She Who Was No More by Pierre Boileau Page B

Lucienne’s father—were to ask him what he’d done, he could in all good faith answer: nothing. And since he’d done nothing he regretted nothing. Repentance—that came to much the same thing. What was he to repent? Unless it was being made as he was, and that was meaningless. You can’t help the way you’re made.
    A signpost. Le Mans 1½ kilometers. Some big white buildings. Garages. Then the road passed under a steel bridge, after which it was flanked by low houses.
    ‘You’ll avoid the center, I suppose.’
    ‘No. That’s the shortest way.’
    It was nearly half past eleven, and people were pouring out of the movies. Wet pavements. Here and there a café still lit up. On the left, two policemen, wheeling their bicycles, were crossing a square. Then another suburb, whose streets were lit by gas. More low houses. Garages. Gas pumps. Leaving the cobblestones, they were once more out on the blacktop road. Another railway bridge, with a locomotive, shunting. A moving van passed, going in the opposite direction. Ravinel accelerated to seventy-five. In a few minutes they’d be in the Beauce. An easy road as far as Nogent-le-Rotrou.
    ‘There’s a car overtaking you,’ said Lucienne.
    ‘Yes. I’ve seen it.’
    The glare of its headlights seemed to fill the car with a golden dust, so thick that you were tempted to brush it asidewith your hand. The car passed, cutting in too soon. A Peugeot. Half blinded, Ravinel swore. In no time the Peugeot had shot ahead growing visibly smaller every second. Then it rose up on the horizon, thrusting its two tusks of light into the sky. Couldn’t have been doing a kilometer less than a hundred and ten an hour. It was just at that moment that the engine spluttered, then faded out. Ravinel tried the starter, but it was no good. The car was still rolling and instinctively he drew across to the side of the road, put on the brake and switched off his headlights.
    ‘What on earth are you doing?’ Lucienne asked aggressively.
    ‘Can’t you see? The engine’s conked out. Probably the carburetor.’
    ‘Clever of you!’
    As though he’d done it on purpose. And so close to Le Mans. At a place where there was quite a bit of traffic about even at this time of night. He got out of the car with a tight feeling in his chest. A sharp little breeze drifted through the leafless trees. Every sound carried with extraordinary distinctness. He could hear the buffers telescoping as the locomotive bumped into a line of trains, then its puffing as it slowly towed them away. A driver was hooting at every bend in the road. As he lifted the hood, Ravinel had the sensation of being hemmed in by people on every side.
    ‘Bring me the flashlight.’
    She brought it, peered under the hood at the hot engine smelling of oil and gasoline.
    ‘You’d better be quick.’
    But Ravinel had no need of advice. He got to work at once. He had to dismantle the carburetor—he felt sure that waswhere the trouble was. The important thing was not to lose the screws. They were small enough! And his and Lucienne’s whole future depended on them. Just one of those tiny bits of metal lost, and… Sweat broke out on his forehead and his eyes smarted. Sitting on the running board, he carefully laid the parts of the carburetor out in front of him. Lucienne paced up and down in the middle of the road.
    ‘You’d do better to help me.’
    ‘Perhaps I had. It might go a bit quicker. To think that—’
    ‘To think what?’
    ‘Don’t you realize that the first motorist who passes may ask what the trouble is?’
    ‘And if he does?’ He picked up the feed line.
    ‘He might want to lend a hand, and then…’
    He was busy blowing through the feed line to clear it. He blew so hard it made his temples throb, and that was all he could hear. When he stopped she was still speaking and he just caught the words:
    ‘…the police.’
    What the devil was she driveling about? Ravinel wiped his eyes and looked at her. She was afraid.