woods?" she murmured and, as I was looking at her, a smile played on her lips, a mocking smile of secret joy. Then she threw her embroidery down on the table and sat very still, her hands crossed over her knees, her head lowered.
The maid came in. "I've made up Monsieur's bed," she said to me.
It seemed old Declos had fallen asleep; for a long time he sat without speaking, without moving, his mouth hanging open; his hollow cheeks and pallid skin made him look like a corpse.
"I've lit a fire in your room," the maid continued. "The nights are cold."
She broke off: Brigitte had leapt up and seemed extraordinarily perturbed. We looked at her, confused.
"Didn't you hear that?" she asked after a moment. "No. What's wrong?"
"I don't know . . . I just . . . I must have been wrong . . . I thought I heard someone cry out."
I listened, but there was nothing, nothing but the almost oppressive silence of our countryside at night; even the wind had died down.
"I can't hear a thing," I said.
The maid went out. I didn't go up to bed; I was watching Brigitte. She was trembling and had gone over to the fire. She noticed I was staring at her. "Yes," she said blankly, "the nights are very cold." She stretched out her hands as if she wanted to warm them at the fire; then, clearly forgetting I was there, she buried her face in her hands.
At that moment the garden gate creaked; someone came up to the door and rang the bell. I went to answer it; I saw one of the young farmhands standing there. It's always boys like this who bring bad news in these parts; only the wealthier people have telephones. If someone's ill, or there's been an accident or somebody's died, the farmers send one of their workers, a young lad with rosy cheeks who calmly breaks the news.
This one politely took off his cap and turned towards Brigitte. "Beg your pardon, Madame, the owner of the Moulin-Neuf fell into the river."
He answered our questions: Jean Dorn had come hom e f rom Nevers sooner than expected; he'd left his car away from the house, in the meadow; maybe he didn't want the noise from the car to disturb his wife because she was ill? While crossing the footbridge he must have felt faint; the footbridge is wide and solid, but it only has a protective handrail on one side; he'd fallen into the water. His wife hadn't heard him come home; she was asleep, but had been woken by his cry. She'd got up straight away, rushed outside and looked for him in the deep water, but without success; he must have been pulled under in a flash. She'd recognised the car standing in the meadow and was certain that her husband had just died. She was beside herself, so she'd run over to the next farm and asked for help. The men were looking for the body now, "but the farmer's mother thought that the poor lady could use some company and that Madame Declos, being her friend, would want to come," the lad concluded. "I'll go," said Brigitte.
She seemed dumbstruck; her voice was cold and solemn. Gently, she touched her husband's shoulder, for the sound of our voices hadn't awakened him. When he opened his eyes she explained what had happened. He listened in silence. Perhaps he only half understood, perhaps he cared little about the death of a young man, or even the death of anyone except himself. Perhaps he just didn't want to say what he thought. He stood up. "All this . . . all this ..." he finally said, heaving a sigh. He didn't finish. "Well, I'm going to bed."
As he was leaving the room he said it again, to his wife, but in a way that struck me as significant and almost threatening: "All this is your business. Don't you get me involved, you hear?"
I walked Brigitte to the Moulin-Neuf. Flashlights shone in the dark and on the water, coming and going, criss-crossing each other as men looked for the body. At the house, all the doors were open. Some of the neighbours were tending to Colette, who'd fainted, and the baby, who was crying; others were rummaging through the cupboards,