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always agile and happy, beat all the competition at running and swimming. He had never been handsome, but how supple he was, how quickly he moved … And then there was the lightness of his step, the fire in his eyes, and his health, good nature and charm. No one on earth was his equal, thought Agnès. But then, remembering that he was engaged, watching him standing next to Simone and seeing nearby the man who was intended for her, she scolded herself for having such improper desires, such illicit thoughts.
    ‘I’ll marry the doctor,’ she thought, ‘and I’ll move far away. I’ll never see him again. It’s better that way. It’s the wisest thing to do. I’ll forget all about him.’
    The substantial meal lasted a long time; it had been ordered from the neighbouring town, even though the Hardelots’ food was always excellent. But that was how it had to be done. For a special occasion, it was obligatory to serve cold salmon and it wasn’t enough for it just to be good; it had to be decorated in a way that was impossible to achieve at home: tarragon leaves, lobster tails, crescent-shaped truffles and tartlets filled with pink mousse and mushrooms were all arranged in designs as complicated as the patterns on lace. It was the same for the roast meat and the chicken, for the desserts and ice cream. Waiters with moustaches, dressed in white jackets, hired for the day, poured fine wines, brought out the various dishes and sauces. From their vantage point, Pierre and Simone could survey the majestic sight: the laden table, the drawing room whose slipcovers had been removed and, beyond, Saint-Elme’s one street whose every stone they knew by heart. On this street the Hardelots were masters, kings. At one end was their factory, at the other the home of the elderly Monsieur Hardelot, and in between the houses of Charles Hardelot, the Hardelot-Arques and the Hardelot-Demestres, all in a row, all alike: shutters closed, except on days when they had guests, a little garden at the back, a glass shade over an electric light bulb, an arbour and a vegetable garden. Only old Hardelot had allowed himself the luxury of apond and two swans. Beyond this street lived a few families not related to the Hardelots, but no one paid any attention to them; it was almost as if they didn’t exist. It was like horses and cows, who can live side by side in the same field for their entire lives without seeming to notice each other.
    Now night was falling; the garden paths and the little grey street were no longer visible. The lamps were lit above the table, casting their light over the peaceful faces below, flushed by all the food and the heat in the room. Sitting opposite the fiancés, keeping an eye on them, was old Julien Hardelot, with his white moustache and cropped hair, his strong, tanned hands placed squarely on either side of his dinner plate. He had come from a family of farmers, but wanted for nothing now. He was rich, respected; in his mind, these two sources of happiness merged into one. One was meaningless without the other, yet they were both of equal worth. If he had been honourable and poor, or rich and dishonest, his life would have been a failure. But he knew exactly how wealthy he was; he was aware of the integrity of his conscience. And so an extraordinary feeling of stability and security filled his soul. He was sure of himself and sure of everything around him: his house was solid, well built, set securely on its foundations; his factory was thriving; his family was obedient; his money invested in government stocks. His universe was small; he had never left France, rarely travelled beyond the borders of his own province, but he knewthis little corner of earth as well as he knew his own heart. He knew what the children, the workers, the farmers were thinking and doing. And he knew what they would think and do tomorrow. Everything was calm and indestructible, within him and around him. He could calculate how much money he