despite its air of a stage setting, and he was not averse to the sort of life he was leading. Gould he ever again spend his days in the stifling atmosphere of the kitchen of a big restaurant or hotel?
Here, he was his own master. The customers were rather like friends. He enjoyed, two or three times a week, going to the market in Cannes, prowling among the fishermen just in from the sea, drinking a coffee or a glass of white wine with the market gardeners.
He was beginning to know the people of Mouans-Sartoux and Les Baraques by their first names and often, in the afternoon, during the slack months, he would go and play bowls with them.
He felt vaguely that he was being overcome by a form of cowardice, and already he would not have had sufficient courage to live in a hard and gloomy place like Champagne, where one could expect the land to yield nothing easily, and one had to fight with it.
One evening when Madame Harnaud had retired to bed and he was alone downstairs with Berthe, he had sat down opposite her, and, for a moment, she had gone on reading or pretending to be reading.
'Has your mother spoken to you too?'
They had addressed one another familiarly ever since their schooldays, without it creating any intimacy between them.
'Don't take any notice of what may mother says. She only thinks of herself. She's always been like that.'
He did not really know her well, even after three years spent in the same house, and he was trying to interpret her reactions.
'I think it would be better if we had a little talk about it.'
'About what?'
She had still not let go of her book and he had the impression that she was moved.
'About your mother. You know better than I do that she won't stay here long. She dreams of nothing but Luçon. These days she writes to her sister three times a week. Have you read her letters?'
'No.'
'Nor have I.'
It was a difficult conversation and, at this point, Berthe made as if to get up.
'There would be one way in which she could leave here and still not lose her money.'
He was afraid she would take it the wrong way, for he had seen her stiffen.
'It's not for myself that I'm saying this, but for her. For you, too, perhaps.'
'Nobody need bother about me.'
'Do you dislike me?'
She had turned away her head and it was only then that he had suspected her of having been in love with him for a long time, at any rate of having made up her mind that he would belong to her.
All of a sudden he had felt a little moved by it all. He felt sorry for her. She was proud, he knew, and she was now in a false position.
He had never paid court to her. Nor had he ever felt the slightest emotion in her presence, as he sometimes felt with other women. The time he had seen her naked, he had withdrawn without a word and he had never mentioned it afterwards.
'Listen, Berthe . . .'
He reached out his hand across the table. It would have made it easier to talk if she had put hers out too, but she remained rigid on her chair on the defensive.
'I don't know if I would make a good husband . . .'
'You chase all the girls.'
'All boys do.'
He was sure, now, of what he had just suspected, and it annoyed him a little; he asked himself whether he would not have preferred a refusal.
'We could give it a try, couldn't we?'
'Try what?'
'I am fond of you.'
'Fond?'
He had stood up, because he felt it was necessary, and he did it for her sake, so that she would not be humiliated. Standing, he put an arm around her shoulders.
'Listen, Berthe . . .'
Finding nothing to say, he had leaned over to kiss her and had found tears on her cheeks.
It was their first kiss, their first real contact. When their lips parted, she had murmured:
'Don't say anything . . .'
And she had gone and shut herself in her room.
That was how another phase of his life had begun. On the next day, she was paler than usual and, as she seemed to be ashamed, he had given her comforting glances, trying to instil a certain tenderness in his
Here, he was his own master. The customers were rather like friends. He enjoyed, two or three times a week, going to the market in Cannes, prowling among the fishermen just in from the sea, drinking a coffee or a glass of white wine with the market gardeners.
He was beginning to know the people of Mouans-Sartoux and Les Baraques by their first names and often, in the afternoon, during the slack months, he would go and play bowls with them.
He felt vaguely that he was being overcome by a form of cowardice, and already he would not have had sufficient courage to live in a hard and gloomy place like Champagne, where one could expect the land to yield nothing easily, and one had to fight with it.
One evening when Madame Harnaud had retired to bed and he was alone downstairs with Berthe, he had sat down opposite her, and, for a moment, she had gone on reading or pretending to be reading.
'Has your mother spoken to you too?'
They had addressed one another familiarly ever since their schooldays, without it creating any intimacy between them.
'Don't take any notice of what may mother says. She only thinks of herself. She's always been like that.'
He did not really know her well, even after three years spent in the same house, and he was trying to interpret her reactions.
'I think it would be better if we had a little talk about it.'
'About what?'
She had still not let go of her book and he had the impression that she was moved.
'About your mother. You know better than I do that she won't stay here long. She dreams of nothing but Luçon. These days she writes to her sister three times a week. Have you read her letters?'
'No.'
'Nor have I.'
It was a difficult conversation and, at this point, Berthe made as if to get up.
'There would be one way in which she could leave here and still not lose her money.'
He was afraid she would take it the wrong way, for he had seen her stiffen.
'It's not for myself that I'm saying this, but for her. For you, too, perhaps.'
'Nobody need bother about me.'
'Do you dislike me?'
She had turned away her head and it was only then that he had suspected her of having been in love with him for a long time, at any rate of having made up her mind that he would belong to her.
All of a sudden he had felt a little moved by it all. He felt sorry for her. She was proud, he knew, and she was now in a false position.
He had never paid court to her. Nor had he ever felt the slightest emotion in her presence, as he sometimes felt with other women. The time he had seen her naked, he had withdrawn without a word and he had never mentioned it afterwards.
'Listen, Berthe . . .'
He reached out his hand across the table. It would have made it easier to talk if she had put hers out too, but she remained rigid on her chair on the defensive.
'I don't know if I would make a good husband . . .'
'You chase all the girls.'
'All boys do.'
He was sure, now, of what he had just suspected, and it annoyed him a little; he asked himself whether he would not have preferred a refusal.
'We could give it a try, couldn't we?'
'Try what?'
'I am fond of you.'
'Fond?'
He had stood up, because he felt it was necessary, and he did it for her sake, so that she would not be humiliated. Standing, he put an arm around her shoulders.
'Listen, Berthe . . .'
Finding nothing to say, he had leaned over to kiss her and had found tears on her cheeks.
It was their first kiss, their first real contact. When their lips parted, she had murmured:
'Don't say anything . . .'
And she had gone and shut herself in her room.
That was how another phase of his life had begun. On the next day, she was paler than usual and, as she seemed to be ashamed, he had given her comforting glances, trying to instil a certain tenderness in his
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