To the left the islands of Saint Marguerite and Saint Honorat look like two big clumps of pine-trees rising out of the water.
And all along the broad gulf, up and down the tall mountains that lie about Cannes, the host of white villas sleeps in the sunlight. From far away these ghostly houses, scattered from top to bottom of the mountains, dotting the dusky verdure with snow-like specks, are clearly visible.
The houses nearest the water have gates opening on to the broad promenade bathed by the tranquil waves. The air is soft and pleasant and, above the garden wall, one catches a glimpse of orange and lemon-trees laden with golden fruit. Women move slowly over the sand of the avenue, followed by children bowling hoops, or chatting with their male escorts. On a mild winter day, with the faintest touch of freshness in the air, a young lady came out of her little, dainty house facing the Croisette and stopped for a minute to look at the pedestrians, smiled to herself, and then, quite exhausted, reached an empty bench facing the sea. Tired out with the short walk, she sat down, panting for breath. Her pale face looked like that of a dead woman. She coughed incessantly and raised transparent fingers to her lips as if to stop the exhausting paroxysms.
She gazed at the sky, full of sunshine, at the swallows, and at the irregular peaks of the Esterel in the distance, at the sea so blue and so calm lying near her.
She smiled again and murmured:
“Oh, how happy I am.”
Yet she knew she was going to die, that she would not see the spring, that in a year, along the same promenade, these same people passing in front of her would come to breathe the mild air of this charming spot; their children, a little older, their hearts still full of hope, tenderness and happiness, while the wretched remains of flesh she still possessed would be rotting away in an oak coffin, leaving only her bones to lie in the silk frock she had chosen for her shroud.
She would be gone. Life would go on for others, but for her it would be over, over forever. She would be gone. She smiled and breathed in the scented air of the gardens as well as her stricken lungs permitted.
And she lost herself in a daydream.
She was thinking of the past. She had been married four years ago to a gentleman of Normandy, strong, bearded, healthy, narrow-minded, broad-shouldered and cheerful. The match had been arranged for financial reasons unknown to her. She would have liked to say “No” but implied “Yes” by a movement of her head, so as not to thwart her father and mother. She was a Parisian, lighthearted, full of the joy of life. Her husband took her to his castle in Normandy, a huge stone building, surrounded by very tall, old trees. The front view was shut out by a high clump of pines, on the right an opening disclosed a view over the bare plain that stretched away to the distant farms. A crossroad passed by the gateway and led to the high road about three miles away.
She remembered everything: her arrival, the first day in her new home, and the lonely life that followed.
When she stepped out of the carriage she looked at the old building and said, laughingly:
“It’s not very cheerful.”
Her husband laughed back, replying:
“One gets accustomed to it. You’ll see. I never feel bored here.”
A great part of that day was spent in lovemaking, and it did not seem long to her. The next day it was the same thing, and so on through the week that was taken up with caressings. Then she started to rearrange her home, and that lasted a whole month. The days passed by in quite insignificant and yet absorbing pursuits. She learnt the value and importance of the little things of life. She found out that one could be interested in the fluctuation in the price of eggs.
It was summer, and she went out into the fields to watch the harvesting. The brightness of the sunshine kept her going.
Then came the autumn, and her husband went out shooting, starting in the morning with his two dogs, Médor and Mirza. She was left behind alone, but did not grieve over Henri’s absence: she was very fond of him though she did not miss him. When he returned, her affection was especially bestowed on the dogs. Every evening she looked after them with a mother’s care, petted them, calling them by all sorts of pet names she would never have thought of calling her husband.
He always told her all about the day’s sport, indicating the places where he had shot partridges; surprised at not finding any hares in Joseph Ledentée’s clover, or seemingly indignant at Monsieur Lechapelier’s conduct in always shooting along the border of his property and thereby getting the benefit of the game that he, Henri de Parville, had preserved. She replied: “That’s certainly not right,” thinking of something else. Then came the winter, the cold, rainy winter of Normandy. Everlasting showers fell on the slates of the great, steep-pitched roof, rising like a blade to the sky. The roads seemed like rivers of mud, the country itself a sea of mud; nothing could be heard but the sound of falling water. Nothing could be seen but the whirling flight of crows moving like a cloud, dropping on to the fields, and then flying off again.
About four o’clock the crowd of dark, flying creatures came with their deafening cries and perched in the tall beeches to the left of the castle. For over an hour they flew from treetop to treetop, seeming to be fighting, croaked and formed a moving black mass in the greyish branches.
Every evening she
