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started, then closed her mouth and pursed her lips. She was a woman of about sixty, frail, with white hair pulled back and a pale puffy face with heavy eyelids. Her eyes narrowed. She was wearing a black cotton apron quadrilled by faint white pinstripes, a black woolen shawl, slate-gray cotton socks rumpled up at her ankles, and men’s black shoes. She had positioned herself between a row of potatoes and a lettuce patch.
    â€œDon’t you have your hearing aid?” asked Aimée, articulating slowly so that the woman could lip-read the syllables; and when no reply, no reaction was forthcoming, she shouted, “Where is your gizmo, for God’s sake?”
    â€œI don’t know,” answered the mother. “Don’t swear. So you came to pay me a visit. You scared me.”
    â€œI came by to settle some things up,” said Aimée, calmer now. “I’ve told Maître Queuille to increase your monthly payment. You shouldn’t stay here alone... you should get someone to be with you. I’ve told you before.”
    â€œYes,” said the mother.
    Aimée delved in her bag.
    â€œI brought you some tobacco and a present.”
    She handed the mother some packages of shag and a parcel tied with a ribbon. The mother slowly unwrapped the parcel and extracted a mauve cotton blouse with a motif of tiny white flowers. She held it up before her with both hands, shaking it slightly to unfold it. Then she refolded it distractedly, put it on her knees, and placed her hands over it.
    â€œIt’s very pretty,” she said, staring down into the valley.
    Aimée nibbled at the side of her thumb without realizing it. She went back around the chair and stood still for a moment behind her mother’s back.
    â€œYou bitch!” she said. “I hate you. God, I wish you would die!”
    â€œAre you doing all right?” asked the mother. “What about your job? Your husband?”
    She did not turn to see whether Aimée replied.
    â€œIn a little while,” she went on, “the Father will be coming over. I’ll make coffee. You could stay if you like and drink coffee with us.”
    â€œI have to leave,” said Aimée.
    She turned away and headed for the sandy courtyard and the little metal door.
    â€œBut,” said the mother, “perhaps you have to leave.”
    Aimée reached Paris just as day was breaking. With time to kill before the Bléville train departed, she went for a walk. Near the Place du Châtelet, she was accosted by a broad-shouldered man in a chiné overcoat; his wavy hair glistened with hairspray. He followed her for a while. She accepted a light from him.
    â€œWouldn’t you like to have a drink somewhere?” asked the man. “We can go to my place.”
    With her cigarette between her fingers, Aimée threw her head back and laughed.
    â€œWhy, you little devil!” said the man, quite pleased.
    He grabbed Aimée’s wrist with one hand, her waist with the other, and tried to kiss her on the neck. Aimée pulled away and took a step backwards, then swiftly came forward again and slapped the man. He reddened and reciprocated.
    â€œSo that’s it, you filthy lesbo!” he cried.
    For a few moments the two kept on slapping each other across the face. Then Aimée grew calm. Taking a very rapid half step back, she struck the man just under the nose with the side of her hand. He reeled back, staggered, and fell to the ground on his rear. He was pressing both hands to his snout.
    â€œOo! Oo!” he kept crying. “Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!”
    His eyes were filling with tears. Aimée walked away.
    In the Rue de Rivoli she took a taxi, retrieved her bags from the left-luggage office, and changed stations. There were still two long hours to wait before her train left, and she spent them in a brasserie. Then at last she was on her way back to Bléville.

9
    O N THE day of her return, Aimée slept for a