women. try to find the path to happiness.'
It was not so much the words which had struck him as the accent, not. merely the English accent, but a disquieting blend of irony, cynicism and passion.
He had had time, on the Riviera, to get to know her compatriots, both men and women, and he divided them into two categories. First, the ordinary tourists who come and spend a certain time on the continent in search of the sun and the picturesque, to look at scenery and different human beings, to sample circumspectly various dishes they have heard mentioned and to leave again, more pleased with themselves than ever.
As for the others, he used a local term to describe them. He used to say they were the ones who had been 'bitten'. They were intoxicated by France or Italy, by a certain way of life, a certain easygoing philosophy, and these ones became more Southern than the Southerners, and in Italy more Italian than the Italians; they would not return to their homes except when it was strictly necessary, and some never went back.
There was one of them at Mougins, an extreme case, a boy of not more than thirty-five who some people said was the son of a lord. He lived the entire year round with his back bare to the sun and rain alike, hatless, with his ash-blond hair, which turned increasingly lighter, falling over the nape of his neck, and he let his beard grow; in winter he used to wear blue linen trousers, and in summer shorts of the same material; his shoes were espadrilles, or else he went about barefoot.
He painted. People came across him in vineyards, or at a turning in a footpath, with his easel, but this was probably no more than an alibi. He rarely went down into Cannes, was to be seen even less often on the Croisette, which did not prevent him from entertaining young men from all over the place and, as night fell, taking walks with them hand in hand.
Nancy Moore had almost as much disregard for her appearance as he had. Under her light cotton dress she wore no brassiere and her breasts, which were heavy, sagged a little; one could see their tips moving and brushing against the material as she spoke. Her hair was unkempt, and she did not take the trouble to make up nor, when her face was shining with sweat, to put powder on it.
Nobody before her had ever looked at Emile with so much irony, nor with so much tenderness and avidity all at the same time.
She had at once fixed her daily routine. She spent a good part of her time on the terrace, writing in a large hand slanting not to the right, as with most people, but to the left. From time to time, indeed frequently, she would break off to hoist herself on to a bar stool, even at nine o'clock in the morning.
'Emile! I'm thirsty!'
She had not waited to become an habituée before calling him by his first name. She would change her drink according to the hour, now vin rosé, now pastis, and finally, especially in the evening, whisky, and her voice was always a little hoarse, her eyes glistening, without it ever being possible to say that she was actually drunk.
One could sense in her an ardent love of life, of people, animals and things. He had seen her caressing, with sensuality, the gnarled trunk of one of the old olive trees on the terrace and she had done the same with the wine presses, their wood splitting beneath the varnish, which held up the bar.
'Are these real, Emile? How old are they?'
'At least two centuries. Perhaps three.'
'So they've been used to provide wine for generations of men and women . . .'
She would go into the kitchen to sample the smells, lift the covers of the pots, feel the fish and the poultry. She knew the different herbs and would rub them between her finger-tips in the way that other women do with scent.
'What do you call those little monsters the colour of corpses?'
'Calamaries.'
'Those are the ones which spit out a cloud of ink when they are going to be caught, aren't they?'
He had shown her the little pocket containing the black
It was not so much the words which had struck him as the accent, not. merely the English accent, but a disquieting blend of irony, cynicism and passion.
He had had time, on the Riviera, to get to know her compatriots, both men and women, and he divided them into two categories. First, the ordinary tourists who come and spend a certain time on the continent in search of the sun and the picturesque, to look at scenery and different human beings, to sample circumspectly various dishes they have heard mentioned and to leave again, more pleased with themselves than ever.
As for the others, he used a local term to describe them. He used to say they were the ones who had been 'bitten'. They were intoxicated by France or Italy, by a certain way of life, a certain easygoing philosophy, and these ones became more Southern than the Southerners, and in Italy more Italian than the Italians; they would not return to their homes except when it was strictly necessary, and some never went back.
There was one of them at Mougins, an extreme case, a boy of not more than thirty-five who some people said was the son of a lord. He lived the entire year round with his back bare to the sun and rain alike, hatless, with his ash-blond hair, which turned increasingly lighter, falling over the nape of his neck, and he let his beard grow; in winter he used to wear blue linen trousers, and in summer shorts of the same material; his shoes were espadrilles, or else he went about barefoot.
He painted. People came across him in vineyards, or at a turning in a footpath, with his easel, but this was probably no more than an alibi. He rarely went down into Cannes, was to be seen even less often on the Croisette, which did not prevent him from entertaining young men from all over the place and, as night fell, taking walks with them hand in hand.
Nancy Moore had almost as much disregard for her appearance as he had. Under her light cotton dress she wore no brassiere and her breasts, which were heavy, sagged a little; one could see their tips moving and brushing against the material as she spoke. Her hair was unkempt, and she did not take the trouble to make up nor, when her face was shining with sweat, to put powder on it.
Nobody before her had ever looked at Emile with so much irony, nor with so much tenderness and avidity all at the same time.
She had at once fixed her daily routine. She spent a good part of her time on the terrace, writing in a large hand slanting not to the right, as with most people, but to the left. From time to time, indeed frequently, she would break off to hoist herself on to a bar stool, even at nine o'clock in the morning.
'Emile! I'm thirsty!'
She had not waited to become an habituée before calling him by his first name. She would change her drink according to the hour, now vin rosé, now pastis, and finally, especially in the evening, whisky, and her voice was always a little hoarse, her eyes glistening, without it ever being possible to say that she was actually drunk.
One could sense in her an ardent love of life, of people, animals and things. He had seen her caressing, with sensuality, the gnarled trunk of one of the old olive trees on the terrace and she had done the same with the wine presses, their wood splitting beneath the varnish, which held up the bar.
'Are these real, Emile? How old are they?'
'At least two centuries. Perhaps three.'
'So they've been used to provide wine for generations of men and women . . .'
She would go into the kitchen to sample the smells, lift the covers of the pots, feel the fish and the poultry. She knew the different herbs and would rub them between her finger-tips in the way that other women do with scent.
'What do you call those little monsters the colour of corpses?'
'Calamaries.'
'Those are the ones which spit out a cloud of ink when they are going to be caught, aren't they?'
He had shown her the little pocket containing the black
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