he was going to say to Ingrid. He wouldn't tell her that police raids were expected the following week, but simply say that a friend of his mother was lending them her villa. His mother … Through what irony of fate was she now so persistently reappearing in his life, whereas before, she had never been there when he needed her? And now that she was dead, it was as if Madame Paul Rigaud wanted to be forgiven and to obliterate all the wrong she had done him.
The beach was deserted. The few deck chairs still facing the sea hadn't even been folded. No one was there but Ingrid. She was sunbathing on the pontoon.
"I met the porter from the Provençal," Rigaud said. "He's found us a villa. The hotel's going to close soon."
Ingrid had sat down on the edge of the pontoon, her legs dangling. She had put on the big hat, which concealed her face.
"It's odd," she said. "They all left at the same time." Rigaud couldn't take his eyes off the empty deck chairs. "They must have gone to have a siesta …"
But he knew very well that on the other days, at the same time, there had still been people on the beach.
"Shall we bathe?" said Ingrid.
"Yes."
She had taken off her hat and put it on the pontoon. They dived. The sea was as calm as a lake. They swam breast stroke, about fifty metres. Rigaud raised his head slightly in the direction of the beach and the pontoon. Ingrid's big hat formed a red patch on the dark wood. That was the only sign of any human presence in the vicinity.
•
They left the beach at around five, and Rigaud wanted to buy a newspaper. Ingrid was amazed. Ever since they had been in Juan-les-Pins they hadn't read a single paper, except a film magazine that Ingrid bought each week.
But the newsagent was closed. And all the shops in the Rue Guy-de-Maupassant had already lowered their blinds. They were the only people walking along the pavement. They turned back.
"Don't you think it's strange?" Ingrid asked.
"No … Not at all …" said Rigaud, forcing himself to speak casually. "The season's over … And we didn't realize it … "
"Why did you want to buy a paper? Has something happened?"
"No."
The square in the pine forest was also deserted. And on the strip of ground where games of bowls were usually going on, not a single player: had the inhabitants of Juan-les-Pins also left their town, like the holiday-makers?
Outside the entrance to the Provençal, the cab with the white horse was waiting, and the driver was just finishing loading it with a pile of suitcases. Then he climbed up on to his seat and cracked his whip. The horse, walking even more slowly than usual, started off down the hotel drive. Ingrid and Rigaud stood at the door for a moment, waiting to hear the sound of the hooves grow fainter.
Rigaud was filled with apprehension, which Ingrid must have shared, as she said:
"Maybe there's going to be an earthquake … "
And the sunlight all around them deepened the silence.
•
In the hotel lobby – no one. At this time of day the guests were usually sitting at the tables at the far end, having their aperitifs, and when Ingrid and Rigaud came back from the beach they were greeted by the murmur of conversation.
The hall porter was standing behind the reception desk. "You can spend one more night here. Tomorrow, I'll take you to the villa."
"Are we the only ones left?" Rigaud asked.
"Yes. The others left after lunch. Because of an article yesterday in a Paris paper …"
He turned to the pigeonholes behind him, where a few now useless keys were hanging.
"I've changed your room," said the porter. "It's wiser … You're on the first floor … I'll bring you up some dinner later …"
"Have you got the article?" Rigaud asked.
"Yes."
This time they went up the stairs and along the corridor lit by a nightlight, to Room 116 . The blinds were drawn, but even so the sun filtered through and formed little rectangles of light on the floor. There was just a bare bed-frame. Rigaud went over to one of the
The beach was deserted. The few deck chairs still facing the sea hadn't even been folded. No one was there but Ingrid. She was sunbathing on the pontoon.
"I met the porter from the Provençal," Rigaud said. "He's found us a villa. The hotel's going to close soon."
Ingrid had sat down on the edge of the pontoon, her legs dangling. She had put on the big hat, which concealed her face.
"It's odd," she said. "They all left at the same time." Rigaud couldn't take his eyes off the empty deck chairs. "They must have gone to have a siesta …"
But he knew very well that on the other days, at the same time, there had still been people on the beach.
"Shall we bathe?" said Ingrid.
"Yes."
She had taken off her hat and put it on the pontoon. They dived. The sea was as calm as a lake. They swam breast stroke, about fifty metres. Rigaud raised his head slightly in the direction of the beach and the pontoon. Ingrid's big hat formed a red patch on the dark wood. That was the only sign of any human presence in the vicinity.
•
They left the beach at around five, and Rigaud wanted to buy a newspaper. Ingrid was amazed. Ever since they had been in Juan-les-Pins they hadn't read a single paper, except a film magazine that Ingrid bought each week.
But the newsagent was closed. And all the shops in the Rue Guy-de-Maupassant had already lowered their blinds. They were the only people walking along the pavement. They turned back.
"Don't you think it's strange?" Ingrid asked.
"No … Not at all …" said Rigaud, forcing himself to speak casually. "The season's over … And we didn't realize it … "
"Why did you want to buy a paper? Has something happened?"
"No."
The square in the pine forest was also deserted. And on the strip of ground where games of bowls were usually going on, not a single player: had the inhabitants of Juan-les-Pins also left their town, like the holiday-makers?
Outside the entrance to the Provençal, the cab with the white horse was waiting, and the driver was just finishing loading it with a pile of suitcases. Then he climbed up on to his seat and cracked his whip. The horse, walking even more slowly than usual, started off down the hotel drive. Ingrid and Rigaud stood at the door for a moment, waiting to hear the sound of the hooves grow fainter.
Rigaud was filled with apprehension, which Ingrid must have shared, as she said:
"Maybe there's going to be an earthquake … "
And the sunlight all around them deepened the silence.
•
In the hotel lobby – no one. At this time of day the guests were usually sitting at the tables at the far end, having their aperitifs, and when Ingrid and Rigaud came back from the beach they were greeted by the murmur of conversation.
The hall porter was standing behind the reception desk. "You can spend one more night here. Tomorrow, I'll take you to the villa."
"Are we the only ones left?" Rigaud asked.
"Yes. The others left after lunch. Because of an article yesterday in a Paris paper …"
He turned to the pigeonholes behind him, where a few now useless keys were hanging.
"I've changed your room," said the porter. "It's wiser … You're on the first floor … I'll bring you up some dinner later …"
"Have you got the article?" Rigaud asked.
"Yes."
This time they went up the stairs and along the corridor lit by a nightlight, to Room 116 . The blinds were drawn, but even so the sun filtered through and formed little rectangles of light on the floor. There was just a bare bed-frame. Rigaud went over to one of the
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