at Clermont-Ferrand. The girl, so the story went, had turned out badly, and although there were few details to go on, some men claimed to have met her in Paris on her beat near the Bastille.
One fine day, Pascali, alone and already ageing, had installed himself not far from Mouans-Sartoux, in an abandoned hut, and had begun working at his craft for people in the neighbourhood.
Then, to everybody's amazement, he had bought a piece of land on the hill and had begun, in his spare time, to build himself a house.
He was never seen at the cafe. He did not play bowls, had no friends. He came to buy his own food and his daily bottle of wine, and everyone regarded him as a kind of savage, some even wondered whether he were not a little mad.
His house finished, he had disappeared for several days and returned with a woman twenty-five years younger than himself, who brought a small girl with her.
Since then, it was still he who did the shopping, the woman virtually never setting foot in the village. One day when the postman had a tax form to deliver, he had tried in vain to open the door. As he heard movements in the house, he had called:
'Francesca!'
She had finally replied with a grunt.
'Open the door, Francesca; I have a letter for your husband.'
'Slip it under the door.'
'Can't you open it?'
'I haven't got the key.'
It was in this way that they learned that Pascali used sometimes to lock his wife in. As for the origin of the rumour that he had disfigured her on purpose, so as to make her ugly and discourage other men, that was more difficult.
Anyhow, before this same Pascali came to present his daughter as a servant at La Bastide, an incident involving a woman had served more or less as a trial of strength between Emile and Berthe.
There were eight residents in the house at the time, including two children from near Paris with their mother, who was the wife of a building contractor.
Had the guests noticed the game that went on?
An Englishwoman had stepped off the bus, at the bottom of the road, and had mounted the slope carrying her own cases. She could have been equally twenty-five or thirty years old, or even thirty-five. As, bathed in sweat, she came up to the bar mounted on the wine-presses, she had ordered in a somewhat hoarse voice:
'A double scotch!'
It was four o'clock in the afternoon and it was Emile behind the counter, in his white jacket. He could remember that it was very hot and he was not wearing his chef's cap. He remembered, too, the large circles of perspiration under the new arrival's arms.
'Do you have a room free?'
She had picked up a spoon to remove the ice which, out of habit, he had put into the whisky.
'For how long?'
'Till I get bored.'
Might one not almost think Berthe had antennae of her own? She was busy doing her accounts at a small table near the window. From where she sat, she nonetheless called loudly:
'Don't forget, Emile, the last room is taken for Saturday.'
It was not entirely correct. The truth was that on certain Saturdays, a lawyer from Nice, who was married, used to come and spend the night with his secretary. It was never definitely arranged. And when there was no room available at La Bastide, the couple had no trouble in finding one in some hotel or other on the Esterel.
'It hasn't been confirmed,' he had replied.
And, to the newcomer:
'If you like I will show you the room.'
Leading the way up the stairs, he had opened a door. The Englishwoman had scarcely glanced inside. On the contrary, she had asked, as though she guessed a good many other things besides:
'Is that your wife?'
IV
A FTER twenty-four hours he still did not know whether he was attracted to her by physical desire or whether he was anxious to prove to her that he was not just the small boy she pretended to see in him.
She was called Nancy Moore, and according to her passport was; thirty-two years old. She was really a journalist.
'I write stupid stories for stupid magazines in which wretched
One fine day, Pascali, alone and already ageing, had installed himself not far from Mouans-Sartoux, in an abandoned hut, and had begun working at his craft for people in the neighbourhood.
Then, to everybody's amazement, he had bought a piece of land on the hill and had begun, in his spare time, to build himself a house.
He was never seen at the cafe. He did not play bowls, had no friends. He came to buy his own food and his daily bottle of wine, and everyone regarded him as a kind of savage, some even wondered whether he were not a little mad.
His house finished, he had disappeared for several days and returned with a woman twenty-five years younger than himself, who brought a small girl with her.
Since then, it was still he who did the shopping, the woman virtually never setting foot in the village. One day when the postman had a tax form to deliver, he had tried in vain to open the door. As he heard movements in the house, he had called:
'Francesca!'
She had finally replied with a grunt.
'Open the door, Francesca; I have a letter for your husband.'
'Slip it under the door.'
'Can't you open it?'
'I haven't got the key.'
It was in this way that they learned that Pascali used sometimes to lock his wife in. As for the origin of the rumour that he had disfigured her on purpose, so as to make her ugly and discourage other men, that was more difficult.
Anyhow, before this same Pascali came to present his daughter as a servant at La Bastide, an incident involving a woman had served more or less as a trial of strength between Emile and Berthe.
There were eight residents in the house at the time, including two children from near Paris with their mother, who was the wife of a building contractor.
Had the guests noticed the game that went on?
An Englishwoman had stepped off the bus, at the bottom of the road, and had mounted the slope carrying her own cases. She could have been equally twenty-five or thirty years old, or even thirty-five. As, bathed in sweat, she came up to the bar mounted on the wine-presses, she had ordered in a somewhat hoarse voice:
'A double scotch!'
It was four o'clock in the afternoon and it was Emile behind the counter, in his white jacket. He could remember that it was very hot and he was not wearing his chef's cap. He remembered, too, the large circles of perspiration under the new arrival's arms.
'Do you have a room free?'
She had picked up a spoon to remove the ice which, out of habit, he had put into the whisky.
'For how long?'
'Till I get bored.'
Might one not almost think Berthe had antennae of her own? She was busy doing her accounts at a small table near the window. From where she sat, she nonetheless called loudly:
'Don't forget, Emile, the last room is taken for Saturday.'
It was not entirely correct. The truth was that on certain Saturdays, a lawyer from Nice, who was married, used to come and spend the night with his secretary. It was never definitely arranged. And when there was no room available at La Bastide, the couple had no trouble in finding one in some hotel or other on the Esterel.
'It hasn't been confirmed,' he had replied.
And, to the newcomer:
'If you like I will show you the room.'
Leading the way up the stairs, he had opened a door. The Englishwoman had scarcely glanced inside. On the contrary, she had asked, as though she guessed a good many other things besides:
'Is that your wife?'
IV
A FTER twenty-four hours he still did not know whether he was attracted to her by physical desire or whether he was anxious to prove to her that he was not just the small boy she pretended to see in him.
She was called Nancy Moore, and according to her passport was; thirty-two years old. She was really a journalist.
'I write stupid stories for stupid magazines in which wretched
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