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time, nearly two years, since I first saw you come in here with your … friend.”
    She hesitated over the word, but gave Christiane a timid, reassuring smile, as if to say, “I know I’m speaking to a woman of the world, don’t worry, the word ‘friend’ doesn’t mean ‘lover’ (but you’re free to do what you want, I’m not going to pass judgment on you), although of course I realize he’s your fiancé.”
    “And I’ve often seen you,” Christiane said, knowing that Ginette would feel flattered. “I remember I even said to my … friend, ‘That woman’s pretty.’”
    Beneath her makeup, which was beginning to run, Ginette blushed faintly, murmuring doubtfully but gratefully, “Oh! Mademoiselle!”
    After a moment’s thought she added in a low voice, “You’re so kind!”
    “Would you like something to drink?” Christiane asked. Without waiting for a reply, she pointed at her glass and said to the bartender, “The same for mademoiselle—I’m so sorry, should I say mademoiselle or madame? I don’t know.”
    “Oh, you can call me Ginette. Don’t be embarrassed, I’m used to it.”
    She swallowed a mouthful of champagne and, lookingat Christiane with wide, glittering eyes, murmured, “You’re nice, and intelligent, one can see that. You know about life.”
    “Thank God, yes I do,” Christiane replied with a smile.
    “That’s unusual, at your age. And your friend, too, he looks intelligent, and you can tell he loves you! Ah, it’s obvious how much he adores you,” Ginette said, trying to return the compliment and to please this lovely young girl, who was treating her like an equal, like a friend.
    “Just as if I were part of her world,” she thought with gratitude.
    “It’s beautiful, youth.” She sighed, as she looked admiringly at Christiane’s sparkling eyes, teeth, and jewelry. “But it goes so quickly. Although if you’ve got real affection in your life, you don’t notice you’re getting old. When you’ve had it, as I have, and then you lose it, it’s hard. It’s nights like this give you the blues,” she added vaguely.
    “Yes, they do,” said Christiane.
    “But at your age, how can you know what it’s like to have the blues?” the woman said, shrugging her shoulders. “However, that’s as it should be, when you’re pretty, rich, and young … but there are moments, you know …”
    She stopped, forcing a laugh. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” she went on, looking nervously at the bartender, “I’m very cheerful by nature; anyone willtell you that; it’s just there are some days you don’t feel so bright.”
    She realized that the bartender was dozing on his chair; reassured, she continued, “When you’ve had a man’s affection, you don’t have the strength to live alone. I’m always telling myself, ‘No need to worry, Maurice will tell me what to do.’ And then I remember he’s not here anymore. But I’m boring you, mademoiselle, it’s very nice of you to listen to me.”
    “Of course you’re not,” Christiane said.
    She looked at her with detachment, as if she were a strange animal. Ginette, however, was experiencing the sweet satisfaction of having someone to talk to, of feeling that there was at least one human being in the world who would listen to her and understand her better than the bartender or Captain Alfred ever could. She felt her pain melting away and her depression lifting as she spoke.
    “He, Maurice, was my friend … a friend I lived with for ten years … no need for the priest or the mayor. But he died of a stupid throat cancer that killed him in a few months. These things only happen to me,” she muttered, trying to smile as she thought of Maurice’s once plump face, his cheeks yellow and hollowed out as if being eaten from within by his illness. “He used to say, ‘Don’t worry, Ginette! I’ll leave my money to you, not to my slut of a sister.’ But as his illness became worse, he could only think