back turned.
There was worse than that. But he did not like to admit it, even in his heart of hearts, for it was too disturbing: in the presence of Berthe he sometimes had the sense of being in the presence of his mother.
The reason was not a physical resemblance. He could not have said what were the characteristics common to the two women. Besides, he paid it as little attention as possible. It was a fugitive sensation, which he tried at once to shake off.
The way both of them had, for example, of looking at him, as if to read his thoughts, as if it were their right, their duty to see right through him.
'You will always tell me the truth, won't you?'
That was one of Berthe's remarks. A basis which she had established, unilaterally of course, for their relationship.
'I couldn't bear you to lie to me.'
His mother used to say:
'No one's allowed to tell fibs to his mother.'
She would add, sure of herself:
'Besides, even if you tried, you wouldn't succeed.'
With Berthe, it was tacitly understood. She watched him. From morning until night, she held him as if at the end of a thread and, all of a sudden, when he thought he was alone, he would hear her asking a question.
'What are you thinking about?'
Why did he blush, even when he still had nothing to hide? He felt himself guilty before the event, reacted as he had done with his parents or at school, and it humiliated him, made him clench his fists.
It was at these moments, above all, that it would occur to him that Berthe had bought him. It was not entirely an empty notion. There had been a brief scene, with few words spoken, but which had nonetheless marked him for the rest of his life.
They had just chosen the date for their marriage: the week after Easter. If they waited any longer, in fact, they would have to put the ceremony off until the autumn, because of the summer season. Later, moreover, his own parents, busy, too, with their own inn, would not be able to come to the wedding, and Madame Harnaud insisted on their being there and that things should be done in the proper style.
For her, it was already a disappointment that the marriage would not be celebrated at Luçon, in the sight of all the people she knew.
The two women, he suspected, had a more important reason to hurry things. The mother knew as well as her daughter what had happened in the Cabin, and the one, like the other, was afraid lest Berthe should be too visibly pregnant on the day of her marriage. They did not yet know that there was no danger. And that was another question which would soon cause Emile further humiliation.
Perhaps, after all, they were not too sure of him and asked themselves whether, one fine morning, he might not vanish.
The fact remains that one Friday, a fortnight before the date fixed, Madame Harnaud did not go upstairs to bed in her usual way but remained downstairs with them. Having finished his work in the kitchen Emile had joined the mother and daughter in the dining-room, where they would sit when there were no guests and where, since it was chilly, they had made a fire of two or three vinestocks.
He liked the smell of them. Something surprised him in the demeanour of Madame Harnaud, who to all appearances was knitting peacefully in her normal manner.
'Sit down with us for a minute, Emile.'
In Vendée, and when he was only on the staff at La Bastide, she had used 'tu' to address him, but instinctively, when he had become the only man in the house, she had taken to saying 'vous'.
'I was wondering if you had thought about the contract.'
He did not understand immediately.
'What contract?'
'The marriage contract. When people do not sign a contract, it means they are marrying under the agreement to divide all their property equally, I don't know how you both feel about it, but. . .'
She didn't finish her sentence; the 'but' sufficed to show what she had in mind.
It was then that Emile had noticed, on the table, a number of letters folded into four, which were
Louis - Hopalong 0 L'amour