liquid.
'With this ink I make the sauce . . .'
She took notes which perhaps helped her articles. She always seemed to be defying him, brushing purposely against him, allowing her breasts to touch his arm; and when she leaned forward they were visible, naked and indecent, bronzed from her sunbathing, in the too ample opening of her dress.
'Your wife is older than you are, isn't she, Emile?'
Barely two years. It wasn't the difference in age which counted. What she meant to say was that Berthe was more grown up.
And Nancy was the most adult person he had ever met. Adult and free. Doing only exactly what she wanted. Accepting no rule and mocking the proprieties.
Between her and Berthe it was war, from the very first moment, and Berthe had turned a shade paler the first evening when they had heard a rumbling sound, at first inexplicable, from the Englishwoman's bedroom. Calmly, without permission or anybody's help, Nancy was busy moving round the furniture, the bed, the wardrobe, the chest-of-drawers, and next day, when they did the room, they had found the engravings which normally adorned the walls piled on top of the hanging-cupboard.
At this period Emile was still under the impression that it was an affair between Nancy and himself. In the end, he had long afterwards discovered that in actual fact it had been an affair purely between Nancy and his wife, and the discovery had humiliated him.
In spite of the other guests—for all the rooms were occupied and there were quite a number of people in for meals—it was as if there were just the three of them in the performance, moving from the shade into the sun and from the sun into the shade, from one room into another and from the house on to the terrace, of a play almost without words, a sort of ballet of which the spectators did not know the plot.
Emile wanted Nancy with a desire which was at times painful, different from any previous experience of desire. When she was sitting at the bar opposite him, or when she came to seek him out in the kitchen, he sensed her smell, could imagine the sweat which, under her dress, ran in great drops over her naked body, leaving marks on the material.
She incited him, and in the way she looked at him she appeared to measure the strength of his lust, which made her laugh, a provocative laugh, as if to say:
'Dare you?'
The first morning, towards eleven o'clock, she had gone out on foot and not come back until lunchtime. He didn't know which direction she had taken.
'I spent a delicious morning sunbathing in the pine trees. I found a huge stone there . . .'
'The Flat Stone.'
That was the name of the rock on which she was by no means the first person to stretch out, more or less naked, to get bronzed by the sun.
'I don't know if anybody saw me. I heard people in the woods, children's voices . . .'
Her eyes indicated the family having their meal in a corner of the terrace.
'Emile!' Berthe called.
She wanted him for something. She had wanted him for something constantly ever since Nancy had been at La Bastide.
'There doesn't seem to be enough bouillabaisse left.'
It was a stifling day. Nancy, who disliked drinking alone, invited him to have a drink with her. And still he felt that shooting desire, as painful as a wound.
He had to show her that he was not a child, that he was not afraid of his wife. For three days this thought had obsessed him. When for some reason or other Nancy went up to her room during the course of the day, she seemed to be expecting him to follow her. He did not dare to do so, sure that a few seconds later Berthe would come and knock on the door on some pretext.
Nor did he dare arrange a meeting with her in the Cabin, where he had already adopted the habit of taking his siesta, since she would be seen entering it from the house.
She provoked him continually, with her lips moist, at times as though she were expecting him to throw her on her back in that very room, on the red tiles, beside the bar.
She
'With this ink I make the sauce . . .'
She took notes which perhaps helped her articles. She always seemed to be defying him, brushing purposely against him, allowing her breasts to touch his arm; and when she leaned forward they were visible, naked and indecent, bronzed from her sunbathing, in the too ample opening of her dress.
'Your wife is older than you are, isn't she, Emile?'
Barely two years. It wasn't the difference in age which counted. What she meant to say was that Berthe was more grown up.
And Nancy was the most adult person he had ever met. Adult and free. Doing only exactly what she wanted. Accepting no rule and mocking the proprieties.
Between her and Berthe it was war, from the very first moment, and Berthe had turned a shade paler the first evening when they had heard a rumbling sound, at first inexplicable, from the Englishwoman's bedroom. Calmly, without permission or anybody's help, Nancy was busy moving round the furniture, the bed, the wardrobe, the chest-of-drawers, and next day, when they did the room, they had found the engravings which normally adorned the walls piled on top of the hanging-cupboard.
At this period Emile was still under the impression that it was an affair between Nancy and himself. In the end, he had long afterwards discovered that in actual fact it had been an affair purely between Nancy and his wife, and the discovery had humiliated him.
In spite of the other guests—for all the rooms were occupied and there were quite a number of people in for meals—it was as if there were just the three of them in the performance, moving from the shade into the sun and from the sun into the shade, from one room into another and from the house on to the terrace, of a play almost without words, a sort of ballet of which the spectators did not know the plot.
Emile wanted Nancy with a desire which was at times painful, different from any previous experience of desire. When she was sitting at the bar opposite him, or when she came to seek him out in the kitchen, he sensed her smell, could imagine the sweat which, under her dress, ran in great drops over her naked body, leaving marks on the material.
She incited him, and in the way she looked at him she appeared to measure the strength of his lust, which made her laugh, a provocative laugh, as if to say:
'Dare you?'
The first morning, towards eleven o'clock, she had gone out on foot and not come back until lunchtime. He didn't know which direction she had taken.
'I spent a delicious morning sunbathing in the pine trees. I found a huge stone there . . .'
'The Flat Stone.'
That was the name of the rock on which she was by no means the first person to stretch out, more or less naked, to get bronzed by the sun.
'I don't know if anybody saw me. I heard people in the woods, children's voices . . .'
Her eyes indicated the family having their meal in a corner of the terrace.
'Emile!' Berthe called.
She wanted him for something. She had wanted him for something constantly ever since Nancy had been at La Bastide.
'There doesn't seem to be enough bouillabaisse left.'
It was a stifling day. Nancy, who disliked drinking alone, invited him to have a drink with her. And still he felt that shooting desire, as painful as a wound.
He had to show her that he was not a child, that he was not afraid of his wife. For three days this thought had obsessed him. When for some reason or other Nancy went up to her room during the course of the day, she seemed to be expecting him to follow her. He did not dare to do so, sure that a few seconds later Berthe would come and knock on the door on some pretext.
Nor did he dare arrange a meeting with her in the Cabin, where he had already adopted the habit of taking his siesta, since she would be seen entering it from the house.
She provoked him continually, with her lips moist, at times as though she were expecting him to throw her on her back in that very room, on the red tiles, beside the bar.
She
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