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  He had had nothing to do with it. At first he attached no importance to it. He was pleased on the whole to have an extra pair of hands in the house, for Madame Lavaud couldn't do everything and custom was expanding.

  'Has your husband seen a doctor?'

  Time was passing, and what marked the passage of the years most of all was still the presence of Madame Harnaud in the house for about a month during the slack season.

  She could not reconcile herself to the idea that her daughter had no children.

  'You ought both of you to go and see one.'

  During the time she was at La Bastide she never ceased to spy on them, without seeming to do so, for to all appearances she was as discreet, as self-effacing as possible.

  'Don't worry about me. You get on with what you have to do. I am quite used to being alone and I'm never bored.'

  She would knit for hours at a stretch, sometimes in one corner, sometimes in another, attentive to every sound, to voices, to the slightest whispers.

  'Is she a local girl? I seem to have see her somewhere before.'

  Ada, by now, wore a white apron over the shapeless black dress which she seemed to have adopted once and for all. For a certain time her hair had been the subject of almost daily dispute.

  'Go and brush your hair, Ada.'

  Ada never answered, which exasperated Berthe. One could not even tell if she had been listening.

  'Say: "Yes, madam!" '

  'Yes, madam.'

  'Well then, go and brush your hair.'

  She wore her hair falling over her neck, and it appeared never to have known the discipline of a comb. It was black, thick like the hair of Chinese women.

  'Have you washed your hair as I asked you? Don't lie to me. If you haven't washed it by tomorrow, I shall put your head under the tap and soap it myself.'

  Madame Harnaud would say of Ada:

  'Don't you think she's a bit mad?'

  'It's possible. I don't know. Her father is a bit queer as well and her mother passes for an idiot.'

  'Aren't you afraid?'

  'What of?'

  'Those sort of people give me the creeps. I knew one like that, a young man who worked for your father, and one fine morning he had an epileptic fit in the middle of the kitchen. The foam dribbled from the corner of his mouth . . .'

  'I asked the doctor . . .'

  'Which one?'

  'Chouard.'

  'He's a drunkard. I hope he isn't the one you call in when you are ill?'

  'No. We see Guerini. Dr. Chouard looks in from time to time to have a carafe of wine.'

  'A bottle or two, you mean! I remember him. What does he think of~ her?'

  'He says there's nothing wrong with her. Just that she is backward.''

  'Backward in what?'

  'Some people, it seems, never grow up mentally past a certain age.'

  'What age has she stopped at?'

  Berthe shrugged her shoulders. Ada had the advantage of not costing much. They did not give her money directly. They paid her wages to her father and he had asked that she should not be allowed any freedom. It was a convenient arrangement. She was always available, day and night, winter and summer alike, and only at distant intervals would she go off to pay a short visit to the house Pascali had built on the outskirts of Mouans-Sartoux.

  It was Pascali who appeared on the terrace every two weeks or so and went into the kitchen, taking off his cap as he did so. He would sit down, always in the same corner, accept the traditional glass of wine, one only, never two, and remain there for half to three-quarters of an hour without anybody having to bother with him.

  He asked no questions, did not kiss his daughter, did not speak to her except to say, each time:

  'Good-bye.'

  As for her, there were some guests who, the first few days, thought she was dumb. If she was not thorough and if she often forgot her orders, she nonetheless tried to do her job, and when she had nothing to do she even looked about for some way of making herself useful.

  They had grown accustomed to her being there, more as one does to the presence of a domestic animal than to that of a human being. She made little noise. On busy days she did not sit down to eat, making do with scraps which she scavenged from plates and dishes returning to the kitchen.

  Berthe had never insisted that Emile should go and see Guerini or any other doctor on the subject of her mother's insinuations. She had been to consult Guerini herself, one day when she had a sore throat. Had she mentioned the other matter?

  It was possible. Emile did not bother his head about it. Since he had been living at La Bastide, he had never needed a doctor, and when he had had influenza, the fourth or fifth winter, he had cured himself with the help of grogs and aspirin.

  Guerini and his wife came every now and then to eat at La Bastide, on evenings when their maid had time off. They were a pleasant young couple. People from Mousans-Sartoux were afraid they might lose their doctor, for they said he was far too intelligent to spend his life in a village, and that he would end up by taking a practice in Cannes or Nice, perhaps by going to Marseilles.

  Orderly, conscientious, he had organized his life wisely. Whereas during the week he was on call at every hour of the day and night, to rich and poor alike, every Sunday, unless there was a storm, he reserved for himself a day of solitude at sea aboard his boat.

  His wife, who understood this need of relaxation, did not accompany him, and stayed at home with their two children. The younger was only a few months old.

  Was a man like that ever a prey to his own thoughts?

  Truth to tell, throughout all this period, Emile had not felt unhappy.

  He had ended by adapting himself to reality. He no longer tried to decide who was master of the house, nor whether his wife treated him as a man should be treated.

  Appearances were good enough for him and he, too, had his boat to which he escaped whenever possible. Apart from this, in the off-season, he had his games of bowls, and, on winter evenings, people from Mouans-Sartoux would come up to play cards with him.

  He did not wonder whether the others were different, nor whether he would have preferred another destiny. Life at La Bastide had gradually fallen into a routine fixed to the hour, almost to the minute. He always went downstairs at the same time, after hearing Ada go down first and get the coffee, and in the kitchen he would find Madame Lavaud, who had just arrived, knotting her apron.

  Every room in the house was done out in turn, and this indicated the rhythm of the days. There were, besides, the summer and the winter rites, which were quite distinct.

  In summer, in July and August only, when they served as many as fifty people at each meal, Maubi's wife lent a hand in the morning and they engaged a waiter to help Ada serve at table, nearly always a young one, a beginner, so as to pay him less.

  Sometimes they were obliged to change waiters twice or three times during the course of the season, as there were some who stole, or who drank, others who were rude to the customers or even to Berthe.

  Thus, behind an apparently peaceful existence, there were constant little dramas, even though these might be nothing more than disputes with the tradesmen or the local workmen.

  In actual fact it was Berthe who saw to all these matters, without ever a murmur. Apart from the marketing and cooking, Emile had no responsibilities and his wife hardly even consulted him when there were repairs or alterations to be considered.

  It was she again who made out the guests' bills, handled the cash, took it to the bank once a week.

  Had he really wanted it to be like this? Hadn't he just let this situation develop through inertia? Had Berthe already become the enemy at this period?

  He would have found it difficult to answer. At any rate his wife's body was more foreign to him after years of marriage than, for example, Nancy's, which he had possessed only once.

  He knew two or three girls, in Cannes, whom he used to go and see every now and then, sometimes during market hours. He was
sure to find them in bed then, because they used to hang about the Casino and the nightclubs, and, being short of time, he would make love to them hurriedly, rather as if he wanted to get his revenge, or to prove to himself that he was a man.

  He did not drink, in the way his father-in-law had done all his life, or again in the way his father and brother still did, but made do with a few glasses of vin rosé during the day, especially in the morning around eleven o'clock, before the rush of lunch.

  He didn't eat with his wife. She was served alone at a table either on the terrace or, if the weather did not allow it, in the dining-room like the guests, at the same time as they.

  The staff had their meals before anyone else, in the kitchen. As for him, it was only when they began serving the cheese and a dessert that he would sink into a chair, having cleared a space at the table, and swallow his meal in front of Madame Lavaud who was already busy washing up.

  That was the routine in summer. In the rest of the year, there were differences, and sometimes, in winter, especially when there was a strong mistral blowing, or when the east wind brought heavy rains, they went for more than a week at a stretch without a single visitor, a single person from outside, except for the postman, crossing the threshold of La Bastide.

  As far as his plan was concerned, it was of no importance, for this plan was based entirely on the summer routine, or to be more precise, on the in-between season, already fairly busy, which came just before the rush of the summer holidays.

  It was during the same season, two years before, that it had all started with Ada. After lunch, Berthe would go upstairs and lie down for an hour or two, like most of the residents. Shutters could be heard slamming all round the house at this hour, and it was the same with all the shutters in Mouans-Sartoux and the entire district.

  Though Emile and his wife slept in the same bed at night, the famous bed of his parents-in-law, which Berthe must have regarded as a symbol, Emile had adopted, for his siesta, either the Cabin, when it wasn't occupied, or a shady nook beneath a fig-tree.

  All this was not without good reason. To start with, he did not like undressing and dressing again in the middle of the day, and his wife insisted on getting in between the sheets. Further, their siestas did not last the same time. And lastly, he sweated freely, which Berthe disliked.

  At all events, without the matter ever being discussed, he had won this period of liberty.

  He would soon become drowsy, but remained half-conscious of what was happening around him, of the time, of the movement of the sun, and certain noises continued to reach him. Fragments of thoughts, no longer connected, passed through his head, becoming more and more shapeless, with sometimes pleasurable distortions.

  Together with the time he spent out at sea these were, decidedly, the best moments of his days.

  Sometimes a desire would sweep over him, especially if he happened to recall Nancy and the Flat Stone, and he had caught himself stretching out his hand into space as if expecting to find a woman's body lying beside him.

  It was a pity, that was all. It would have been agreeable. More precise images would come into his mind, and he generally ended with the consolation of promising himself to pay a visit next day to one of the girls in Cannes.

  He had never thought about Ada. He scarcely noticed that she was a woman. Until the day when, during the afternoon, Berthe had taken the van into town to make some purchases, some sheets and pillowcases ; he could recall it quite clearly.

  His siesta ended, he had gone back to the house and had found Madame Lavaud dozing in her chair, her chin on her chest. Intrigued at not seeing Ada, he had started up the stairs, calling for her softly. Receiving no answer, he had continued up the stairs and opened the attic door.

  The shutters were closed. In the semi-darkness Ada was asleep, naked on her bed, from which she had not drawn back the counterpane.

  He had hesitated, not because of Berthe, but because of Pascali, who frightened him a little.

  He did not want the man's daughter to maintain afterwards that he had taken her by force, or thanks to her being asleep, and, going over to the bed, he had said several times:

  'Ada . . . Ada . . .'

  He was sure she had heard him, but she did not stir, kept her eyes closed, her legs slightly parted.

  Then he had touched her, at first with the tips of his fingers, and he had seen a tremor run through her.

  'Ada . . .'

  Her lips parted, she had sighed without speaking, but he would have sworn she had scarcely been able to repress a smile.

  Anyhow! He had possessed her, suppressing all further reflexion, and he had been startled at the radiant expression which had spread over the wild creature's face.

  Never had he seen such ecstasy in another human being, and suddenly, clasping him frantically in her thin arms, pressing him to her breast with unexpected strength, she had stammered something which could only have meant:

  'At last. . .'

  Then, when, in his confusion, he would have liked to hold back his pleasure, she had begun to sob with happiness, with an interior joy, deep, welling up from within her, a painful joy, at once pure and troubled, the existence of which he had never suspected.

  He just glimpsed her eyes. There were tears, big, childish tears, which had pressed apart the eyelids, and she had quickly closed them again, become motionless once more; then, when he stumbled to his feet, abashed and awkward, she had pulled a length of the counterpane over herself.

  She was feigning sleep once again. Her small bosom rose in a regular rhythm, her hand remained clutching the rough cloth of the bed-cover. One might have thought that nothing had happened, and he had left on tiptoe, closed her door without a sound before going downstairs and standing on the doorstep while Madame Lavaud began to stir in the kitchen.

  V

  IF it was still not the true beginning, that fortuitous event, which, in all sincerity, he had not expected, and which had lasted so short a time in comparison with the rest, was nonetheless to constitute a turning-point.

  Standing on the doorstep, he was invaded by a strange panic, largely of a physical nature, causing an unpleasant trembling of all his nerves. It reminded him, in a confused way, of the Bible, though he did not try to know exactly what: Adam and Eve realizing they were naked, or perhaps God the Father asking Cain what he had done with his brother, or perhaps, again, Lot's wife?

  What had just taken place was no more serious than what took place every week between himself and other girls in Cannes or Grasse. His action had not been premeditated. Any man, in his place, would probably have behaved in the same way, and he was convinced that Ada had been waiting for him to act for a long time.

  What was he afraid of? For he was afraid, with an undefined fear similar to that which seizes animals during storms and great cataclysms. He felt the need to go into the kitchen, to pour himself out a glass of wine, to be near somebody, even Madame Lavaud, whom he did not dare to look at straight away, but asked:

  'My wife isn't back yet?'

  He knew the answer. He would have heard the car.

  'No, Monsieur Emile.'

  She was speaking in her normal voice. She didn't appear to know. And even if she had known? She was on his side. She used to glare balefully at Berthe when the latter had her back turned, Berthe who never lost an opportunity to humiliate her, as she humiliated everybody who came near her.

  It was as if, in his panic, he was seeking a reassuring, plausible reason, and this went on for several days, during which he did not feel himself.

  It was as if he carried around inside him the germ of something still unknown. People who are succumbing to an illness experience the same sort of discomfort and complain of feeling off colour.

  His brief adventure with Nancy had had no consequences of this sort. On leaving the Flat Stone he had felt like singing, pleased with himself and with her. He felt he had won a victory, even if it had no future. He had shown his partner that he was not a child but a man, and
that he was not afraid of a woman. Her body had satisfied him. It was a pleasant memory, warm and voluptuous.

  And later, when he had not found the English-woman at their meeting-place, when he had learned that Berthe had ordered her out of the house, he had clenched his fists in rage, knowing that he would never forgive his wife for it.

  Nevertheless, he had not been disturbed in his innermost being.

  This time, Berthe came back from town without looking at him with a questioning, let alone a suspicious glance. Ada had gone back to her work, so like the Ada of other days that he might well have wondered whether anything had really happened.

  For one instant this had been one of his fears. He did not really know her. He was well aware, he had heard people saying often, that she was not like other girls.

  Might she not have suddenly behaved differently, begun to look at him with love in her eyes, or with reproach, or even run off to her father's to tell him, weeping, what had happened ?

  Then as the hours, the days slipped by, he became more and more convinced that what he had done was necessary, and that what he would do from then on flowed naturally from it, as well as from a kind of fatality.

  There had been several strange, tortured days, which he would not have wished not to live through, which were probably the most important days in his existence, but which left a chaotic and almost a shameful memory.

  This, too, vaguely reminded him of his scripture lessons, of St. Peter betraying three times and the cock crowing.

  In his bed the first evening, for example, beside Berthe asleep, whose warmth he could feel, he was annoyed with himself for having con-promised, by an unpremeditated act, an equilibrium which suddenly seemed to have been satisfactory to him, a routine to which he had become so well adapted that he was frightened at the idea that it could be shattered.

  It was almost certain that he would go on, either of his own accord, or because Ada would demand it.

  Berthe would find out, sooner or later, Berthe, who knew everything that happened, not only in the house, but in the village.