In the next room a little voice called out: ‘Mama.’ Reluctantly, Denise stood up and went to her daughter. Francette was not asleep; her eyes were shining and she stretched out her arms towards her mother.

‘Mummy, did you bring anything back for me?’

Denise always brought some little trinket back for her daughter, whether she went out for the day or to a ball; but today she had forgotten. Embarrassed for a moment, she quickly recovered. ‘Of course,’ she said confidently, ‘I brought you back the smell of the fair. I nearly lost it on the way home but I didn’t, it’s still here. Can you smell it?’

Looking serious, she leaned in and offered Francette her cheek to sniff.

Francette breathed in as deeply as she could, convinced by her mother’s earnest manner. ‘It smells really good,’ she said.

Then she asked: ‘Mummy, when I’m a big girl, will I be able to go to the fair too?’

‘Of course, my treasure.’

Then she asked: ‘Will I be a big girl soon? Will I?’

‘Very soon, if you’re a good girl.’

Denise was touched and kissed the trusting little hand that was holding on to one of her fingers. She was happy that she felt neither the shame nor the remorse she had feared when looking at this innocent creature who fell so soundly asleep. Of course Francette would be a big girl very ‘soon’. She too would wait at night for her Master.

If she’d had a son, Denise might have been more upset and ashamed. But standing before this future young woman whose lips would one day be sweet and covered in kisses, whose body would be eager for love, she could not understand the extent of her fall from grace. She kissed her, tucked her in, pulled the cover up to her chin and went out, quietly closing the door.

She sat down once more on the unmade bed in her room and waited, head bent, hands clenched, submissive, waiting for the sound of a man’s imperious footsteps.

10

HE HAD LEFT her at dawn. She was sleeping, with her head buried in the crook of her arm. He almost had the impression that he had taken a young girl: she was so awkward, inexperienced and had such a delightful way of overcoming her modesty as she gave herself to him that it was almost as if she were a virgin. He had quickly realised that in spite of marriage and motherhood, she was not yet truly a woman.

Soon afterwards she was taking her time to get washed and dressed, when a telegram was slipped under her door. She grabbed it, opened it:

Arriving Hendaye 3 October. In good health. Kisses.

JACQUES

She lowered her head with a little – but oh so little! – remorse. Then she immediately began to think, to work out the dates … Yves would delay his departure for two days. She would make her husband go back to Paris with her right away; in any case, it was getting colder and Francette was becoming restless because she’d been at the seaside for so long. She would be in Paris on the 4th, the 5th at the latest. Her whole life would change: how happy she was going to be! Gone would be the long days when she gradually killed time with dress fittings and social calls; gone those interminable hours with nothing to do, gone the feeling of emptiness and boredom that poisoned her life and prevented her from being happy. They’d have to find a little hideaway; she knew that Yves had a bachelor flat, but it would be so much more fun to have two beautiful rooms that she would keep filled with flowers and where they would choose all the knick-knacks … And they could go on long walks through Paris! She knew he loved old streets and houses as much as she did; she imagined how good it would feel to wander the riverbanks in the evening, at dusk, when the little lanterns on the barges along the Seine lit up, filling the deserted quays with shadows. With joy she remembered certain little bistros along the still river that she had looked at with curiosity when coming home from visiting someone on the left bank. No one would find them there; they would buy roasted chestnuts from the man at the corner; they would browse in antique shops and find silly souvenirs – expensive and charming – for their hideaway, and books – they both loved very old bound books with yellowing pages and tiny worm holes. Sometimes he would take her to the countryside to the silvery woods in Fontainebleau, and when spring came, she would arrange to have dinner with him outside the city, under an arbour of flowers beside a pond with croaking frogs. For the idea never even crossed her mind that their love might end before spring returned: she was the kind of woman who can only imagine love as eternal. She had given herself to him passionately, completely, with the naïve, boundless confidence of the innocent child she still was, so she naturally expected that he too would give himself entirely to her. She crushed her husband’s telegram, threw it on to the table without another thought and finished getting dressed. A sweet, powerful emotion filled her heart, the profound conviction that she had performed a rite that bound her to Yves for ever, something, in a word, that was akin to the adoring devotion of a wife.

The day passed strangely quickly; wind, rain and sudden flashes of lightning made the sea flare up like an immense expanse of silver.