Without giving a thought to the mud that covered the paths, Denise and Yves walked through the countryside for one last time. Whipped by the storm, leaves were falling from the trees; in this region, where the weather can change incredibly swiftly, one rainy night had managed to transform the sunny landscape of the previous day into a desolate, autumnal scene. Teams of livestock passed by. Great birds followed each other inland from the sea, almost skimming the ground with the sound of swishing wings. Yves and Denise walked down to the old port; its rosy stone steps, polished for so many years by the sea, were as smooth and shiny as marble; reflected in the shimmering water were the ancient ramparts of the city, the small boats, Pierre Loti’s little villa with its overgrown garden and faded green shutters. Yves held Denise close; his face – normally weary and somewhat sad – seemed young again with an expression of passionate tenderness.

It was then that Denise asked him to stay in Hendaye with her for two more days; her voice held a tone of certainty: she was totally confident of his reply. But to her great astonishment he immediately looked worried.

‘But Denise,’ he said, surprised, ‘the day after tomorrow is the 1st of October … My holiday finishes then … In two days I have to be in Paris …’

‘Is someone expecting you back?’

‘My office is expecting me, unfortunately!’

‘Oh, two days more, two days less, what difference would that make?’

‘The difference would be that I’d lose my job,’ he explained quietly.

She said nothing, at a loss for words. She had never thought of asking him what he did. Her husband had told her that Yves was rich; she vaguely thought he had something to do with business, like her husband and all the other men in her social circle, business that women know nothing about unless it is translated into actual sums, most often in the millions. She’d been spoiled as a girl, the only child of a wealthy industrialist, then a young wife doted upon by a husband who earned a lot of money, so certain aspects of the material world, not surprisingly, were unknown to her. She realised that Yves was nothing more than an employee, and the idea of him being a lowly office worker who needed to earn a living shocked and upset her. Did that mean he was poor? But then, how could he afford to stay in Hendaye where he had to be spending at least a hundred francs a day? She didn’t really understand … It is true that sacrificing necessities in order to have certain luxuries was a way of life that would have surprised many people. But when she saw the hardened look that suddenly appeared on the face of her lover, she realised she mustn’t press him further. He was sitting on the steps by the port. She put her hand up to his face. Gently she lowered his unwilling head until it leaned submissively against her body, then she pressed it against her.

‘Yves!’ she said, then whispered, ‘You’ll go when you must … We still have a whole day together, my love …’

‘Not really, Denise … I’m leaving at seven o’clock in the morning.’

‘Ah, now you’re really acting like a madman,’ she cried out, laughing. ‘Good Lord, why wear yourself out for no reason when there’s an excellent train at seven in the evening that will get you to Paris the day after tomorrow in time to go to your office?’

‘Because it only has sleeping cars and I’m travelling second class. I’ve lived the high life here on holiday and now I have to be careful how much I spend … It’s not my fault, Denise, if I’m part of the new poor generation …’ he added, with a kind of awkward pride. ‘You mustn’t hold it against me …’

‘Oh, Yves,’ she said.

Then she shyly added: ‘I think you’re even more precious to me, now that I know you’re not happy …’

He smiled. ‘I’m very happy, Denise; but never take my happiness away, my darling, because now, if you left me, I don’t think I’d be able to live all alone, the way I did before.’

Then he smiled the sweet smile that softened his harsh features and said once more: ‘I’m very happy.’

He pressed his lips against her delicate hand and held it in his for a long time. ‘When will you be back home, Denise?’

‘On the 5th or 6th …’

‘So late?’

‘We’re driving back,’ she explained and suddenly felt somewhat embarrassed that she had such wealth, such luxuries, like the beautiful Hispano-Suiza that would get them back to Paris while Yves was buffeted about in a second-class train compartment.

But all he said was: ‘It’s a beautiful drive … I often did it when I was young … But the roads are bad, especially until you get to Bordeaux … be careful … Don’t go too fast … I’ll be terribly worried …’

11

PARIS: THE TREES shed their yellow leaves that lay rotting in the thick mud on the pavements. The pace of life and the noise were incredible: the Automobile Show attracted the entire country to the capital, as it did each autumn.

Every year – true little Parisian that she was – Denise rediscovered the city with profound, sweet, somewhat silly emotion: the light fog, the smell of petrol and electricity, the misty sky coloured an ‘elegant’ grey above the tall houses, the hustle and bustle of the streets, and towards evening, the flood of lights rushing along the Champs Élysées to the Arc de Triomphe. Normally, as soon as she arrived, she would have a bath, give instructions to the servants, then go out for a long walk. She would return with rosy cheeks from being outdoors, and carrying armfuls of flowers – chrysanthemums and brightly coloured dahlias tinged with the scent of mushrooms and earth. Then she would organise the apartment, put the flowers in the vases, move all the knick-knacks, paintings and cushions around until she had returned the former warmth and familiar charm to the house that, abandoned for three months, felt impersonal and cold.

This year her pleasure at seeing Paris again had something intensely painful about it, something akin to sensuality. She had nearly cried out with joy on seeing Neuilly, and when the Arc de Triomphe appeared on the horizon her eyes had filled with tears. But when she got home, she didn’t even glance at the apartment. She had her bath, slipped on a dressing gown, refused to put on the day outfit her chambermaid laid out for her and went into the little sitting room, her eyes staring at the clock, waiting for her husband to leave, which he did quite soon after. Then she had the telephone brought in to her, carefully closed the door and asked for the number of Yves’s office, her voice trembling slightly.

‘Hello,’ replied a weary voice.

‘Hello, Yves; it’s me, Denise …’

A brief silence.

‘Darling …’ he said, but his tone of voice had barely changed. ‘Did you have a good trip?’

She could sense there was someone standing near him.