then continued, "Do you remember, Papa, the time the car broke down? We had to get out and walk, and because I was so tired, you and Mama asked a farmer who was passing by with his cart full of lopped branches if I could ride with him. I remember he made a kind of roof out of the foliage to shelter me from the sun; you walked behind the cart and the farmer led his horse. Then, because you thought no one could see you, you stopped and kissed . . . Do you remember? I suddenly popped my head out from underneath the branches of my little house and shouted, 'I can see you!' And you both started to laugh. Do you remember? And it was that evening we stopped at a big house where there was very little furniture, no electricity and a great brass candelabrum in the middle of the table ... Oh, it's so funny, I'd forgotten about that, and now it's coming back to me. Maybe it was just a dream."
"No it wasn't," said Francois. "That was Coudray, you r o ld Aunt Cecile's house. You were thirsty and crying, so we stopped to ask for some milk for you; your mother didn't want to, I can't recall why, but you were screaming so much that in the end there was no other way of keeping you quiet. You were six then."
"Wait a minute ... I remember it all very well now. There was a spinster with a yellow shawl round her shoulders and a young girl of about fifteen. The girl must have been her ward."
"Yes, that was your friend, Brigitte Declos, or should I say Brigitte Ohnet, since she's about to marry that young man."
Colette fell silent and stared pensively out of the window. "Are they definitely getting married, then?" she asked finally. "Yes, I've heard their banns are being published on Sunday."
"Oh."
Her lips were trembling but she spoke quite calmly. "I hope they'll be happy."
She didn't say another word until Francois was about to take the long way round to Maluret, to avoid passing the Moulin-Neuf. She hesitated for a moment, then touched his shoulder. "Papa, please don't think it will be painful for me to see the mill again. Quite the opposite. You see, I left the day poor Jean was buried, and everything was so solemn and sad that it left me with a very disturbing memory of the place ... and ... it's not fair, somehow . . . Not fair for Jean. I can't explain it, but ... He did everything he could to make me happy, to make me love the house. I'd like to exorcise th e m emory," she added, her voice low and strained. "I'd like to see the river again. Maybe it would cure me of my fear of water."
"That fear will disappear by itself, Colette. What good would it do to . . . ?"
"Do you think so? Because I often dream about the river and it seems sinister to me. To see it again, in the sunlight, would do me good I think. Please, Papa."
"If that's what you want," Francois said as he turned the car back.
We passed Coudray (Colette looked sad and jealous as she glanced towards its open windows), then we took the road through the woods and crossed the bridge. I saw the mill up ahead. Some farmers noticed us go by, but since they didn't acknowledge us I asked Colette if they were the tenants I'd met, the ones who'd sent their farmhand to Coudray the night of the accident.
"No," she said. "That was the family of Jean's nanny. After my husband's death, she was unhappy here. Their lease expired in October and they didn't want to renew it. They've gone to Sainte-Arnould."
As she spoke, she touched her father's shoulder to get him to stop. As I've said, it was a lovely day, but so nearly autumn that, as soon as you were out of the sun, it felt cold and everything looked suddenly dismal. That never happens at the height of summer, when even the shade gives off a secret warmth. As we were looking at the Moulin-Neuf, a cloud hid the sun; the light that played on the river disappeared. Colette sank back and closed her eyes. Francois restarted th e e ngine. After driving for a few moments he whispered, "I shouldn't have listened to you."
"No," Colette
"No it wasn't," said Francois. "That was Coudray, you r o ld Aunt Cecile's house. You were thirsty and crying, so we stopped to ask for some milk for you; your mother didn't want to, I can't recall why, but you were screaming so much that in the end there was no other way of keeping you quiet. You were six then."
"Wait a minute ... I remember it all very well now. There was a spinster with a yellow shawl round her shoulders and a young girl of about fifteen. The girl must have been her ward."
"Yes, that was your friend, Brigitte Declos, or should I say Brigitte Ohnet, since she's about to marry that young man."
Colette fell silent and stared pensively out of the window. "Are they definitely getting married, then?" she asked finally. "Yes, I've heard their banns are being published on Sunday."
"Oh."
Her lips were trembling but she spoke quite calmly. "I hope they'll be happy."
She didn't say another word until Francois was about to take the long way round to Maluret, to avoid passing the Moulin-Neuf. She hesitated for a moment, then touched his shoulder. "Papa, please don't think it will be painful for me to see the mill again. Quite the opposite. You see, I left the day poor Jean was buried, and everything was so solemn and sad that it left me with a very disturbing memory of the place ... and ... it's not fair, somehow . . . Not fair for Jean. I can't explain it, but ... He did everything he could to make me happy, to make me love the house. I'd like to exorcise th e m emory," she added, her voice low and strained. "I'd like to see the river again. Maybe it would cure me of my fear of water."
"That fear will disappear by itself, Colette. What good would it do to . . . ?"
"Do you think so? Because I often dream about the river and it seems sinister to me. To see it again, in the sunlight, would do me good I think. Please, Papa."
"If that's what you want," Francois said as he turned the car back.
We passed Coudray (Colette looked sad and jealous as she glanced towards its open windows), then we took the road through the woods and crossed the bridge. I saw the mill up ahead. Some farmers noticed us go by, but since they didn't acknowledge us I asked Colette if they were the tenants I'd met, the ones who'd sent their farmhand to Coudray the night of the accident.
"No," she said. "That was the family of Jean's nanny. After my husband's death, she was unhappy here. Their lease expired in October and they didn't want to renew it. They've gone to Sainte-Arnould."
As she spoke, she touched her father's shoulder to get him to stop. As I've said, it was a lovely day, but so nearly autumn that, as soon as you were out of the sun, it felt cold and everything looked suddenly dismal. That never happens at the height of summer, when even the shade gives off a secret warmth. As we were looking at the Moulin-Neuf, a cloud hid the sun; the light that played on the river disappeared. Colette sank back and closed her eyes. Francois restarted th e e ngine. After driving for a few moments he whispered, "I shouldn't have listened to you."
"No," Colette
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