the men who had slept with her. Many of them had tried. Some had succeeded. Nobody held it against her for being what she was. They were nearer to being grateful, for without her the Vieux-Marché would not have been quite what it was.
'Is it true that she took the morning bus?' asked Le Bouc, returning to his place at the table.
As Jonas made no reply, he took his silence to mean that he was correct, and went on:
'In that case, she will have been with my niece, Gaston's daughter, who's gone to see a new specialist.'
Jonas knew her. She was a young girl with a pretty but anaemic face who had a deformed hip and in order to walk had to thrust the right-hand side of her body forward. She was seventeen years old.
Since the age of twelve, she had been in the hands of specialists, who had made her undergo various courses of treatment. She had been operated on two or three times without any appreciable success and, at about the age of fifteen, she had spent an entire year in plaster.
She remained sweet and cheerful and her mother came several times a week to change books for her, sentimental novels which she chose carefully herself, out of fear that one of the characters might have been crippled as she was.
'Is her mother with her?'
'No. She went by herself. Gina will have kept her company.'
'Is she coming back this evening?'
'On the five o'clock bus.'
So, then, they would know that Gina had not gone to Bourges. What would he say to Louis when he came to demand an explanation?
For the Palestri family would certainly want explanations from him. They had entrusted their daughter to him, and considered him henceforth responsible for her.
Incapable of looking after her, living in fear of a scandal which might at any moment break out, Angèle had thrust her into his arms. It was that, to put it bluntly, that she had come to do when she had talked to him about a place for her daughter with the assistant manager of the factory. The story may have been true, but she had taken advantage of it.
Even now he was grateful to her for it, for his life without Gina had had no flavour; it was a little as if he had not lived before.
What intrigued him was what had happened in the Palestri family during that period. That there had been discussions there was no question. Frédo's attitude was not in any doubt either, and he must have argued with his parents that they were pushing his sister into the arms of an old man.
But Louis? Did he, too, prefer to see his daughter chasing men than married to Jonas?
'It looks as if we're in for a hot summer. That's what the almanack says, anyway. Storms next week.'
He wiped his spectacles which the steam of his coffee had misted over and stood there for a moment like an owl in the sun, blinking his pink eyelids. It was rare for him to take off his glasses in public; he didn't know exactly why he had done so, for he had never found himself in this position before. It gave him a sense of inferiority, rather as when one dreams that one is stark naked or trouserless in the middle of a crowd.
Gina used to see him like this every day and perhaps that was why she treated him differently from the others. His thick lenses, not rimmed with metal or tortoise-shell, worked both ways. While they enabled him to observe the minutest details of the world outside, they enlarged his pupils for other people and gave them a fixed look, a hardness which in reality they did not possess.
Once, standing in his doorway, he had heard a small boy who was passing say to his mother:
'Hasn't that man got large eyes!'
Actually his eyes weren't large. It was the glasses which gave them a globular appearance.
'See you later,' he sighed, after counting out his coins and putting them on the counter.
'See you later. Good afternoon.'
At around five o'clock Le Bouc would close his bar, for in the afternoon few customers came. If he stayed open it was mainly for the convenience of his neighbours. The day before a market he would
'Is it true that she took the morning bus?' asked Le Bouc, returning to his place at the table.
As Jonas made no reply, he took his silence to mean that he was correct, and went on:
'In that case, she will have been with my niece, Gaston's daughter, who's gone to see a new specialist.'
Jonas knew her. She was a young girl with a pretty but anaemic face who had a deformed hip and in order to walk had to thrust the right-hand side of her body forward. She was seventeen years old.
Since the age of twelve, she had been in the hands of specialists, who had made her undergo various courses of treatment. She had been operated on two or three times without any appreciable success and, at about the age of fifteen, she had spent an entire year in plaster.
She remained sweet and cheerful and her mother came several times a week to change books for her, sentimental novels which she chose carefully herself, out of fear that one of the characters might have been crippled as she was.
'Is her mother with her?'
'No. She went by herself. Gina will have kept her company.'
'Is she coming back this evening?'
'On the five o'clock bus.'
So, then, they would know that Gina had not gone to Bourges. What would he say to Louis when he came to demand an explanation?
For the Palestri family would certainly want explanations from him. They had entrusted their daughter to him, and considered him henceforth responsible for her.
Incapable of looking after her, living in fear of a scandal which might at any moment break out, Angèle had thrust her into his arms. It was that, to put it bluntly, that she had come to do when she had talked to him about a place for her daughter with the assistant manager of the factory. The story may have been true, but she had taken advantage of it.
Even now he was grateful to her for it, for his life without Gina had had no flavour; it was a little as if he had not lived before.
What intrigued him was what had happened in the Palestri family during that period. That there had been discussions there was no question. Frédo's attitude was not in any doubt either, and he must have argued with his parents that they were pushing his sister into the arms of an old man.
But Louis? Did he, too, prefer to see his daughter chasing men than married to Jonas?
'It looks as if we're in for a hot summer. That's what the almanack says, anyway. Storms next week.'
He wiped his spectacles which the steam of his coffee had misted over and stood there for a moment like an owl in the sun, blinking his pink eyelids. It was rare for him to take off his glasses in public; he didn't know exactly why he had done so, for he had never found himself in this position before. It gave him a sense of inferiority, rather as when one dreams that one is stark naked or trouserless in the middle of a crowd.
Gina used to see him like this every day and perhaps that was why she treated him differently from the others. His thick lenses, not rimmed with metal or tortoise-shell, worked both ways. While they enabled him to observe the minutest details of the world outside, they enlarged his pupils for other people and gave them a fixed look, a hardness which in reality they did not possess.
Once, standing in his doorway, he had heard a small boy who was passing say to his mother:
'Hasn't that man got large eyes!'
Actually his eyes weren't large. It was the glasses which gave them a globular appearance.
'See you later,' he sighed, after counting out his coins and putting them on the counter.
'See you later. Good afternoon.'
At around five o'clock Le Bouc would close his bar, for in the afternoon few customers came. If he stayed open it was mainly for the convenience of his neighbours. The day before a market he would
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