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though it is, this story looks quite plausible, and it seems to me most people believe it. Beginning with Marta’s brothers-in-law, who claim to be sure of my guilt, insulted by my alleged tricks, and determined to avenge their honour. This afternoon Rasmi, the most excitable of them, burst into my house brandishing a gun and swearing he was going to do me in. It took all my self-possession, and that of Hatem my clerk, to calm him down. He insisted I delay my departure to demonstrate my good faith. It’s true that would have done away with all the rumours and suspicions. But why should I guarantee my honesty to a gang of louts? And for how long would I have to postpone my journey? Until Marta showed up again? And what if she’d gone away for good?
    Habib and Jaber were against any delay, and I think I’d have gone down in their esteem if I’d weakened. Besides, I didn’t for a moment feel inclined to give in. I simply weighed the pros and cons, as a sensible man should, before giving a firm refusal. Then the fellow said he was going to come with us in the morning: he wanted to make sure the runaway wasn’t waiting for us in some nearby hamlet along the way. My nephews and my clerk were all outraged at this, and my sister even more so, but I made them see reason.
    â€œThe road belongs to everyone! If he wants to travel in the same direction as us, we can’t stop him,” I said loudly and clearly, so that the fellow should understand that he might follow the same route as us, but he wouldn’t be travelling with us.
    I’m probably overestimating his sensibility, and we certainly can’t count on his manners. But there are four of us and he’s on his own. His tagging along annoys me rather than worries me. Heaven grant we don’t have to deal with any more formidable threats on our journey than this bewhiskered braggart!
    The village of Anfé , 24 August 1665
    The country round Gibelet is not very safe in the half-light, so we waited till daybreak to pass through the gate of the town. Rasmi was there waiting for us, tugging at the bridle of his mule to make it stay quiet. He seems to have picked a very skittish mount for the journey; I hope it will soon make him tired of trying to keep up with us.
    As soon as we reached the coast road, he turned off and rode to the top of a headland, whence he gazed around the landscape, smoothing his moustache.
    Watching him out of the corner of my eye, I wondered for the first time what could have become of the unfortunate Marta. And I was suddenly ashamed of myself for, up till now, thinking only of the trouble her disappearance had caused me. It was her fate I ought to have been worrying about. Might she have done something desperate? Perhaps her body would one day be washed up on the beach. The whispering would stop then. A few tears would be shed. Then oblivion.
    And I — would I mourn the woman who almost became mine? I found her attractive, I wanted her, I used to watch out for her smiles, the way her hips moved when she walked, the way she tossed her hair, the tinkling of her bracelets — I might have loved her dearly, clasped her to me every night. I might have grown fond of her, her voice, her step, her hands. She might have been with me this morning when I left. She, too, might have wept, like my sister Pleasance, and tried to make me give up the journey.
    My mind, distracted by the jolting of my mount, wandered further and further afield. I could now see the woman I hadn’t really looked at for years. Once again she flashed me the playful glances that were hers in the blessed days when she was still only the barber’s daughter. I upbraided myself for not having desired her enough to love her. For having let her marry her misfortune.
    Her valiant brother-in-law had ridden up several more of the hills that border the road. He gazed in all directions, and once he even called out: “Marta! Come out! I saw