She quickly said a few banal things, then anxiously asked: ‘I’ll see you today, won’t I?’

‘Of course. I’d be delighted … I’m free after six-thirty.’

‘Not before then?’

‘Absolutely impossible.’

She knew very well that he had no choice but to speak the way he did: he was not alone; she could hear the murmur of conversations in the background. Nevertheless, such coldness coming from Yves chilled her, hurt her.

‘Well, then, six-thirty,’ she agreed. ‘Do you want to meet near your office?’

‘Yes.’

Then he quickly added in a low voice: ‘Square de l’Opéra. There’s a quiet little bar where no one ever goes. They have excellent port. It’s just opposite my office. Shall we meet there?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good. See you there.’

Then she heard the brief click that ended their conversation. She slowly replaced the receiver, her heart suddenly heavy with an inexplicable feeling of disappointment and unease. Did he love her? Her hope was so intense that she wanted to see it as a certainty. And besides, she loved him so much, so very much …

It was four o’clock. She took her time getting dressed, carefully, with fresh attention to detail and a new way of intently studying her face and body in the mirror that alone was enough to give away that she was in love. But she was still ready early. She picked up a book, leafed through it without reading it and tossed it aside. Then she started to smooth out her unruly curls and changed her hat. Finally, at six o’clock, she went out.

She arrived at their meeting place just after six-thirty because there was a lot of traffic in Paris; but Yves wasn’t there yet. She sat down at a small table hidden away in a corner. It was an English bar, tiny, sparkling clean, with a serious, ‘respectable’ look about it. It was almost empty; one couple sat at a nearby table smoking and staring into each other’s eyes in silence.

Denise ordered a glass of port and waited. She felt embarrassed, nervous; she blushed intensely when the barman brought her some magazines. When he glanced discreetly at her, he looked blasé but a little sorry for her, as if he were thinking: ‘Not another one.’

Finally Yves appeared. She felt as if her heart might leap out of her chest.

‘Are you well?’ she whispered in a quiet, toneless voice.

‘Denise,’ was all he said. But he looked overcome with emotion; he kissed her hand passionately. ‘At last you’re here with me.’

She smiled.

‘Are you happy to see me? You sounded so cold earlier on the telephone.’

‘What?’ he asked, surprised. ‘Didn’t you realise there were people all around me?’

‘Yes, but …’

He had sat down; he began asking her questions about her trip, how she was, with an intense look of tenderness and happiness in his eyes. But she glanced at him furtively, sadly; he seemed weary, older, with dark circles under his eyes and a bitter expression round his mouth. Something indefinable was missing: that air of youthfulness, of elegance that men lose as soon as they can no longer take trouble over their appearance. She recalled how impeccable he had looked when he came down to dinner in Hendaye after bathing and shaving: like a young Englishman in his evening suit, his dinner jacket showing off his attractive body.

‘Do you want to come back to my apartment?’ he asked.

‘I’d like to very much but I have to be home at seven o’clock … My husband is always home by then …’

‘Ah! Never mind then,’ he said, annoyed.

‘Does your office close so late every day, Yves?’ she asked.

He made a weary gesture. ‘Oh, I’ll work something out … but it will be difficult …’

Then, with a kind of forced cheerfulness, he added: ‘I’m free tomorrow, Denise, completely free … It’s Saturday and I only work a five-day week … You’ll come and see me, won’t you, my darling?’

‘Oh, how could you doubt it? Of course I will …’

It was five to seven.