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and the autumn rains begin. It's the same for people.
    My cousins were very worried about Colette. Of course they understood how very affected she was by poor Jean's death, but they had hoped she'd recover more quickly. Quite the opposite: each day she seemed to grow weaker. "I don't think," said Francois, sounding worried, "I don't think she should stay here. Not only because of all the memories she has, quite naturally, everywhere she turns-the house where she met Jean, where she got married, etc.-but because of us."
    "I don't know what you mean, my dear," said Helene, sounding agitated.
    He placed his hand on her arm; he has an affectionate air of authority she can never resist.
    "I think," he said, "that the sight of us, of our life, of everything that is good in our relationship intensifies her regret. She understands what she has lost more clearly; she feels it even more, so to speak, when she sees us together. Poor little thing. Sometimes she looks so sad that I can hardl y b ear it. She's always been my favourite, I admit it. I tried to convince her to go away, to travel. But she wouldn't. She refuses to leave us. She doesn't want to see anyone."
    "I don't think she needs that kind of thing at the moment," Helene broke in. "And even if she did, she wouldn't agree. What she needs is something serious to concentrate on. I'm sorry she's decided to sell the mill. It would have been her son's inheritance. She shouldn't just have kept it going, she should have expanded it."
    "How can you say that? She wouldn't have been able to manage that all alone."
    "Why all alone? We would have helped her and, in a few years, one of her brothers could have run it, until her son was old enough to take over. Some intense work is the only way she'll get better."
    "Or someone else to love," I said.
    "Someone else to love, of course. But the way to find him (I mean a true, sincere love) is not to think about it too much, not to yearn for him. Otherwise you make the wrong choice. You imagine you see love in the first and most ordinary face you come across. I hope with all my heart that one day, later on, she'll remarry, but first she must find peace again. Then, of course since she's young, she'll find another love, some good man like poor Jean."
    They continued to talk to one another about Colette. They spoke with an air of tranquil, confident certainty. She was their child. They had made her. They thought they knew her every thought and dream. In the end they decided to do everything they could to get her interested in her estates, th e f arming, the harvests, all the possessions she had a duty to preserve for her son. When I said goodbye to them they were sitting on a bench in front of the house, under their bedroom window, the same bench on which I had once sat for so long, listening for the sound of footsteps in the night.
    CN LD DECLOS IS WORSE. His wife called for a doctor to %... . F come from Creusot; he suggested an operation. The old man wanted to know how much it would cost and the doctor told him. Declos then sat for a long time without saying a word, just as he did that day at my house when we negotiated a price for the small estate I owned at Les Roches, after my mother died. I remember he asked my price, then went quiet for a few moments, his eyes closed; finally he said, "Agreed." He was poor back then; we were approximately the same age. It was a serious thing for him to buy twenty-four hectares of land. In the same way, when the doctor told him the operation would cost ten thousand francs, and that if it were successful he could expect to live three, four, maybe five years longer, he undoubtedly calculated the value of each of those years and decided that, in the end, they wouldn't be sufficiently pleasant or happy to justify the cost. He refused the operation; when the doctor left, he told his wife that hi s f ather had died of a similar illness, that it hadn't taken long, a few months at most, but that he'd suffered a