occurred in June. He had drunk, in the morning, two or three more glasses of wine than usual, because Dr. Chouard had called and he had kept him company at the bar for a considerable while.
It was on these occasions that he wanted Ada most, and he had given her the signal. The scorching air vibrated with the song of crickets, and the sea, in the distance, was motionless, with grey-green reflections like a sheet of cast iron.
Ada had come and slid up against him on the divan. He had decided long since that, if anybody disturbed them, she was to dash up to the first floor and stay there motionless, that if the worst came to the worst, she was to jump out of the window, which wasn't very high.
She did not have a chance. The door was locked, the shutters closed, but the windows remained open, creating a draught without which they would have suffocated. Emile had always been convinced that the shutters could not be opened from the outside and he gave a start when he suddenly saw the sun streaming into the room as violently as water surging through a broken dam.
Berthe cut a motionless silhouette in the rectangle of light, and the flood of sunshine following immediately on the semi-darkness prevented Emile from making out her features, or taking in the expression on her face.
Ada was already on her feet, had picked up her dress and was looking hesitantly at the staircase.
He heard himself say:
'Stay here.'
Berthe still did not move. She was waiting. He got up slowly, ran his fingers through his hair and finally strode over to the door.
Without a word the two of them headed not for the house, but for the plantation, which was not far off, and where a footpath began, the one which, like the path from the kitchen garden, came out at the Flat Stone.
So long as they were in the sun, which dulled their senses, they remained silent, and it was Emile who first, once in the shade of the pines, could no longer hold his peace.
'Well, now you know,' he said, without looking at her.
She was not crying, did not seem to be on the point of an outburst. There was no hint of impending violence.
'All things considered,' he went on, almost lightly, 'it's better that way.'
'Who for?'
'For everybody.'
He felt he was being clumsy, but he could find no other attitude to adopt. It was true that he was relieved. Things could not go on indefinitely as they were.
'Still, I would never have believed that of you.'
She seemed perplexed, overwhelmed. Had she, perhaps, had no inkling of the truth right up to the last minute, and only stumbled across it by chance?
'That girl does not stay in the house another hour.'
He felt, all of a sudden, almost happy. He had feared tears, despair, reproaches. A hundred times he had been tempted to believe that Berthe loved him in her way, and the idea of making her suffer used to upset him.
Yet it was of Ada that she was thinking, with her voice full of cold rancour, like venom.
'Yes, she does!' he replied without thinking, or asking himself what his decision would lead to.
'What do you mean?'
'Simply that if she goes, I go with her.'
Berthe's astonishment was so great that she stopped, rooted to the spot, staring at him with eyes which no longer understood.
'You would leave me for that halfwit?'
'Without hesitation.'
'Do you love her?'
'I don't know about that, but I won't allow her to be thrown out.'
'Listen, Emile. You had better think things over. For the moment you are out of your senses.'
'My mind is made up. I shall not change it.'
'And if it were I who left?'
'I should let you go.'
'Do you hate me?'
'No. I don't think so.'
'Emile!'
In the end she had come to tears, but too late, and they could no longer move Emile.
'Do you realize what you are doing? You are destroying everything, soiling everything . . .'
'Soiling what?'
'Us! You and me! And all because a vicious child has got it into her head to take my place.'
'She is taking nobody's place.'
The words didn't express his exact
It was on these occasions that he wanted Ada most, and he had given her the signal. The scorching air vibrated with the song of crickets, and the sea, in the distance, was motionless, with grey-green reflections like a sheet of cast iron.
Ada had come and slid up against him on the divan. He had decided long since that, if anybody disturbed them, she was to dash up to the first floor and stay there motionless, that if the worst came to the worst, she was to jump out of the window, which wasn't very high.
She did not have a chance. The door was locked, the shutters closed, but the windows remained open, creating a draught without which they would have suffocated. Emile had always been convinced that the shutters could not be opened from the outside and he gave a start when he suddenly saw the sun streaming into the room as violently as water surging through a broken dam.
Berthe cut a motionless silhouette in the rectangle of light, and the flood of sunshine following immediately on the semi-darkness prevented Emile from making out her features, or taking in the expression on her face.
Ada was already on her feet, had picked up her dress and was looking hesitantly at the staircase.
He heard himself say:
'Stay here.'
Berthe still did not move. She was waiting. He got up slowly, ran his fingers through his hair and finally strode over to the door.
Without a word the two of them headed not for the house, but for the plantation, which was not far off, and where a footpath began, the one which, like the path from the kitchen garden, came out at the Flat Stone.
So long as they were in the sun, which dulled their senses, they remained silent, and it was Emile who first, once in the shade of the pines, could no longer hold his peace.
'Well, now you know,' he said, without looking at her.
She was not crying, did not seem to be on the point of an outburst. There was no hint of impending violence.
'All things considered,' he went on, almost lightly, 'it's better that way.'
'Who for?'
'For everybody.'
He felt he was being clumsy, but he could find no other attitude to adopt. It was true that he was relieved. Things could not go on indefinitely as they were.
'Still, I would never have believed that of you.'
She seemed perplexed, overwhelmed. Had she, perhaps, had no inkling of the truth right up to the last minute, and only stumbled across it by chance?
'That girl does not stay in the house another hour.'
He felt, all of a sudden, almost happy. He had feared tears, despair, reproaches. A hundred times he had been tempted to believe that Berthe loved him in her way, and the idea of making her suffer used to upset him.
Yet it was of Ada that she was thinking, with her voice full of cold rancour, like venom.
'Yes, she does!' he replied without thinking, or asking himself what his decision would lead to.
'What do you mean?'
'Simply that if she goes, I go with her.'
Berthe's astonishment was so great that she stopped, rooted to the spot, staring at him with eyes which no longer understood.
'You would leave me for that halfwit?'
'Without hesitation.'
'Do you love her?'
'I don't know about that, but I won't allow her to be thrown out.'
'Listen, Emile. You had better think things over. For the moment you are out of your senses.'
'My mind is made up. I shall not change it.'
'And if it were I who left?'
'I should let you go.'
'Do you hate me?'
'No. I don't think so.'
'Emile!'
In the end she had come to tears, but too late, and they could no longer move Emile.
'Do you realize what you are doing? You are destroying everything, soiling everything . . .'
'Soiling what?'
'Us! You and me! And all because a vicious child has got it into her head to take my place.'
'She is taking nobody's place.'
The words didn't express his exact
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