meanwhile my father was making the most of his time with Elsa. After two hours, when I was tired of sunbathing, I went up to the terrace and sitting down in a chair, opened a newspaper.
At that moment Anne appeared from the direction of the wood. She was running, clumsily, heavily, her elbows close to her sides. I had a sudden, ghastly impression of an old woman running towards me, and that she was about to fall down. I did not move; she disappeared behind the house near the garage. In a flash I understood, and I too began running to catch her.
She was already in her car starting it up. I rushed over and clutched at the door.
"Anne," I cried. "Don't go, it's all a mistake, it's my fault. I'll explain everything."
She paid no attention to me, but bent to take the brake off.
"Anne, we need you!"
She straightened up, and I saw that her face was distorted: she was crying. Then I realised that I had attacked a living, sensitive creature, not just an entity. She too must once have been a rather secretive little girl, then an adolescent, and after that a woman. Now she was forty, and all alone. She loved a man, and had hoped to spend ten or twenty happy years with him. As for me . . . that poor miserable face was my work. I was petrified; I trembled all over as I leant against the door.
"You have no need of anyone," she murmured. "Neither you nor he."
The engine was running. I was desperate, she couldn't go like that!
"Forgive me! I beg you ..."
"Forgive you? What for?"
The tears were streaming down her face. She did not seem to notice them.
"My poor child!"
She laid her hand against my cheek for a moment, then drove away. I saw her car disappearing round the side of the house. I was irretrievably lost. It had all happened so quickly. I thought of her face.
I heard steps behind me: it was my father. He had taken the time to remove the imprint of Elsa's lipstick from his face, and brush the pine needles from his suit. I turned round and threw myself on him.
"You beast!"
I began to sob.
"But what's the matter? Where is Anne? Cécile, tell me, Cécile!"
11
We did not meet again until dinner. Both of us were nervous at being suddenly alone together, and neither he nor I had any appetite. We realised it was necessary to get Anne back. I could not bear to think of the look of horror on her face before she left, of her distress and my own responsibility. All my cunning manoeuvres and carefully laid plans were forgotten. I was thrown completely off my balance, and I could see from his expression that my father felt the same.
"Do you think," he said, "that she'll stay away from us for long?"
"I expect she's gone to Paris," I said.
"Paris," murmured my father in a dreamy voice.
"Perhaps we shall never see her again."
He seemed at a loss for words, and took my hand across the table.
"You must be terribly angry with me. I don't know what came over me. On the way back through the woods I kissed Elsa, and just at that moment Anne must have arrived."
I was not listening. The figures of Elsa and my father embracing under the pines seemed theatrical and unreal to me, and I could not visualise them. The only vivid memory of that day was my last glimpse of Anne's face with its look of grief and betrayal.
I took a cigarette from my father's packet and lit it. Smoking during meals was a thing Anne could not bear.
I smiled at my father:
"I understand very well, it's not your fault. It was a momentary lapse, as they say. But we must get Anne to forgive us, or rather you."
"What shall we do?" he asked me.
He looked far from well. I felt sorry for him and for myself too. After all, what was Anne up to, leaving us in the lurch like that, making us suffer for one moment of folly? Hadn't she a duty towards us?
"Let's write to her," I said. "And ask her forgiveness."
"What a wonderful idea," said my father.
At last he had found some means of escape from the stupor and remorse of the past three hours. Without waiting to
At that moment Anne appeared from the direction of the wood. She was running, clumsily, heavily, her elbows close to her sides. I had a sudden, ghastly impression of an old woman running towards me, and that she was about to fall down. I did not move; she disappeared behind the house near the garage. In a flash I understood, and I too began running to catch her.
She was already in her car starting it up. I rushed over and clutched at the door.
"Anne," I cried. "Don't go, it's all a mistake, it's my fault. I'll explain everything."
She paid no attention to me, but bent to take the brake off.
"Anne, we need you!"
She straightened up, and I saw that her face was distorted: she was crying. Then I realised that I had attacked a living, sensitive creature, not just an entity. She too must once have been a rather secretive little girl, then an adolescent, and after that a woman. Now she was forty, and all alone. She loved a man, and had hoped to spend ten or twenty happy years with him. As for me . . . that poor miserable face was my work. I was petrified; I trembled all over as I leant against the door.
"You have no need of anyone," she murmured. "Neither you nor he."
The engine was running. I was desperate, she couldn't go like that!
"Forgive me! I beg you ..."
"Forgive you? What for?"
The tears were streaming down her face. She did not seem to notice them.
"My poor child!"
She laid her hand against my cheek for a moment, then drove away. I saw her car disappearing round the side of the house. I was irretrievably lost. It had all happened so quickly. I thought of her face.
I heard steps behind me: it was my father. He had taken the time to remove the imprint of Elsa's lipstick from his face, and brush the pine needles from his suit. I turned round and threw myself on him.
"You beast!"
I began to sob.
"But what's the matter? Where is Anne? Cécile, tell me, Cécile!"
11
We did not meet again until dinner. Both of us were nervous at being suddenly alone together, and neither he nor I had any appetite. We realised it was necessary to get Anne back. I could not bear to think of the look of horror on her face before she left, of her distress and my own responsibility. All my cunning manoeuvres and carefully laid plans were forgotten. I was thrown completely off my balance, and I could see from his expression that my father felt the same.
"Do you think," he said, "that she'll stay away from us for long?"
"I expect she's gone to Paris," I said.
"Paris," murmured my father in a dreamy voice.
"Perhaps we shall never see her again."
He seemed at a loss for words, and took my hand across the table.
"You must be terribly angry with me. I don't know what came over me. On the way back through the woods I kissed Elsa, and just at that moment Anne must have arrived."
I was not listening. The figures of Elsa and my father embracing under the pines seemed theatrical and unreal to me, and I could not visualise them. The only vivid memory of that day was my last glimpse of Anne's face with its look of grief and betrayal.
I took a cigarette from my father's packet and lit it. Smoking during meals was a thing Anne could not bear.
I smiled at my father:
"I understand very well, it's not your fault. It was a momentary lapse, as they say. But we must get Anne to forgive us, or rather you."
"What shall we do?" he asked me.
He looked far from well. I felt sorry for him and for myself too. After all, what was Anne up to, leaving us in the lurch like that, making us suffer for one moment of folly? Hadn't she a duty towards us?
"Let's write to her," I said. "And ask her forgiveness."
"What a wonderful idea," said my father.
At last he had found some means of escape from the stupor and remorse of the past three hours. Without waiting to
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