to sleep when, heralded by a great gust of cold air, Madame Guénéqué burst in. She was a robust country woman of about fifty, the widow of a man who had devoted most of his short life to the art of brewing his own beer and cider. She had been left to bring up their numerous offspring and had earned her living as a servant in the great houses of the area. Now, she managed to get by working as a cook and cleaner.
‘Hello, Captain, sorry I’m late. I didn’t dare stick my nose outside earlier, on account of all that wind. It’s brightening up now, though – look at the sky. Rain and sunshine all at once – it’s the devil beating his missus and marrying off his daughter. It’s a crying shame. A good few boats have been wrecked – it’s always the same when they come. One storm, and it lasts three days! Oh, you’ve got a visitor?’
‘I found her unconscious early this morning. I suppose she must have been a passenger on the schooner. I did my best to get her warm.’
Quick as a flash, Madame Guénéqué closed the door and scuttled over to the bed to size up the newcomer. When she caught sight of the scraps of clothing lying on the floor, her wrinkled old face lit up with a roguish smile.
‘So that’s why you decided to peel her like an onion?’
‘It was either that or leave her to die. And if I’d done that I’d have been able to inspect her intimately and at my leisure.’
‘Oh, don’t get cross. I was only saying …’
‘I was just answering your question,’ replied Corentin in a conciliatory tone. ‘Now, help yourself to some coffee.’
But it was too much to ask of Madame Guénéqué that she would leave it there.
‘Ha. And what’s happened to your chairs? They’re in a pretty state! And is this person going to stay here for long?’
‘I was waiting for you to come so that I could go out and ask the nuns at the infirmary to send someone to collect her.’
‘I’d do it sharpish if I were you. When my poor old man fell head first into the cider vat, his friends did the best they could to get him to cough it all up, but in the end his heart gave out.’
‘I’m going now. Keep the fire burning while I’m gone and, if she wakes up and wants to eat, there are eggs and sausages in the cupboard.’
‘Don’t you worry, she won’t die of hunger. I’ll make her some nice hot soup.’ She rolled up her sleeves and set to work. ‘He may be an old hermit,’ she muttered, ‘but he’s still got a soft spot for the ladies.’
Outside, Corentin Jourdan filled his lungs with the damp air, relieved to escape the oppressive atmosphere of the house. The wind had wreaked havoc among the rose bushes and mallow plants: the trees were bent and splayed into tortured shapes, and crows fluttered to and fro among the broken branches. The bakehouse was flooded and the geese were honking in the little yard, which was white with their droppings.
He released Flip and put his harness on. The horse, an Anglo-Norman with a long nose, shook his mane in pleasure at the prospect of escaping from his confinement. With his master in the saddle, left leg hanging free of the stirrup, he walked along the shore, punctuating the monotonous calls of the seagulls with his whinnying.
They crossed the stream just as the church bell was tolling. A silent crowd gathered in front of the church doors, which were surmounted by a relief of St Martin. Urville’s gravediggers would have their work cut out this evening.
He had to knock on the large double doors several times before a little hatch was pulled half open. A young nun stared at him while he explained his case. The sister retorted that the mother superior would do what she could as soon as possible but that all the beds were full because of the storm. He was insistent.
‘This woman has a high fever. Who knows how long she may have been in the water? It’s a miracle that she’s still of this world.’
An older nun brushed the novice aside and examined Corentin, adjusting her spectacles.
‘Sister Ursula is right, Captain Jourdan, we are run off our feet here. Still, I shall send Landry, the gardener’s son, to collect the woman, and we’ll put her up in the annexe.’
He thanked the mother superior warmly. He had earned her gratitude one winter day in 1892 when he had helped repair one of the walls of the infirmary which had fallen down, and had accepted nothing by way of a reward except for a bowl of coffee and some bread and butter.
She kept her word. Five minutes later, Landry’s shock of red hair could be seen bobbing along towards Landemer behind the nuns’ old nag. From a distance, Corentin Jourdan watched the cart rattling over the potholed path.
From the shelter of the stable, he observed the boy and Madame Guénéqué carrying the woman, wrapped up like a mummy, as best they could towards the cart. When Landry had disappeared round the bend, Corentin took the saddle off his horse and let it graze.
‘You missed them,’ remarked Madame Guénéqué when he came in. A pot hung over the fire, simmering and giving off an appetising smell of vegetables and ham. ‘She didn’t open her eyes or her mouth, poor thing.’
Having finished cleaning the ground floor, Madame Guénéqué was putting on her shawl. The loft was forbidden territory, except when her employer was away.
‘I’m going to see old Pignol.’
‘Don’t forget to tell him about the roof. The weather’s settling down now, but still …’
‘Don’t worry, I will. See you on Wednesday, Captain. And remember to dig out that washtub for me – there’s a ton of washing to be done.’
She shot a poisonous glance at Gilliatt, spread-eagled in the middle of the bed.
When she had gone, Corentin Jourdan let out a sigh. A few short hours had been enough for a stranger to turn his routine upside down. He lay down next to the cat, overcome with fatigue.
In the middle of the night he got up, poked the remains of the fire and added the remnants of one of the crates. He served himself a bowl of warm soup and sat down in the chimney corner. At his feet, Gilliatt lapped at a saucer of milk. The regular sound of the cat’s little pink tongue flicking back and forth sent Corentin off into a daydream. He recalled a vision he had once had: a naked water sprite was holding him in her arms, and a blue aura hung around her jet-black hair.
What was happening to him? It was the first time in twenty years that he had become so obsessed by something. Ashamed of behaving like a dreamy adolescent, Corentin got up and was about to make for the attic when he saw something under the bed. He bent down and picked up the woman’s bag. Madame Guénéqué’s broom wasn’t always very thorough.
He lit a candle and went up to the attic. Uncertain what to do, he looked thoughtfully at his find. Should he open it? If he did, he risked becoming attached to the woman, rather than freeing himself from her. He had resolved never to leave his home here where his frugal way of life, combined with the money left by his uncle, meant that he was independent, almost rich. He was entirely at peace with the world, because his heart was not pierced by any thorns of emotion, and because he hardly ever saw other people and only had a horse and a cat to look after.
‘Is she married?’
Unable
