As she changed, Anne reflected that she had spent all the day preparing and waiting. Hartmann, no doubt, had had other things to do. There was his job and those boxes full of papers he had to read for it; there was his wife, and the large house to look after and the workmen to supervise; then there were his friends to see and play tennis and chess with: there was Jean-Philippe, whom she liked best, and his brother Jacques, the jolly one; and the persevering Mattlin; and the other people in Paris to whom he had made vague reference. All day Hartmann would have been occupied with these things while she had had nothing to do but think about him. Since he had last seen her and made the appointment for this evening he had probably not thought about her once, while she, who was so dependent on his bidding, had had to wait and hope that perhaps he might look into the Lion d’Or; that he might send one of his scribbled notes or might request an earlier meeting; might even contact her to confirm that he was coming. Perhaps, she thought, that is why I have reached this pitch of feeling so soon, when I hardly know him, because I have nothing else to think about, no way of my own of influencing events; while he, once he has decided what shall happen next, can merely turn his mind to other things. She felt a rush of resentment as she lifted the lid and peered once more at the now perversely bubbling chicken; but she could think of worse ways of passing a day than in this gentle simmer of anticipation.
Hartmann had in fact divided his day between despatching telegrams to Paris and discussing at some length with Jean-Philippe Gilbert, in whom he had confided, his position with regard to Anne.
Jean-Philippe viewed Hartmann’s dilemma with detached amusement. He warned him to be very careful in his visits but couldn’t otherwise see why Hartmann was perplexed. ‘It’s simple,’ he said. ‘Almost every married man in this town has a mistress. So long as it’s kept private, nobody minds. So long as it doesn’t cause your standard of living to fall – which distresses the wives – the system works well. Keep up appearances, that’s all that matters. To do what you’re doing – to worry when you haven’t yet done anything wrong – is the worst of both worlds.’
Hartmann laughed. ‘I suppose you’re right. Here, you must try some of this wine. I don’t know what it is, because the labels were washed off when my father’s cellar caved in, but this bottle’s very good. Go on, give me your glass.’
‘You never used to be like this, you know. You never used to have these scruples.’
‘I know. I’m getting older. I thought you stopped changing when you reached a certain age, but you don’t. Your good health.’ For fear of talking too much about himself, Hartmann made inquiries about Jean-Philippe’s life. They forgot the problems of Hartmann’s lust and conscience until Jean-Philippe was leaving, when he agreed to tell Christine, if it should be necessary, that Hartmann had spent the evening with him.
At about the time Anne was changing, Hartmann put on an old jacket and went for a walk along the side of the lake and out towards the sea. As he thrust his hands deep into the pockets he felt a crumpled letter and pulled it out. It was the one from Etienne Beauvais, his friend near Bordeaux, inviting him for a weekend. He read again the hearty conclusion: ‘Bring yourself a companion. All is discretion here! Do come, Charles; it will be a jolly party and we haven’t seen you for a long time.’ He looked at the date on top of the letter: it was nearly a month old and he had quite forgotten about it.
An hour later he drove his car at high speed through the pine forest and out into the sandy unwelcoming plain with its smaller cluster of houses round which children were playing. On the seat next to him was a bottle of the same unidentified wine he and Jean-Philippe had been drinking earlier and a bunch of flowers he had gathered on his walk through the woods and stored furtively in the boot before re-entering the house. As he accelerated uphill and back into the pines, he felt the exhilaration of the schoolboy who is breaking bounds. For several moments he enjoyed the feeling along with the rush of air over the windscreen. Then he thought: why should I feel this when I’ve done nothing wrong? What bounds have I broken? As he slowed the car at the approach to the crossroads on the edge of town, he felt once more the stirrings of conscience. Then he looked again at his feeling and found in it nothing but pleasure and kindness and an eagerness to please. He swung up into the long boulevard with its stripped trees and powered the car on up to the Place de la Victoire.
Anne’s day of waiting ended as she heard at last the ring of the street doorbell and Mlle Calmette wobbling over to open it. Then she heard the old woman’s front door close behind her, and there remained only the sound of Hartmann’s footsteps crossing the gravel of the courtyard. She felt a pounding in her throat. She heard him on the stairs to her apartment where she knew he would be assailed by the smell of cooking. She stepped out on to the landing, her cheeks a little flushed against the darkness of her hair. She was apologising and welcoming him and her words were falling over each other; she took his proffered hand, the patch of colour in her face not unlike the colour of the slide which held back her hair just above the ear. She noticed that he moved and spoke with slow movements, presumably to calm her.
He opened the wine and poured some for her. She took it and sipped from the glass, looking at him over the rim as though she feared he might vanish if she let her gaze leave him. Hartmann laughed and raised his own glass to her.
‘Oh, monsieur, I hope you won’t be disappointed in the dinner. It’s so difficult with the gas-ring. I’m not complaining, of course, you know, but . . . it doesn’t give out a regular heat and it’s been very difficult, so I hope you won’t be disappointed.’
‘Of course not. What are we having?’
‘Coq au vin,’ said Anne, with a hint of surprise. ‘It’s what you asked for.’
‘Is it? Of course, yes. I’m sorry if it was such a nuisance. You could have done anything. I don’t mind, I just wanted to come and see you were settled all right.’
‘You’d forgotten that’s what you asked for, hadn’t you?’
‘I – well, yes. I’ve no recollection of it at all.’
Anne began to laugh. ‘And to think of the trouble I went to.’
Hartmann laughed too. ‘I don’t even particularly like it, as a matter of fact.’
‘Now really!’
He gave her the flowers he had gathered in the woods and she went to find a vase for them, glad to have a chance to compose herself a little.
Hartmann meanwhile glanced around the room. On a sideboard was a small pile of books and he walked over and picked them up. The first one was a cloth-bound edition of Essays by Montaigne. Although old, it had been recently purchased, as the bookseller’s pencilled inscription inside the front cover made clear. Recalling their conversation in the attic, Hartmann felt a wave of embarrassment. He put down the books and turned away from the side-table to see Anne coming back into the room with the flowers arranged in a striped blue vase.
Anne had read some of the essays in the book Hartmann said was his favourite but appeared unwilling to discuss them with him. He didn’t press her, but deferred to her opinions and tried to guide the conversation into areas where she would feel at ease. Sometimes, he noticed, she would grow quite voluble in her enthusiasm but then would suddenly stop, as though she were afraid of talking too much or too inconsequentially. Then he would begin his slow prompting again, leading her forwards until her self-consciousness was once more overcome by her natural exuberance.
The food at least had turned out as well as could be hoped, and when they had finished the wine Hartmann had brought, Anne went to find the bottle of brandy she had purchased for his previous visit. Hartmann stood with his back to the fireplace and looked around the room, which was lit not only by the candles but also by a dangling light above the table that had a white crocheted shade like an old maid’s bonnet.
Anne handed him his brandy and stood beside him. She watched as he turned a silver match-box round between the ends of his fingers.
‘Talking of friends,’ he said, ‘I had a letter from a man I used to know in Paris who lives not far from Bordeaux now. He has some sort of farm there, or rather his wife’s family does. He’s invited me to go for a weekend.’
‘How kind. Was he a close friend?’
‘Oh yes, quite close. I thought it might be enjoyable to go and see how he’s managing. We’re in a rather similar situation, really – trying to live in the country after years of the town.’
‘And does he like it?’
‘I don’t know. He’s very hospitable and I’m sure he’ll make it a good weekend, with shooting and picnics and all sorts of things during the day, and probably music in the evenings. Even dancing perhaps.’
‘How lovely.’
Hartmann lit a cigar. He blew the smoke out and said, ‘The thing is this: he’s asked me to bring someone with me and I don’t think Christine would be very interested, so I wondered if you might like to come. Just for a change of air, you understand. No obligations. You could do just as you liked. It might be nice for you to get away from the hotel for a day or two and meet some different people. You’d be entirely . . . independent there, you’d be left alone . . . If the idea appealed . . .’
For the first time he had known Anne, Hartmann was himself confused, allowing his voice to trail off inconclusively as he was unable to find words delicate enough to express his meaning. Anne, however, was too excited to notice any loss of composure.
‘It’s very kind of you. I don’t know what to say.’ In fact she did know what to say, but feared to seem precipitate. ‘It would be difficult to take the time off work, and Mme Hartmann . . . are you sure she wouldn’t want to come? Or rather if she knew I was going . . .’
‘She wouldn’t know.’
‘No . . . no, I suppose not. But at work, at the hotel, it might be difficult.’
‘You’ve been there long enough. Surely they owe you some holiday by this time? It’s the law now, you know. Thanks to M. Blum.’
‘I suppose so.’ Anne looked down.
‘Anne, I don’t want to force you. It might be better if you didn’t come, if you felt it would compromise you in some way. It was only a thought. I wouldn’t want you to do anything unless you felt whole-hearted about it. It would be mad to go there and spend the weekend wondering if what you were doing was the right thing. It should be a time just to relax and forget your worries.’ Hartmann appeared to believe sincerely in what he was saying, Anne thought.
In her imagination she saw a country mansion and smart evening parties and herself unsure of the etiquette and being talked about by other women behind her back. But she also saw herself being protected by Hartmann, walking at his side, and borne above all the difficulties of the occasion by his sublime self-confidence. Her decision was immediate, and depended on the simplest of things: it was a chance to be with him.
‘I’d love to come. If I can get permission from Mme Bouin.’
Hartmann smiled, and not even Anne at her most timorous could doubt the sincerity of his pleasure.
Not knowing where to look, she picked up the bottle of brandy from the table and poured some more before Hartmann could stop her. He grasped her wrist to prevent her filling his glass with drink he would have, out of politeness, to finish. Anne jumped at the feel of his flesh on hers and he quickly released her lest she should misinterpret what he was doing. The brandy spilled on to the floor and over Hartmann’s feet. He laughed as he wiped his shoes with a handkerchief and Anne, seeing he was not annoyed, laughed too.
‘I’ll come into the Lion d’Or tomorrow evening to find out how you got on.’
‘All right. I don’t think Mme Bouin is going to be very pleased.’
‘Well, don’t ask her. Ask the Patron. It’s his decision, after all.’
‘But I couldn’t do that! Mme Bouin says he’s terribly busy. And he certainly wouldn’t want to be disturbed by a waitress asking about her holiday.’
‘Why not? That’s his job, running the hotel. And he couldn’t be less sympathetic than this Mme Bouin, could he?’
‘No, that’s true, but even so –’
‘Go on, Anne. You’re a brave girl. “Robust” – wasn’t that the word I used?’