She Who Was No More by Pierre Boileau Page A

prepare him. Thoughtful of her. It’s nothing serious, so don’t he alarmed . Of course not. Nothing serious about death. A change of weight and consistency, that was all. She wasn’t unhappy, Mireille. She would explain it all. She said so. Not that there was a great deal to explain. For the most part, he already understood…
    Yes, he understood a lot of things all of a sudden. His childhood, for instance. The others, his father, his mother, his friends, had all tried to get him entangled, rooted. School, university, exams, jobs—so many snares to get him caught. Even Lucienne was no different. Money. That was all she thought about: money. As though money wasn’t just another load to carry on your shoulders! And the heaviest of all!
    For a practice at Antibes, she might answer. But that didn’t make any difference: she was out for money all the time. What was the practice for if not to bring in money? They weren’t going to Antibes merely to enjoy the sunshine.
    Talking of sunshine, that would of course change everything. It would prevent Mireille from appearing. Didn’t the sun obliterate the stars? Yet they were there just the same. Antibes! Yes, that really would kill Mireille. It was the only way of killing her. At least, it would wipe her from the scene. Had Lucienne thought of that? Was that why she had picked on Antibes? She generally knew what she was about, that girl…
    But now that he had understood, he had no longer the slightest desire to escape to the bright, scintillating south. Of course, if he stayed here, he’d have to overcome his fears. For they were still there, lying doggo for the moment, but only waiting for the right moment to spring at him. It wouldn’t be easy. He’d have to face certain memories without flinching—that bathroom at Nantes. Mireille stiff and cold, with her hair plastered down on her forehead.
    The train swayed from side to side. The journey seemed endless, but at last he found himself on the platform, jostled by passengers and porters. Outside, it was raining. He went to the nearest post office.
    ‘Give me Nantes, will you?’
    The partitions were covered with scribblings—telephone numbers, obscenities.
    ‘Hello! Is that the hospital at Nantes?… I want to speak to Dr. Lucienne Mogard…’
    In the telephone booth he could hear no more than a vague murmur of the busy world all round him.
    ‘Hello? Lucienne?… She’s written to me. She’ll be back in a few days… Who? Mireille of course! Yes, Mireille. She sent me a special delivery… But I tell you she did… No. I’m not out of my mind. And I’m not trying to play on your nerves. I just thought you ought to know… Yes. I realize that. But I’ve been thinking. And a lot of things—but it would take too long to explain… What am I going to do? How should I know?… All right. See you tomorrow.’
    Poor Lucienne! Always wanting to reason things out. All right! Let her try! She’d see for herself. She’d read the letter.
    Or could she? Would it be visible to her?… Of course it would. The postman had seen it, hadn’t he? He’d spoken about it himself. Obviously it must be a real one. It was only its meaning that was not obvious to every Tom, Dick, and Harry. For you had to be able to think in two worlds at the same time.
    Boulevard de Denain . Slanting arrows of luminous rain. The stream of glistening motor cars. Appearances: he knew that now. It was all rather like a café with mirrors all round the walls, till you hardly knew whether you were looking at the real thing or its reflection.
    Night flowed down the boulevard like an eddying flood sweeping everything with it, lights, smells, and human beings. Be frank with yourself, Fernand Ravinel: how many times haveyou not dreamed that you were drowned in this very flood? And if you accepted what was done at Nantes, was it not precisely because it was done with water ? Have you not always been fascinated by water, beneath whose smooth and brilliant