She Who Was No More Read Free

up… No. It was too late. Lucienne would have posted herself somewhere on the quay where she could keep an eye on the house. Nothing could save Mireille now. And all this for a mere two million francs! So that Lucienne could gratify her ambition and buy a practice at Antibes. Her plans were worked out to the last detail. She had as practical a mind as any businessman. Her brain was like a calculating machine, and a highly perfected one at that. Every project was neatly pigeonholed; mistakes were all but impossible. With her eyes half shut she would murmur:
    ‘Wait a minute. We mustn’t get this wrong.’
    The right buttons would be pressed, wheels would start turning, and with a click out would come the answer, neat, precise, exhaustive.
    With him it was just the other way round. He was always getting into a muddle over his accounts or forgetting which customer had ordered cartridges and which had asked him to quote a price for Japanese bamboos. As a matter of fact he was sick of his job. Whereas at Antibes…
    He gazed at the shining carafe which magnified a piece of bread till it looked more like a sponge. Antibes… A smart shop—for he was to set up on his own too. In the window would be air guns for underwater shooting and all the gear for frogmen. Rich customers. And, with the sea in front and the sunshine, your mind would be full of pleasant, easy thoughtsthat didn’t make you feel guilty. Banished the fogs of the north. Everything would be different. He himself would be a different man. Lucienne had promised he would. As though seeing the future in a crystal, Ravinel saw himself sauntering along the beach road in white flannels. His face was tanned. People turned to look at him.
    The locomotive whistled again, almost under the window. Ravinel rubbed his eyes, went and pulled the curtain aside, and peered out. Yes that was the Paris-Quimper express all right. A five-minute stop at Nantes. Next stop Redon. And Mireille herself was sitting in one of those coaches whose windows threw long rectangles of light onto the wet road. There were empty compartments with lace antimacassars, mirrors, and pictures of beauty spots along the line. First class. And there were compartments full of picnicking sailors—third.
    Glimpse after glimpse swept past, looking quite unreal and nothing whatever to do with Mireille. In the very last carriage a man was asleep with a newspaper over his face. When the caboose was out of sight, Ravinel suddenly noticed that they were no longer playing the phonograph in the Smoelen . The lights were out. No portholes visible now.
    Mireille would be already getting out of the train. In a minute she would be walking alone, her high heels sounding in the empty streets. Perhaps she would have her revolver in her bag. He made a practice of leaving it with her when he went on one of his rounds. Not that it was any use, for she didn’t know how to use it. In any case there’d be no occasion for her to do so.
    Ravinel held the carafe up to the light. The water was absolutely clear. No sign of any deposit. He dipped his finger inand licked it. A slight taste, but much too slight for anybody to notice unless he was on the lookout…
    Twenty to eleven.
    He forced himself to swallow a few mouthfuls of ham. He didn’t dare leave his chair now. It had been settled: Mireille was to surprise him sitting at the kitchen table, alone, tired, depressed.
    And suddenly he heard those heels of hers on the pavement. He couldn’t be mistaken. Not that she made a lot of noise. It was only just audible, yet he could have recognized her step from among a thousand others, a slightly jaunty step made staccato by the narrowness of her skirt. The gate hardly creaked at all. Then silence. Mireille walked up to the front door on tiptoe and turned the handle. Suddenly aware that he was forgetting to eat, Ravinel helped himself to some more ham. Try as he might, he couldn’t sit squarely at the table. He was afraid of that door