belong. And she suffered from the same thing. Sometimes he even got the impression she was clinging to him, as though terrified. Was it possible they could ever live together? Did he really want it?
He jammed on the brake, blinded by someone’s headlights. A car streaked by in a gust of air. Then the road was clear again, a yellow line running down the middle of it, the shoulders flanked by trees painted white head-high. Sometimes a falling leaf would look like a distant stone or hole in the road. Ravinel’s thoughts were going round and round in a circle. He had a cramp in his left foot and was longing for a cigarette.
Lucienne crossed her legs, then carefully drew her coat over her knee. Ravinel had to make an effort to realize he had a dead body in the back of the car.
‘It would have been shorter by Tours.’
Lucienne spoke without turning her head. He too looked straight ahead as he snapped back:
‘The road’s torn up between Angers and Tours. Besides, what difference does it make?’
If she wanted an argument about it, she could have one! He was quite ready. She said nothing, however, merely pulling a map out of the glove compartment and studying it by the light from the dashboard. That irritated him too. Maps were a man’s province. Would he ever have thought of rummaging in her desk? As a matter of fact, he had never been to her flat. Somehow the opportunity seemed never to have presented itself. For that matter, they both led busy lives. In the daytime they might snatch an hour together at lunch, or he might call at the hospital and see her for a few minutes on the pretext of a consultation. Otherwise, it was she who came to the little house on the quay. It was there that they had worked out their plans.
What did he really know about Lucienne? What did he know of her past? She didn’t open up easily. Once she had mentioned that her father had been a judge at Aix-en-Provence and that he had died during the war, unable to stand the hardships. Of her mother she had never spoken and, when he had tried to probe her the response had always been the same—a frown. Presumably she was still alive, but he was pretty certain Lucienne never saw her. Some family row, no doubt. At all events she never went back to Aix. Yet she obviously had some feeling for the South, since it was at Antibes that she wished to set up practice. No brothers or sisters. In her surgery there was a little photograph—at least there had been, but it had disappeared some time ago—the photograph of a very beautiful girl with fair hair and Scandinavian features.Later on he would inquire about her. After their marriage. How funny that sounded! Unreal. He simply couldn’t picture Lucienne and himself as a married couple. Come to think of it, they were both bachelor types. That was a queer thing to say, and he really couldn’t explain it. It was true all the same. They looked it. They both had the little fads and fancies that belong to a bachelor existence. And while he was extremely attached to his own, he hated hers. To start with, the perfume she used—some flower or other—which mingled badly with the animal smell of her skin. Her signet ring, which she fiddled with incessantly as she talked. It might have looked all right on a banker’s finger or a big industrialist’s. But on hers… Then there was the way she wolfed her food, and her always wanting her meat almost raw. Occasionally there was a touch of vulgarity in her movements or her speech. It didn’t often show through—she was too well brought up for that—but now and again she would come out with a coarse laugh or look at you with the effrontery of a fishwife. Even physically, there were things he found hard to put up with—her thick wrists and ankles, her flat chest. And when she was alone she smoked thin black cigarettes, a habit she’d picked up in Spain. And how they stank! By the way, what had she been doing in Spain, anyway? There was one thing you could say for
He jammed on the brake, blinded by someone’s headlights. A car streaked by in a gust of air. Then the road was clear again, a yellow line running down the middle of it, the shoulders flanked by trees painted white head-high. Sometimes a falling leaf would look like a distant stone or hole in the road. Ravinel’s thoughts were going round and round in a circle. He had a cramp in his left foot and was longing for a cigarette.
Lucienne crossed her legs, then carefully drew her coat over her knee. Ravinel had to make an effort to realize he had a dead body in the back of the car.
‘It would have been shorter by Tours.’
Lucienne spoke without turning her head. He too looked straight ahead as he snapped back:
‘The road’s torn up between Angers and Tours. Besides, what difference does it make?’
If she wanted an argument about it, she could have one! He was quite ready. She said nothing, however, merely pulling a map out of the glove compartment and studying it by the light from the dashboard. That irritated him too. Maps were a man’s province. Would he ever have thought of rummaging in her desk? As a matter of fact, he had never been to her flat. Somehow the opportunity seemed never to have presented itself. For that matter, they both led busy lives. In the daytime they might snatch an hour together at lunch, or he might call at the hospital and see her for a few minutes on the pretext of a consultation. Otherwise, it was she who came to the little house on the quay. It was there that they had worked out their plans.
What did he really know about Lucienne? What did he know of her past? She didn’t open up easily. Once she had mentioned that her father had been a judge at Aix-en-Provence and that he had died during the war, unable to stand the hardships. Of her mother she had never spoken and, when he had tried to probe her the response had always been the same—a frown. Presumably she was still alive, but he was pretty certain Lucienne never saw her. Some family row, no doubt. At all events she never went back to Aix. Yet she obviously had some feeling for the South, since it was at Antibes that she wished to set up practice. No brothers or sisters. In her surgery there was a little photograph—at least there had been, but it had disappeared some time ago—the photograph of a very beautiful girl with fair hair and Scandinavian features.Later on he would inquire about her. After their marriage. How funny that sounded! Unreal. He simply couldn’t picture Lucienne and himself as a married couple. Come to think of it, they were both bachelor types. That was a queer thing to say, and he really couldn’t explain it. It was true all the same. They looked it. They both had the little fads and fancies that belong to a bachelor existence. And while he was extremely attached to his own, he hated hers. To start with, the perfume she used—some flower or other—which mingled badly with the animal smell of her skin. Her signet ring, which she fiddled with incessantly as she talked. It might have looked all right on a banker’s finger or a big industrialist’s. But on hers… Then there was the way she wolfed her food, and her always wanting her meat almost raw. Occasionally there was a touch of vulgarity in her movements or her speech. It didn’t often show through—she was too well brought up for that—but now and again she would come out with a coarse laugh or look at you with the effrontery of a fishwife. Even physically, there were things he found hard to put up with—her thick wrists and ankles, her flat chest. And when she was alone she smoked thin black cigarettes, a habit she’d picked up in Spain. And how they stank! By the way, what had she been doing in Spain, anyway? There was one thing you could say for
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