Femme Fatale

The restaurant, Le Grillon, Mecca of the entire local boating community, was now slowly emptying. At the main entrance a large crowd of people were calling and shouting out to each other. With oars on their shoulders, strapping great fellows in white jerseys waved and gesticulated. Women in light spring frocks were stepping cautiously into the skiffs moored alongside and, having settled themselves in the stern of each, were smoothing out their dresses. The owner of the establishment, a tough-looking, red-bearded man of legendary strength, was helping the pretty young things aboard and with a practised hand was holding steady the gently bobbing craft.

The oarsmen then took their places, playing to the gallery and showing off broad chests and muscular arms in their sleeveless vests. The gallery in this case consisted of a crowd of suburbanites in their Sunday best, as well as a few workmen and some soldiers, all leaning on the parapet of the bridge and watching the scene below with keen interest. One by one the boats cast off from the landing stage. The oarsmen leaned forward and with a regular swing pulled back. At each stroke of the long, slightly curved blades the fast skiffs sped through the water making for La Grenouillère and growing progressively smaller till they disappeared beyond the railway bridge and into the distance.

Only one couple now remained. The slim, pale-faced young man, still a relatively beardless youth, had his arm around the waist of his girl, a skinny little grasshopper of a creature with brown hair. They stopped from time to time to gaze into each other’s eyes.

The owner cried: ‘Come on, Monsieur Paul, get a move on!’

The couple moved down closer. Of all the customers, Monsieur Paul, who paid regularly and in full, was the best liked and most respected. Many of the others ran up bills and frequently absconded without settling them. The son of a senator, he was also an excellent advertisement for the establishment. When some stranger asked, ‘And who’s that young chap over there with his eyes glued to the girl?’ one of the regulars would murmur, in a mysterious, important sort of way, ‘Oh, that’s Paul Baron, you know, the son of the senator.’ Then the stranger would inevitably have to comment, ‘Poor young devil, he’s got it bad.’ The proprietress of Le Grillon, a good businesswoman and wise in the ways of the world, called the young man and his companion ‘my two turtle doves’ and looked with tender indulgence on the love affair which brought such glamour to her establishment.

The couple ambled slowly down to where a skiff called the Madeleine was ready. Before embarking, however, they stopped to kiss once more, much to the amusement of the audience gathered on the bridge. Finally, Monsieur Paul took up the oars and set off after the others also making for La Grenouillère.

When they arrived it was getting on for three and here too the vast floating café was swarming with people. It is in effect one huge raft with a tarpaulin roof supported by wooden columns. It is connected to the charming island of Croissy by two narrow footbridges, one of which runs right through to the centre of the café itself. The other connects at the far end with a tiny islet where a single tree grows and which is nicknamed the Pot-de-Fleurs. From there it connects with the land again via a bathing pool.

Monsieur Paul moored his boat alongside the café, climbed up to its balustrade then, holding his girl’s two hands, guided her up also. They entered, found a place for two at the end of a table and sat down opposite each other.

Lining the towpath on the opposite side of the river was a long string of vehicles. Fiacres alternated with the flashy carriages of gay young men-about-town. The first were lumbering great hulks whose bodywork crushed the springs beneath and to which were harnessed broken-down old hacks with drooping necks. The other carriages were streamlined, with light suspension and fine, delicate wheels. These were drawn by horses with slender, straight, strong legs, heads held high and bits snowy with foam. Their solemn, liveried drivers, heads held stiffly inside huge collars, sat ramrod straight with their whips resting on their knees.

The river banks were crowded with people coming and going in different kinds of configurations: family parties, groups of friends, couples and individuals. They idly plucked at blades of grass, wandered down to the water’s edge then climbed back up to the path. Having reached a certain spot they all congregated to wait for the ferryman whose heavy boat plied constantly back and forth, depositing passengers on the island.

The branch of the river, incidentally called the dead branch, which this floating bar dominates, seemed asleep, so slowly did the current move there. Flotillas of gigs, skiffs, canoes, pedaloes and river craft of all kinds streamed over the still water, mingling and intersecting, meeting and parting, running foul of each other, stopping, and with a sudden jerk of their oarsmen’s arms and a tensing of their muscles, taking off again, darting this way and that like shoals of red and yellow fish.

More were arriving all the time; some from Chatou upstream, some from Bougival, downstream. Gales of contagious laughter carried from one boat to another and the air was full of insults, complaints, protestations and howls. The men in the boats exposed their muscular, tanned bodies to the glare of the sun and, like exotic water-plants, the women’s parasols of red, green and yellow silk blossomed in the sterns of their craft.

The July sun blazed in the middle of the sky and the atmosphere was gay and carefree, while in the windless air not a leaf stirred in the poplars and willows lining the banks of the river. In the distance ahead, the conspicuous bulk of Mont-Valérien loomed, rearing the ramparts of its fortifications in the glare of the sun. On the right, the gentle slopes of Louveciennes, following the curve of the river, formed a semi-circle within which could be glimpsed, through the dense and shady greenery of their spacious lawns, the white-painted walls of weekend retreats.

On the land adjoining La Grenouillère strollers were sauntering under the gigantic trees which help to make this part of the island one of the most delightful parks imaginable. Busty women with peroxided hair and nipped-in waists could be seen, made up to the nines with blood red lips and black-kohled eyes. Tightly laced into their garish dresses they trailed in all their vulgar glory over the fresh green grass. They were accompanied by men whose fashion-plate accessories, light gloves, patent-leather boots, canes as slender as threads and absurd monocles made them look like complete idiots.

The part of the island facing La Grenouillère is narrow and between it and the opposite bank where another ferry plies, bringing people over from Croissy, the current is very strong and very fast. Here it swirls and roars, raging like a torrent in a myriad of eddies and foam. A detachment of pontoon-builders wearing the uniform of artillerymen was camped on the bank and some of the soldiers, side by side on a long beam of wood, sat watching the river below.

A noisy, rambunctious crowd filled the floating restaurant. The wooden tables, sticky and awash with streams of spilt drink, were covered with half-empty glasses and surrounded by half-tipsy customers. The crowd sang and shouted and brawled. Red-faced, belligerent men, their hats tipped at the backs of their heads and their eyes glassy with booze, prowled like animals spoiling for a fight. The women, cadging free drinks in the meantime, were seeking their prey for the night. The space between the tables was filled with the usual clientèle – noisy young boating blades and their female companions in short flannel skirts.

One of the men was banging away at the piano using his feet as well as his hands. Four couples were dancing a quadrille and watching them was a group of elegantly dressed young men whose respectable appearance was ruined by the hideous incongruity of the setting.

The place reeked of vice and corruption and the dregs of Parisian society in all its rottenness gathered there: cheats, conmen and cheap hacks rubbed shoulders with under-age dandies, old roués and rogues, sleazy underworld types once notorious for things best forgotten mingled with other small-time crooks and speculators, dabblers in dubious ventures, frauds, pimps, and racketeers. Cheap sex, both male and female, was on offer in this tawdry meat-market of a place where petty rivalries were exploited, and quarrels picked over nothing in an atmosphere of fake gallantry where swords or pistols at dawn settled matters of highly questionable honour in the first place.

Every Sunday, out of sheer curiosity some of the people from the surrounding countryside would drop in. Every year would bring a fresh batch of young men, extremely young men at that, keen to make useful contacts. Casual cruisers would amble by and every so often a complete innocent would become embroiled.

La Grenouillère lived up to its name. There was a place for bathing between the tarpaulin-covered raft where drinks were served and the Pot-de-Fleurs. Women with the requisite curves came there to display their wares and their clients. Those less fortunate who required padding and corsetry to pass muster looked disdainfully on as their rivals cavorted and splashed about.

Awaiting their turn to plunge in and thronging around a small diving board were swimmers of every shape and size: some slim and straight as vine-poles, some round as pumpkins, some gnarled as olive-branches, some with bodies curved forward over pot-bellies, some whose vast stomachs threw the body backwards. Each was as ugly as the other as they leapt into the water and splashed the customers drinking at the café next door.

Despite the proximity of the river and the huge trees shading it, the place was suffocatingly hot. Mingling with the fumes of spilt drinks came the smell of flesh and the cheap perfume with which the skin of those trading in sex was drenched. Underlying all these smells was the slight but persistent aroma of talc, which wafted with varying intensity as if an unseen hand were waving some gigantic powder-puff over the entire scene.

All eyes were on the river where the comings and goings of the boats attracted everyone’s attention. Girls sprawled in the stern opposite their strong-wristed menfolk looked with contempt at those still prowling about the island in search of a male to buy them dinner that night. Sometimes when a crew in full swing flashed past their friends ashore would shout and were joined by the crazy, yelling crowd inside the restaurant. At the bend of the river near Chatou boats were constantly coming into view. As they approached and grew more distinct, faces became recognizable and more shouts went up.

A boat with an awning and containing four women came slowly downstream towards them. The woman at the oars was small, lean and past her prime. She wore her hair pinned up inside an oilskin hat. Opposite her a big blonde dressed in a man’s jacket was lying on her back at the bottom of the boat with a foot resting on the thwart on either side of the oarswoman. The blonde was smoking a cigarette and with each jerk of the oars her bosom and her belly quivered. At the very stern of the boat under the awning two beautiful, tall, slender girls, one blonde the other brunette, sat with their arms round each other’s waists watching their two companions.

A shout went up from La Grenouillère: ‘Aye-aye! Lesbos!’ and suddenly a wild clamour broke out. In the terrifying scramble to see, glasses were knocked over and people started climbing on the tables. Everyone began to chant ‘Lesbos! Lesbos! Lesbos!’ The words merged into a vague howl before suddenly starting up again, rising into the air, filling the plain beyond, resounding in the dense foliage of the tall surrounding trees and echoing in the distance as if aimed at the sun itself.

During this ovation the oarswoman had calmly come to a halt. The big blonde lying at the bottom of the boat turned her head languorously and raised herself on her elbows. The two in the stern started laughing and waving to the crowd. At this there was even more of a hullabaloo and the place shook with the noise. The men raised their hats and the women waved their handkerchiefs. Every voice, deep and shrill alike, chanted in unison ‘Lesbos!’ This motley collection of undesirables seemed to be saluting a leader, as warships give a gun salute to their passing admiral. From the flotilla of boats also there was wild acclamation for the women’s boat which now continued at its leisurely pace, to land a little further off.

Monsieur Paul’s reaction was unlike that of the others. Pulling a key from his pocket he started using it as a whistle and blew hard. His girl, looking nervous now and even paler than before, pulled his arm to make him stop. This time when she looked into his eyes, it was with fury. But he was beside himself with male jealousy and a deep, instinctive ungovernable rage. His lips trembling with indignation he stammered: ‘Shouldn’t be allowed! They should be drowned like puppies with stones round their necks!’

Madeleine suddenly lost her temper. Her shrill voice became piercing as she lashed out at him: ‘Mind your own business, will you! They’ve got a perfect right to do whatever they want. They’re not doing any harm to anyone. Why don’t you just shut up and leave them alone …’

He cut her short. ‘This a matter for the police! If it was up to me I’d have them locked up in Saint-Lazare!’

She gave a start. ‘Oh you would, would you?’

‘Certainly I would. And in the meantime I forbid you to have anything to do with them. I absolutely forbid it, do you understand?’

She shrugged her shoulders at this and said in a suddenly calm voice: ‘Listen, dear, I shall do exactly as I please. If you don’t like it you know what you can do. Get the hell out. Now. I’m not your wife, so shut up.’

He remained silent and they stood staring each other out, breathing rapidly, their mouths set.

At the other end of the café the women were now making their entrance. The two dressed as men led, one gaunt and weatherbeaten, ageing and very mannish. The other, more than amply filling the white flannel outfit with her large bottom and her huge thighs encased in the wide trousers, waddled forward like a fat, bow-legged goose. The two friends followed and the whole boating community surged forward to shake hands.

The four had rented a riverside cottage and lived together there as two couples. Their vice was public, official and perfectly obvious to all. It was referred to quite naturally as something entirely normal. There were rumours about jealous scenes that took place there and about the various actresses and other famous women who frequented the little cottage near the water’s edge. One neighbour, scandalized by the goings-on, alerted the police at one stage and an inspector accompanied by one of his men came to make enquiries. It was a delicate mission: there was nothing the women could be prosecuted for, least of all prostitution. The inspector was deeply puzzled and could not understand what these alleged misdemeanours could possibly be. He asked a whole lot of pointless questions, compiled a lengthy report and dismissed the charges out of hand. The joke spread as far as Saint-Germain.

Like queens they now walked slowly the entire length of La Grenouillère. They seemed happy to be in the limelight and delighted with the attention paid to them by all this riff-raff. Madeleine and her lover watched them, and as they approached the girl’s face lit up.

When the leading couple reached their table Madeleine cried ‘Pauline!’ and the big girl, turning round, stopped, still arm in arm with her midshipwoman.

‘Well good heavens! Madeleine! Darling! Come and join us for a bit. We must catch up!’

Paul tightened his grip on his girl’s wrist but she said, ‘You know what you can do, sweetheart, shove off.’

He kept quiet and let her be. Standing huddled together the women continued their animated conversation sotto voce. Pauline from time to time cast furtive glances at Paul and flashed him an evil, sardonic smile. Finally, unable to bear it a minute longer he suddenly stood up and trembling in every limb leapt towards her. He seized Madeleine by the shoulders and said: ‘Come with me, do you hear? I said you were not to speak to these beastly women!’

Raising her voice, Pauline began to swear at him like a fishwife. People around started laughing. Others stood on tip-toe to get a better look. Under the hail of filthy abuse he was speechless. Feeling contaminated by it and fearing there might be worse to come he retreated, retraced his steps and went to lean on the balustrade overlooking the river, turning his back on the three triumphant women. He stayed there looking at the water and every so often brusquely wiping away the tears that sprang to his eyes.

The fact was that despite himself, without knowing why or how it had happened and very much against his better judgement, he had fallen hopelessly in love. He had fallen as if into some deep and muddy hole. By nature he was a delicate and sensitive soul. He had had ideals and dreamed of an exquisite and passionate affair. And now he had fallen for this little cricket of a creature. She was as stupid as every other woman and not even pretty to make up for it. Skinny and foul-tempered, she had taken possession of him entirely from tip to toe, body and soul. He had fallen under the omnipotent and mysterious spell of the female. He was overwhelmed by this colossal force of unknown origin, the demon in the flesh capable of hurling the most rational man in the world at the feet of a worthless harlot. There was no way he could explain its fatal and total power.

Behind his back now he could feel something evil brewing. Their laughter pierced his heart. What should he do? He knew very well but had not the courage. He stared fixedly at the opposite bank where an angler was fishing, his line perfectly still. All of a sudden the man jerked out of the water a little silver fish which wriggled at the end of his line. Twisting and turning it this way and that he tried to extract his hook, but in vain. Losing patience he started pulling and, as he did so, tore out the entire bloody gullet of the fish with parts of its intestines attached. Paul shuddered, feeling himself equally torn apart. It seemed to him that the hook was like his own love and that if he were to tear it out he too would be gutted by a piece of curved wire hooked deep into his essential self at the end of a line held by Madeleine.

Feeling a hand on his shoulder he started and turned round. Madeleine was standing beside him. Neither spoke. She simply put her elbows on the balustrade beside him and leaned with him, staring out at the river. He tried to think of something to say but failed. He was incapable of analysing what was going on inside him. All he felt now was joy in the very nearness of her and a shameful cowardice on his own part. He wanted to forgive her, to let her do anything in the world she liked provided she never left him again.

After a while in a very gentle voice he asked, ‘Would you like to leave now? We’ll be better off in the boat.’

‘All right my pet,’ she said.

Awash with forgiveness and with tears still in his eyes he held her two hands tightly and helped her on board. Basking in the warmth of the afternoon they rowed upstream again past the willows and the grass-covered banks. When they reached Le Grillon once more it was not yet six, so, leaving their skiff, they set off on foot towards Bezons across the meadows and past the high poplars bordering the banks.

The wide hayfields waiting to be harvested were full of flowers. The sinking sun cast a mantle of russet light over all and in the gentle warmth of the day’s end the fragrance of the grass wafted in on them mingling with the damp smells of the river and filling the air with easy languor and an atmosphere of blessed well-being.

He felt soft and unresistant, in communion with the calm splendour of the evening and with the vague, mysterious thrill of life itself. He felt in tune with the all-embracing poetry of the moment in which plants and all that surrounded him revealed themselves to his senses at this lovely restful and reflective time of day. He was sensitive to it all but she appeared totally unaffected. They were walking side by side when suddenly, bored by the silence, she began to sing. In a squeaky, unmodulated voice she sang one of the catchy tunes of the day which jarred violently with the deeply serene mood of the evening. He looked at her and felt between them an unbridgeable abyss. She was swinging her parasol through the grass with her head down, looking at her feet as she sang, drawing out the notes and adding the odd little trill.

So behind the smooth little brow which he so much adored there was nothing! Absolutely nothing! Its sole concern at the moment was this caterwauling. The thoughts which from time to time passed through it were as vapid as the music. She had no understanding of him. They were as separate and distinct as if they had never met. His kisses had touched her lips only and nothing deeper within.

When, however, she raised her eyes to meet his and smiled, he felt himself melt. Opening his arms out wide to her in a surge of renewed love he clasped her passionately to him. Since he was crushing her dress as he did so, she eventually broke free saying consolingly, ‘Yes, yes, I love you, my pet, now that’s enough.’ In a mad rush of relief he grabbed her round the waist and started to run, dragging her with him. He kissed her on the cheeks, the temples and the neck, all the time dancing with joy. They threw themselves down at the edge of a thicket incandescent in the light of the setting sun. Even before catching their breath they came together. She could not understand the rapture he felt.

Walking back hand in hand they suddenly saw through the trees the river and on it the boat containing the four women. Big Pauline must have caught sight of them at the same time since she straightened up, blew kisses at Madeleine and shouted, ‘See you tonight!’

‘See you tonight!’ shouted Madeleine in reply.

Paul felt his heart turn suddenly to ice. They returned for dinner and settling down in one of the arbours at the side of the water they began to eat in silence. When darkness fell, a candle enclosed in a globe was brought which shed a feeble, glimmering light on the two. All the time they could hear bursts of laughter coming from the large room on the first floor where the boat-trippers were. The couple were just about to order dessert when Paul, taking Madeleine’s hand tenderly in his own, said: ‘Darling, I feel so tired. Shall we make an early night of it?’

But she saw through his little ploy and shot him an enigmatic glance, one of those treacherous looks that so often appear in women’s eyes. She thought for a second, then said, ‘You’re perfectly welcome to go to bed if you like but I’ve promised to go to the dance at La Grenouillère.’

Attempting to mask his misery he gave her a pitiful smile and answered in a coaxing, wheedling tone: ‘Be a darling. Let’s both stay here. Please.’

She shook her head without saying a word. He tried again. ‘Please, sweetheart …’

She cut him off. ‘You know what I said. If you’re not happy, you know where the door is. Nobody’s stopping you. But I’ve promised, and I’m going.’

He put his two elbows on the table, sank his head into his hands and sat brooding. The trippers were coming down the stairs, yelling as usual before setting off for the dance at La Grenouillère. Madeleine said to Paul: ‘Make up your mind. If you’re not coming I’ll ask one of these gentlemen to take me there.’

Paul rose. ‘Come on then,’ he muttered before they too set off. The night was dark and the sky full of stars. Around them the air was still hot and the atmosphere heavy with seething, unseen activity. The warm breeze caressed their faces, its hot breath stifling their own and making them gasp slightly. The skiffs set off, each with a Venetian lantern in the prow. It was too dark to see anything of the boats themselves except for the little patches of colour in the night bobbing and dancing like frenzied glow-worms. Voices sounded from the shadows on all sides as the young couple’s skiff glided gently along. Sometimes when another overtook they would catch the flash of the oarsman’s white-jerseyed back illuminated by his lantern. As they came round the bend of the river, La Grenouillère came into sight in the distance.

In gala mood, the place was decorated with bunting and with strings, clusters and garlands of fairy lights. On the surface of the Seine large barges moved slowly about, representing domes, pyramids and all kinds of monuments picked out in variously coloured lights. Illuminated festoons hung down as far as the water itself, and here and there an enormous red or blue lantern suspended from an invisible rod hung like a huge star in the sky.

All these illuminations shone on the café and floodlit the great trees on the bank whose trunks stood out pale grey and whose leaves were milky green against the deep, pitch black of the fields and of the sky. A band consisting of five local players blared shrill, syncopated music across the water and, hearing it, Madeleine began to sing along. She wanted to go in right away. Paul would have preferred to make a tour of the island first but had to give in. The clientèle had thinned out a little by this time, still consisting mostly of boatmen with the odd sprinkling of middle-class couples and a few young men flanked by girls. The director and organizer of the can-can strutted in his faded black suit and cast round the audience the world-weary, professional eye of a cheap music-hall master of ceremonies. Paul was relieved to see that Big Pauline and her chums were nowhere to be seen.

People were dancing. Couples faced each other and capered about madly, kicking their legs as high as their partners’ noses. The women, who appeared to have double-jointed legs and hips, leapt about in a frou-frou of lifted skirts, flashing their knickers and kicking their legs up over their heads with amazing agility. They wriggled their bellies and shook their bosoms, spreading about them the powerful smell of female flesh in sweat. The males squatted like toads in front of them making faces and obscene gestures. They cavorted and turned cartwheels, posturing meanwhile in hideous parody, as one strapping maid and two waiters served the audience drinks.

Since the café-boat was covered by a roof only and had no side walls to separate it from the outdoors, the whole rumbustious dance was performed against the backdrop of the peaceful night and a firmament dusted with stars. Suddenly Mont-Valérien in the distance lit up as if a fire had started behind it. The glow deepened and spread, describing a wide, luminous circle of pale light. Then a ruby-coloured shape appeared, grew large, and glowed like red-hot metal. The circle widened further still and seemed to be emerging from the earth itself, as the moon, breaking free of the horizon, sailed gently upwards into space. As it rose, its crimson glow dimmed and turned to an increasingly light then bright yellow. As the planet climbed higher it grew smaller and smaller still in the distance.

Paul, lost in long contemplation of this sight, had become oblivious of his girl. When he turned round she had disappeared from view. He looked for her in vain. Having searched anxiously and systematically up and down the rows of tables he started asking people. No one had seen her. He then began to wander about wretchedly until one of the waiters said: ‘If you’re looking for Madame Madeleine, she went off a little while ago with Madame Pauline.’

Simultaneously, he caught sight of the midshipwoman and the two beautiful girls sitting at the opposite end of the café, arms round each other’s waists, watching him and whispering. Realizing what had happened, he ran off like a madman towards the island. Chasing first in the direction of Chatou, he stopped at the edge of the plain, turned and retraced his steps. He began to search the dense coppices, wandering about aimlessly and stopping every so often to listen. All he could hear around him was the short, metallic croak of frogs. Towards Bougival an unfamiliar bird sang a song which reached him faintly from a distance. Over the broad fields the moon shed a soft, filmy light. It filtered through the foliage, silvering the barks of the poplars and casting a shower of brilliant moonbeams on the shimmering tops of the tallest trees. Despite himself Paul was enchanted by the intoxicating loveliness of the night. It penetrated the terrible anguish he was feeling and stirred in his heart a fierce sense of irony. He longed with all his gentle and idealistic soul for a faithful woman to worship – someone in whose arms he could express all his love and tenderness as well as his passion.

Choked by racking sobs, he had to stop in his tracks. Having recovered a little he went on, only to feel a sudden stab in his heart. There, behind that bush … a pair of lovers! He ran forward and saw their silhouettes united in a seemingly endless kiss before they quickly ran off at his approach. He dared not call out, knowing full well that his own girl would not respond. He was desperately afraid now of coming upon them all of a sudden. The music of the quadrilles with its piercing solo cornets, the mock gaiety of the flute and the scraping of the fiddles pulled at his own heartstrings and deepened the pain he continued to feel.

Suddenly it occurred to him that she might have gone back in! Yes, that was it! She must have returned. He had lost all sense of proportion, he was stupid, he had been carried away by all the silly suspicions and fears that always haunted him. In one of those periods of strange calm which occur during periods of the blackest despair he turned and began to make for the café again.

He took in the whole room at a single glance. She was not there. He checked all the tables, and once again came face to face with the three women. He must have looked the picture of dejection for the three burst out laughing. Rushing out again, he ran back to the island. He threw himself into the coppices and stopped to listen once more. It was some time before he could hear anything save the roaring in his own ears. Finally, however, he thought he could hear some way ahead a shrill little laugh he knew only too well. Creeping forward he fell to his knees and crawled on, parting the branches cautiously as he went. His heart was beating so wildly in his chest that he could hardly breathe. Two voices were murmuring. He could not make out what they were saying. Then they fell silent again.

He had a sudden furious desire to run away, not to see, not to know and to keep on running to escape from the raging passion with which he was consumed. He would return to Chatou, catch a train and never come back. He would never see her again. Just as suddenly her face appeared in his mind’s eye. He saw her as she was waking up next to him in their warm bed. He saw her snuggle up to him and throw her arms round his neck. Her hair was loose and a little tangled over her brow. Her eyes were still closed and her lips parted, waiting for the first kiss of the day. The thought of this morning’s embrace filled him with unbearable regret and frantic desire.

They were talking again. He approached bent double. Then a cry rose from under the branches close to him. That cry! It was one of those he had come to know from their most tender, their most passionate love-making. He crept even closer, drawn irresistibly, blindly, despite himself … and then he saw them.

Oh! If only the other person had been a man! But this! He was transfixed by the loathsome sight before him. He remained there overwhelmed by shock. It was as though he had just stumbled upon the mutilated body of a loved one. It was a crime against nature, a monstrous and wicked desecration. Suddenly flashing into his mind’s eye this time came the image of the little fish whose entrails he had earlier seen ripped out. Madeleine was moaning ‘Pauline’, exactly as she used to moan ‘Paul’ to him. Hearing it, he felt such pain that he turned and fled. He hurtled into one tree and ricocheted into another, fell over a root, picked himself up and ran again until suddenly he found himself at the edge of the river. The raging torrent made whirls and eddies on which the moonbeams now played. On the opposite side the bank loomed over the water like a cliff, leaving a wide band of black at its foot from which the sound of the swirling water rose in the darkness. Clearly visible on the other side were the weekend homes at Croissy.

Paul saw all this as if in a dream or as something remembered. He was no longer thinking. He understood nothing now. Everything including his own existence seemed vague, distant, forgotten and finished. There was the river. Did he know what he was doing? Did he want to die? He had lost his mind. Nevertheless he turned round to face the island where she was. Into the night in which the faint but persistent beat of the dance-band still throbbed back and forth, he shouted, ‘Madeleine!’

His heart-rending call pierced the great silence of the sky and echoed, lost in the distance. Then with a furious animal-like leap he plunged into the river. The water splashed then closed over the spot setting up a series of ever-widening circles which rippled in the moonlight as far as the opposite bank. The two women had heard. Madeleine got up and said, ‘That’s Paul.’ A suspicion arose suddenly in her mind. ‘He’s drowned himself,’ she said and rushed towards the bank where Pauline caught up with her.

A heavy punt with two men in it was circling over and over around the same spot. One of the men rowed while the other was plunging a long pole into the water evidently looking for something. Pauline shouted: ‘What’s happened? What are you doing?’

A stranger’s voice cried: ‘A man’s just drowned himself.’

With haggard faces the two women huddled together and watched the boat’s manoeuvres. The music from La Grenouillère pounding in the distance provided a grim counterpoint to the movements of the solemn fishermen. The river, now containing a corpse in its depths, continued to swirl in the moonlight. The search was prolonged and Madeleine, waiting in horrible suspense, shivered. Finally, after a good half-hour, one of the men announced: ‘I’ve got him!’

Very gradually he pulled in the boathook. A large mass appeared at the surface of the water. The other boatman left his oars and between the two, each heaving with all his strength, they managed to haul the inert body and bring it tumbling into the boat. They soon reached the bank and found an open, flat space in the moonlight. As they landed, the women approached.

As soon as she saw him Madeleine recoiled in horror. In the light of the moon’s rays he looked green already and his mouth, his eyes, his nose and his clothes were full of the river’s slime. The stiff fingers of his clenched fist looked hideous. Black, liquid silt covered his entire body. The face looked swollen and from his hair now plastered down with ooze a stream of filthy water ran. The two men examined him.

‘You know him?’ asked one.

The other, the Croissy ferryman, hesitated.

‘Seems to me I know the face …,’ he said, ‘but it’s difficult to tell seeing him like this …’

Then suddenly: ‘Oh! I know! It’s Monsieur Paul!’

‘Who’s Monsieur Paul?’ his friend asked.

The first went on: ‘You know! Monsieur Paul Baron. Son of that senator. The kid who was so hooked on that girl, you remember?’

The other added philosophically: ‘No more girls for him now, eh? Poor sod. And with all that money too!’

Madeleine, having collapsed on the ground, was sobbing. Pauline approached the body and said, ‘I suppose he really is dead … there’s no chance he might … ?’

The men shrugged their shoulders.

‘After that length of time no question.’

Then one of them asked: ‘Was he staying at Le Grillon?’

‘Yes,’ said the other. ‘We’d better take him back there. Handsome tip, mate.’ Re-embarking they set off, moving slowly against the rapid current. Long after they had disappeared from the two women’s sight the regular sound of their oars could still be heard.

Pauline took poor, weeping Madeleine in her arms, kissed and rocked her for a long time and then said: ‘Now look. As long as you know it’s not your fault. You can’t stop men doing stupid things. It was his decision so it’s just too bad, that’s all.’

Then lifting her to her feet, she added, ‘Come on darling! Come and sleep at the house. You can’t go back to Le Grillon tonight.’ She kissed her again. ‘Come on, you’ll feel better with us,’ she said.

Madeleine got up, still sobbing, but less violently. She leaned her head on Pauline’s shoulder. Seeming to find there a safer, warmer refuge and a closer, more intimate affection, she walked slowly away from the scene.