Besides, he loved both the wild, free waves and the dazzling light of the Basque country. And the idle, easy life of the best hotels gave him the same pleasant sensation of renewed comfort that you feel when you sink into a bathtub full of warm water after a long train journey.

The day after arriving, Yves left his room at two o’clock; he had taken his time to dress meticulously; he finished lunch almost alone in the immense dining room. In spite of the lowered canvas awnings that shaded the large bay windows, the sun spread through the dining room in waves: gleaming, tawny-coloured, like a fabulous mane of hair. Yves forced himself to resist the childish temptation that came over him to wave his fingers through the golden rays that danced over the tablecloth and cutlery, and lit up his glass of vintage Burgundy as if it were filled with blood and rubies. Nearby, a few Spanish families were finishing their meal, jabbering at the tops of their voices. The women were heavy-set and losing their looks; the young men were very handsome. But almost all of them had wonderful eyes, fiery and lush as velvet, and as he watched them Yves recalled how close Spain was and dreamed of going there in October, to see the pink houses and patios with water fountains again. But, just in time, his hazy daydream was brutally invaded by the annoying reminder of the date when his holidays would end, just as if it were a figure representing the value of the peseta during this month of August in the year of our Lord 1924, so, sadly but sensibly, he looked away, letting his gaze wander off towards the Pyrenees and back to the fat, juicy pear he was peeling. He finished eating it, then went out on to the terrace.

A few people were sitting around wicker tables in groups, drinking coffee and reading the newspapers from Paris or Madrid. Some musicians were lazily tuning up their instruments on a small platform. In the garden energetic teenagers were already playing tennis. The sea breeze filled the large cloth awnings, making them flap like the sails of a boat. Yves walked over to the balustrade to look out at the sea: he never grew tired of it.

He heard someone call out his name: ‘How are you, Harteloup? Have you been here long?’

He turned round and recognised Jessaint. Next to him, in a rocking chair, the young woman he had glimpsed earlier was swaying back and forth. She was dressed all in white, with bare legs and no hat, and wore sandals tied with ribbons on her delicate feet. Beside her, her little girl was romping about on the warm paving stones of the terrace.

‘Do you know my wife?’ Jessaint asked. ‘Denise, this is Monsieur Harteloup.’

Yves bowed; then he replied to the first question he had been asked: ‘I just got here yesterday. That should be obvious,’ he added, smiling as he stretched out his pale Parisian hands.

The young woman began to laugh. ‘You’re right! We’re all as dark as Africans here …’

Then she looked more closely at Yves and continued: ‘Am I wrong or … was it you my little girl threw sand at earlier, on the beach? I should have apologised right away; but I preferred to pretend I thought you were asleep … I was embarrassed to have such a naughty little girl,’ she added, pulling the child close; her daughter raised her round, happy face and looked at her.

Yves put on a gruff voice. ‘So, Mademoiselle, you’re the one who tortures poor little boys who have never done a thing to you?’

The child burst out laughing as she hid her head between her mother’s knees.

‘She seems to be in a good mood,’ said Yves.

‘She’s impossible,’ said her mother, but with much pride in her eyes.

She lifted the tiny round chin buried in her dress. ‘Well, you must forgive us, even though we are very mischievous and very naughty, because we are still very young, isn’t that right, Mademoiselle Francette?’ she said. ‘We’re not even two and a half yet.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Yves, ‘I won’t forgive her.’

He took the pretty little girl in his arms and started throwing her up in the air and catching her; she kicked her bare legs with all her might and squealed with laughter. When Yves pretended to put her down on the ground she begged: ‘Again, again, please, Monsieur’; and Yves, delighted to have a game with this rosy, tanned little bundle, started all over again, even more vigorously than before. Both of them were disappointed to say goodbye when her nanny came to take Mademoiselle Francette to the beach.

‘Do you like children?’ asked Jessaint after the reluctant infant was taken away.

‘I adore them, especially when they are good-looking and healthy and always laughing, like your little girl.’

‘She’s not always like that,’ said Denise, smiling, ‘especially here. The sea goes to her head. She goes from laughter to tears so suddenly and with such ease that sometimes I despair.’

‘What do you call her?’

‘Francette, France, because she was born on the anniversary of the Armistice.’

‘It’s funny that you like children …’ said Jessaint. ‘I’m crazy about my daughter, it’s true, but I can’t stand other people’s children. They make a noise and are deadly boring.’

‘Well, what about yours?’ Denise protested. ‘She makes more noise than an entire school all by herself!’

‘First of all, you’re exaggerating … And besides, she’s mine, as you said, and especially, yours,’ he concluded, lightly kissing his wife’s hand.

Yves looked at him and saw that his face lit up with affection when he spoke to Denise. Jessaint noticed the keen look the young man shot at them; he was afraid that Yves might think such effusiveness was in bad taste.

‘You must think me foolish …’ he said, somewhat embarrassed, ‘it’s just that I’m going away, so I’m feeling rather emotional …’

‘Ah, so you’re going away?’

‘Yes, to London … for a few weeks … I’m leaving tonight.’

Then, feeling guilty for talking too much about himself and his family, he asked: ‘And what about you, my friend, what have you been up to?’

Yves made a vague gesture.

Jessaint continued to explain to his wife: ‘Harteloup and I were at the Saints-Anges Hospital together, in that horrible, gloomy little village in Belgium whose name I forget …’

‘Wassin … or Lieuwassin?’

‘Lieuwassin … that’s it … he was badly smashed up, poor man …’

‘I was shot through the left lung,’ said Yves, ‘but it’s healed now.’

‘I’m so glad, really glad … My leg is still painful; I can’t ride any more.’

‘Have you seen each other since then?’ asked Denise.

‘Yes, occasionally at the Haguets’ and also on the rue Bassano, that’s right, isn’t it? At Louis de Brémont’s place? But I didn’t know you were married, Jessaint.’

‘I wasn’t at the time … just engaged.