“Of course. It’s only the middle-class women who lead a dull, monotonous life for the sake of their virtue, a virtue for which no one thanks them.”
And I set myself to undermine virtue with tremendous strokes of irony, philosophy and nonsense. I made magnificent and graceful fun of the poor wretches who let themselves grow old without ever having known the good things of life, the sweet, tender, gallant things that life offers, without ever having savoured the delicious pleasure of long, burning stolen kisses, and all just because they have married a worthy dolt of a husband, the reserve of whose marital embraces allows them to go to their graves in ignorance of all the refinements of sensual pleasure and all the delicate ecstasies of love.
Then I cited further anecdotes, anecdotes of cabinets particuliers, intrigues which I swore were common knowledge. And the refrain of all my tales was a discreet, veiled eulogy of swift, secret love, of sensations snatched in passing, like fruit, and forgotten as soon as enjoyed.
Night fell, a calm, warm night. The big ship, shaken from stem to stern by its engines, glided over the sea, under the vast roof of the wine-dark sky, starred with fire.
The little provincial was not talking now. She drew slow breaths and sometimes sighed. Suddenly she rose.
“I’m going to bed,” said she. “Good night, monsieur.”
She shook hands with me.
I knew that on the following evening she would have to take the coach that runs from Bastia to Ajaccio across the mountains, making the journey by night.
I answered:
“Good night, madame.”
And I too betook myself to the bunk in my cabin.
First thing next day, I took three places inside the coach, all three places, for myself.
As I was climbing into the old carriage that was going to leave Bastia at nightfall, the conductor asked me if I would not agree to give up one corner to a lady.
I asked brusquely:
“To what lady?”
“To the wife of an officer going to Ajaccio.”
“Tell the lady that I shall be glad if she will occupy one of the seats.”
She arrived, having, she said, been asleep all day. She apologised, thanked me and got in.
The coach was a sort of hermetically sealed box, into which light entered only through the two doors. So there we were shut up together inside. The carriage proceeded at a trot, a quick trot; then began to follow the mountain road. A fresh, powerful scent of aromatic herbs drifted in through the lowered panes, the heady scent that Corsica so pours out into the surrounding air that sailors passing out at sea smell it, a pungent scent like the smell of bodies, like the sweat of the green earth impregnated with perfumes drawn out by the ardent sun and given to the passing wind.
I began to talk of Paris again, and again she listened to me with feverish attention. My stories grew daring, subtly décolleté: I used allusive, two-edged words, words that set the blood on fire.
The night was on us. I could see nothing now, not even the white patch that had been the girl’s face. Only the coachman’s lantern flung a ray of light over the four horses that were climbing the road at a walking pace.
Sometimes for a little while, until it died away in the distance behind us, we heard the sound of a torrent dashing over the rocks, and mingling with the sound of little bells.
Gently I stretched out my foot and met hers, which was not withdrawn. Then I sat still, waiting, and suddenly, changing my tune, I talked tenderly, affectionately. I had reached out my hand and touched hers. She did not withdraw that either. I went on talking, nearer her ear, very near her mouth. Already I felt her heart beating against my breast. It was beating quickly and loudly—a good sign—then, slowly, I pressed my lips on her neck, sure that I had her, so sure that I would have wagered any money on it.
But all at once she started as if she had awakened, started so violently that I reeled to the other end of the coach. Then, before I was able to understand, to reflect, to think at all, I first of all received five or six staggering slaps, then a shower of blows rained on me, sharp, savage blows that struck me all over, unable as I was to parry them in the profound darkness that covered the struggle.
I put out my hands, trying vainly to seize her arms. Then, not knowing what else to do, I turned sharply round, and presented my back to her furious attack, hiding my head in the corner of the panels.
She seemed to guess, perhaps from the sound of her blows, this despairing manoeuvre, and abruptly ceased to beat me.
A few seconds later she was back in her corner and had begun to cry and she sobbed wildly for an hour at least.
I had seated myself again, very distressed and very much ashamed. I would have liked to speak to her, but what should I say? I could think of nothing! Apologise? That would be absurd. What would you have said! No more than I did, I’ll take my oath.
She was crying softly now, and sometimes uttering deep sighs that filled me with grief and compassion. I would have liked to comfort her, to caress her as if she had been an unhappy child, to ask her pardon, kneel to her. But I did not dare.
These situations are too stupid.
She grew quiet at last, and we remained each in our own corner, still and silent, while the carriage rolled on, stopping now and then for fresh horses. We both shut our eyes very quickly at these halts, to avoid seeing one another when the bright light of a stable lantern shone into the coach. Then the coach set out again; and all the time the pungent, scented air of the Corsican mountains caressed our cheeks and our lips, and
