When they played together in the snow with his two boys, she sensed that he didn’t go endlessly up and down the little hill in order to be with them, nor even to be able secretly to kiss her, but rather because, like her, he loved more than anything the pure air, the sun, shouting and falling into the soft, damp snow. From that moment on they spent nearly all their time together. Hélène felt the most delicious, the most indulgent tenderness towards him, a tenderness that continued to grow, ever intensifying the exciting taste of his kisses. But what she liked most was the feeling of pride he gave her, her awareness of her power as a woman. She so enjoyed seeing Fred choose her over the young women who looked down on her because they were twenty! Sometimes she deliberately distanced herself from him, enjoying his silent fury when, instead of meeting him in the garden where he was waiting for her, she would go and sit beside his wife, eyes lowered, and sew. Then he would grab her by the hair as she ran down the stairs on to the terrace and whisper angrily, ‘So young and already as horrible as a real woman!’

Then he would laugh, and Hélène never tired of seeing the little grimace at the corner of his mouth, the flash of desire that turned his face pale. Nevertheless, he knew what kind of power he held over her.

‘When you’re older, you’ll think of me with gratitude, because if I’d wanted to … First of all, I could have made you suffer so much that it would haunt you for the rest of your life and you would never again have such absolute confidence about love. And also … you’ll understand what I mean later on and you’ll feel a great deal of friendship for me. You’ll say: “He was a good-for-nothing, a womaniser, but with me he did the right thing.” Either that, or: “What a fool he was.” It will depend a lot on what kind of husband you end up with …’

It was nearly spring; the shiny tree trunks, damp and dark, seemed to be coming alive through some secret force. Beneath the thick layer of snow you could hear the first rush of trapped water breaking free; the ditches, no longer covered in fresh snow, were black with dried mud. Every day the sound of the cannons grew clearer: the White Army, the ordinary troops that would later become the army of the new republic, was making its way down from the north.

Everyone had lost their calm and arrogance: in their rooms at night they feverishly sewed shares and foreign money into their belts and the linings of their clothing. Amid this turmoil no one gave a thought to Hélène or Fred Reuss. They sat in the sitting room, where the windows glowed red as soon as night fell, for the fires were getting closer, a moving, pulsating circle that surrounded the village; and when the wind blew in from the east, it brought with it the faint smell of smoke and gunpowder. Hélène and Fred were alone; they exchanged long, silent kisses on the hard little bamboo settee that swayed and creaked in the darkness. The door was open and they could hear the sound of footsteps and voices in the hall. There was a shortage of oil, so the lamp gave off an intermittent reddish glow. Hélène forgot everything else in the world; she was sitting on Fred’s lap; she could feel his heart beneath her cheek; it was pounding, missing a beat; she loved his dark, smiling eyes that closed so sensuously.

‘Your wife … Be careful!’ she would sometimes say, without moving.

But he didn’t hear her; he was slowly drinking in the breath from her parted lips.

‘Ah, leave me in peace, it’s so dark, no one will see us. And besides, I don’t care,’ he murmured, ‘I don’t care about anything …’

‘How quiet the house is tonight,’ she said at last, pulling away from him.

He lit a cigarette and sat down on the window ledge. The night was impenetrable, heavy, without even a trace of light; ice in the shape of teardrops sparkled on the windows. The old pine trees gently creaked; their branches swished with a stifled sound, like someone sighing. Between the trees the light of a lantern suddenly appeared.

‘What’s that?’ Hélène asked absent-mindedly.

Reuss didn’t reply; leaning out of the window, he watched the lights as they moved, for there were many now; they had sprung up all over, flickering, disappearing, reappearing, criss-crossing like dancers in a ballet. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t understand … I can see one, two, three, women’s cloaks,’ he said, pressing his face to the window, ‘but what can they be looking for here? They’re looking for something in the snow,’ he said again, counting each of the little flames that encircled the house, until gradually they disappeared.

He walked back over to Hélène, who sat motionless; she smiled, finding it hard to keep her eyes open: from dawn until dusk they’d played on sledges, skied, raced through the countryside, and these endless kisses … When night fell all she dreamed of was her bed and the long, wonderful hours of sleep until morning.

He sat down beside her and began kissing her again without worrying about the open door. Feeling eager excitement, she basked in these slow, silent kisses, in the reddish glow of the lamp that flickered and smoked, in this perfect security, this lightness, this feeling that the entire world could crumble around them and that nothing would ever be as wonderful as the taste of his moist mouth that she clung to with hers, the way he caressed her with his strong, supple hands. Sometimes she would stretch out her arms and push him away.

‘What’s the matter?’ he would say. ‘Am I frightening you?’

‘No. Why?’ she would reply. And her childlike innocence, as she allowed herself to be kissed like a woman, aroused his desire even more.

‘Hélène,’ he whispered.

‘Yes?’

He murmured something; his words tailed away as if by some mysterious intoxication; his pale skin, his dishevelled hair, his trembling lips terrified her, but what she felt most was the sensation of wild, proud pleasure.

‘Do you love me?’

‘No,’ she said, smiling.

He would never hear a word of affection from her, a confession of love.

‘He doesn’t love me,’ she thought. ‘He’s getting pleasure out of this and it’s only because I don’t act like a docile, silly little girl in love that he still wants me and doesn’t get bored with me.’

She thought she was so wise, so mature, so womanly …

‘I don’t love you, my darling, but I like you,’ she said.

He pushed her away angrily. ‘You little hag, get away, I hate you!’

Madame Haas came into the room.