a kind of forgotten innocence.

There were still a few beautiful days towards the end of September. Yves suggested to Denise that they go to see the celebration in Fuenterrabia: it was an ancient ceremony enjoyed as much by the French as by the Spanish. In Fuenterrabia they fired cannon and rifle shots; there was music and noise and dust; groups of children with berets pulled down over one ear held each other round the waist, blocked the narrow lanes, shouted and sang at the top of their lungs; men on horseback galloped in from all directions at a furious pace; their horses whinnied, frightened by the din and the smell of gunpowder; carts drawn by mules decked out in pompoms and little bells wobbled along the sharp paving stones, rearing up when the enormous cars drove by; all of Biarritz, Saint Sebastian and the Spanish provinces was there, from Irun to Pamplona. Dirty-faced brats were fighting, shouting incomprehensible insults at each other in a cross between Basque and Castilian; beautiful young girls with flowing hair walked by wearing embroidered shawls; the ones from the furthest provinces wore chignons high on their heads and combs decorated with flowers; some of the older women still wore black mantillas. Everyone was laughing, shouting, singing, bickering, bumping into each other round the fountain and outdoor stalls where they sold lemonade, fruit drinks, oranges, floury round cakes, rattles, balloons and fans. A wave of people blocked the narrow street. Denise had fun looking at the shops with their displays of rosary beads, crucifixes and Saints’ medals. The very old houses had overhanging roofs that almost touched above the road; balconies were decorated with shawls, embroidered blankets, lace tablecloths. A swift peal of bells rang out from the old dark gilt church. Yves seated Denise in a small café and bought her some hot chocolate with cinnamon and a sherry; she didn’t like the chocolate: it was too thick and sweet but she drank two or three glasses of the sherry, which was excellent. Her cheeks were hot and her eyes shone. She took off her hat and the sun through her curls made them look light and bluish, like smoke rings. They leaned over the railing to watch the procession go by; it was endless, with flags, rusty old cannons, drunken men who held on to their rifles with trembling hands. Then came the priests in their embroidered chasubles, raising a large image of the Virgin Mary, surrounded by lit candles. The crowd kneeled as they passed by and in the sudden silence the bells rang out even more wildly, making everything shake, or so it seemed, right down to the dark, ancient walls.

Everyone walked to the church; little by little the square began to empty; soon, only Denise and Yves remained on the balcony, along with a group of Spanish peasants who were drinking in a corner of the café. It was nearly dusk, the sky was pink and the mountains seemed closer, full of mysterious, cool shadows. Denise was silent, quite tipsy, her eyes staring intently at the brilliant diamond on her finger. The evening breeze ruffled her hair.

‘My husband is coming back any day now,’ she suddenly said.

Then, immediately embarrassed, upset, ashamed of her lie, she blushed. But he didn’t notice.

‘Soon?’ he asked anxiously.

She made a vague gesture to avoid answering. She noticed, with a rush of emotion, that Yves’s lips were trembling slightly.

‘Will he come to collect you?’ he murmured. Then he immediately added, almost to himself, ‘It’s over … this wonderful holiday is over … I’d forgotten … The first of October is in two days … In two days I’ll be in Paris.’

‘In two days,’ she cried out.

He felt as if his heart had stopped beating. And she thought she must be going mad: had it been a month since she looked at a calendar? Hadn’t she realised that autumn was coming? But then, really, what could it matter to her if he left, this stranger, this man she didn’t really know?

‘Denise,’ he called out softly.

She didn’t dare reply; she could barely breathe. He took her hand and placed it on his warm brow.

‘Denise,’ he simply murmured again.

Then she could hear his voice choked with emotion: ‘I can’t leave you. I can’t live without you now.’

Then, forgetting she should say no, resist, make him desire her, she couldn’t hold back the great tears that rolled down her cheeks.

‘Neither can I,’ she said, ‘I can’t live without you.’

9

THAT EVENING SHE waited for him. She didn’t switch on the light; she sat on the bed, her hands folded between her knees. He had begged her to have dinner with him in Fuenterrabia or in one of those little inns with whitewashed walls nestled in the side of the mountains that, at night, look as isolated as a bandit’s hideout. But they have wonderful Spanish wine, grapes, cool, clean rooms with beds surrounded by mosquito nets and wooden floors warmed by the sun during the day that felt good on your bare feet. She had refused because of Francette, so he had immediately agreed to take her back to Hendaye, without even a hint of resentment.

Oh, their return in a small boat on the Bidassoa river that reflected the shimmering pink of the evening sky … The weather-beaten old sailor with a gold earring in his left ear pretended to be asleep at the oars; the wind carried the taste and scent of salt. When they arrived in Hendaye it was already dark and enormous stars lit up the night. They hadn’t noticed darkness fall: their lips touching, eyes shut, they held each other close as the boat glided gently, silently, over the black water …

Denise put her head between her trembling hands.