September has arrived, lovely in its weakening light. There are fewer boats on the lake, their sails have been furled, and the white passenger ferries make fewer trips. A notice on the jetty announces that the 8:27 service will no longer run. With each passing day, more shutters close over the windows of the guesthouse: people are leaving. Will that window, today laughing in the sun, its white curtains fluttering, be open again tomorrow? And the one beside it? And the one above? One by one they close, like lights going out.
For the past several days, Renée Rey has left her room. After lunch, at around two o’clock, she takes a walk either alone or with Monsieur Rey. She takes his arm and they walk in silence. Sometimes they stop to pet the guesthouse’s huge, shaggy sheepdog. Madame Rey is paler than before and looks taller, and when anybody comes across her she smiles like a convalescent. She has spoken a few inconsequential words with Stefan, with no more sadness than when speaking to the others.
—It’s so lovely outside and it was horrible up there in my room. I missed you all, and the sun.
It seems they will be gone in a day or two. They’ve written ahead to Marseille to inquire about the weather, as Renée needs a calm crossing. In the evening she reclines on a chaise longue while Monsieur Rey and Stefan play chess. Just as in the first days. When it is completely dark, the lights of the train station far beyond the lake can be seen, and the Paris train at midnight, like a thick, articulated, phosphorescent snake. They pause in the middle of their game and watch it until it disappears.
—We have a tough life, says Monsieur Rey, breaking the silence. I don’t regret it and wouldn’t change it. But it is tough. I’m sure Renée has tears in her eyes, watching that same train, which she won’t be taking again for who knows how many years. Maybe never. That doesn’t scare me, but, you see, there’s something in me, a kind of affliction, that gives me pause. I know it’ll pass. It will pass for her too. Work takes care of all that. The sun, the plantations, the desert, the breeze at night, the Arabs…But you have to understand how different things are here, how appealing it is and how a woman in particular would find it all irresistible…
He forgets about the game and speaks quietly, the furrow between his eyebrows deeper than usual. Then he suddenly stands up.
—I’m going up to pack. We’re leaving tomorrow. Stay with Renée until I come back.
Stefan goes to the terrace, where Madame Rey’s shawl is dimly visible in the darkness.
—Monsieur Rey went upstairs. He asked me to keep you company. May I?
—Of course.
—It seems you’re leaving tomorrow.
—I didn’t know, but all the better.
He sits on the grass and for a long time doesn’t speak, listening to the breathing of the woman next to him. He sees a firefly, captures it, holds it in his fist to better see how the little creature extinguishes the little lamp in its head, but she asks him to put it in her hair and he does this. In the dark, the glowing spark looks like an enormous hair clasp, just bright enough to backlight her head with a faint aura.
Everything seems completely peaceful and then Renée bursts into tears. Good, friendly tears which Stefan helps along, caressing her hands, receiving the weeping with equanimity, as he would the rain.
—Will you be staying on long, Stefan?
—I don’t really know. I’m waiting for news from back in my country. Perhaps a week. Maybe longer.
—You don’t mind me crying?
—Why should I, Renée? It’s nighttime. Nobody can see. And somebody needs to cry for us all.
Nothing else happens and the days pass pointlessly, leaving behind them the air of an unlived-in, unfurnished house, its rooms resounding with the footfalls of a solitary visitor. The morning light is raw, like egg white, and the light of evening as warm as the porcelain bowl of a kerosene lamp. A photograph has arrived from the Rey family, sent from Marseille on the eve of their departure, along with their friendly regards. Stefan has placed it in the frame of his mirror and he expects he will leave it there when he departs. A letter has arrived for Odette Mignon and the owner of the guesthouse has given it to Stefan, as she has no forwarding address. Stefan doesn’t know it either. It’s strange that Odette didn’t offer such information, stranger still that Stefan didn’t ask for it. Several forgotten items have been found in her room: a piece of embroidery, a book, a scarf, and three or four amateur photographs. They show a flighty-looking Odette, her skirts flapping in the wind, her blue beret askew, her hands aloft to catch some imaginary ball. “She passed by like a girl you’d meet on a tram,” says Stefan, looking out the window, toward the empty lake, across which a single sailboat hastens, like a frightened bird. Near the jetty, several seagulls swoop low and skim the water with their bellies, then rise again, disoriented. The glum footfalls of the lame chambermaid, Anetta, can be heard as she makes her rounds of the rooms before dark, to check that all is in order.
—Madame Bernard wonders if you’d like a fire. It’s got cold and it’s supposed to rain tonight.