He smiled. All he had to do was stand up, walk towards her and speak. But she was on her feet first. She leaned down to the baby, hoisted him on to her hip, and in this pose looked even younger and more fragile.
He stood up in turn. But before he was fully standing, she went past him and spat on the ground, hissing:
‘Filthy bastard!’
Then, without hurrying or turning round, she walked off towards her mother at the washtub.
He waited for the bus, as agreed, at the side of the main road. He helped Tati to climb down and carried most of the parcels. She had blinked on seeing him, and as soon as they were on the path through the hazel bushes, she asked him:
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Did anyone come to the house?’
‘No, no one.’
How had she guessed that something was wrong, when it was so imponderable? And anyway, what was the matter with him? He didn’t frighten Félicie. It wasn’t because he was fresh out of prison that she had run away as soon as she saw him!
She had spat on the ground. And she had hissed:
‘Filthy bastard!’
That was very different. Her words were addressed to the man who lived in Tati’s house and was Tati’s lover.
Tati herself, out of breath because he walked too quickly, nevertheless went on asking questions, looking at him suspiciously.
‘Félicie didn’t come over, did she?’
He was able to say no without lying. He was not curious to find out what was in her parcels. His day was spoiled, and perhaps much more than his day. The sky above was spoiled for him. He didn’t feel like whistling any more, he wasn’t hungry, he didn’t breathe in with pleasure, like on other days, the already familiar smell of the kitchen.
‘I’ve ordered another incubator,’ Tati announced, as she took off her hat.
Something had changed about her as well, and he sensed that there was now a certain distance between them, one that she was hesitating to bridge.
‘You haven’t asked me what I bought for you in town. Look here, Jean. Let me see your face properly. Do you remember what you said to me the other day, and what I answered?’
‘What did I say?’
Instead of replying, she declared:
‘This morning, just before the market finished, a car stopped in front of the Hôtel de France. You know the Hôtel de France, don’t you?’
‘Well, yes, I know where it is.’
‘A big open car, not many of those round here. With a man and a woman in it. The woman was very beautiful, very young, and wearing this two-piece suit, almost pure white. And the man, as he got out, said:
‘“I’ll just be a few minutes, darling.”
‘And you know who it was?’
He frowned, he had guessed vaguely, but wasn’t really following the conversation.
‘Let me take a look at you. His hair was growing low down on his forehead like yours, but his was grey. And his eyebrows met over his eyes just like yours. Why didn’t you put me right, when I said you couldn’t be Monsieur Passerat-Monnoyeur’s son?’
‘I did say I was his son.’
‘And I said it wasn’t true.’
‘It really isn’t important.’
She preferred to start opening her parcels.
‘Here we are, I bought you a razor, some shaving soap and a shaving brush. And your collar size is 41, isn’t it? Here are three shirts. You can try one of them, and I can take them back if they don’t suit.’
Some espadrilles, two packets of cigarettes, a belt with a metal buckle and a pair of blue canvas trousers.
‘Will that be all right?’
A kind of gulf had opened between them since she had mentioned the owner of the distillery.
‘Where’s Couderc?’
‘With the cows, I expect.’
‘Help me lay the table. I’ll go up and change presently.’
Then, as she busied herself with the saucepans:
