terrace of the Princesse de Bourbon's restaurant was hidden under the foliage.
"Who can that fellow be?" Ingrid asked.
"I don't know."
If he had been on his own, he wouldn't have been at all worried by the presence of that man. Since the beginning of the war he had never been afraid of anything, but he was afraid for Ingrid.
•
Often, the dark patch – as Rigaud called him – remained invisible. They might almost have thought that the sun in Juan-les-Pins had caused it to vanish for ever. Unfortunately, it reappeared in places where they no longer expected it. On the balustrade of the beach when people were bathing. On the pavement of the road to the Cape. On the terrace of the casino. One evening, when Rigaud was just about to take the lift up to join Ingrid in their room, he heard a metallic voice behind him:
"Still on honeymoon?"
He turned round. The man was in from of him, looking fondly at him.
"Yes. Still on honeymoon."
He had replied in the most neutral way possible. Because of Ingrid.
•
One night he woke up at about three o'clock, and opened the window because of the stifling heat. Ingrid was asleep, and she had folded the sheet down at the foot of the bed. A glint of moonlight lit up her shoulder and the curve of her hip. He felt nervous, and couldn't get back to sleep. He got up, and tiptoed out of the room to see if he could get a packet of cigarettes. The light from the bulbs in the corridor was even dimmer than usual. The one in the lift was out, but downstairs the chandelier was shining very brightly.
He was just about to cross the lobby when he saw the dark patch behind the reception desk. The man was alone, bending over a wide-open register and taking notes. He hadn't seen Rigaud, and there was still time for him to turn round and go back up to his room. But like the other evening, at the Princesse de Bourbon's restaurant, a sudden impulse came over him. He walked slowly over to the reception desk. The man was still absorbed in his work. When he got up to him, Rigaud put both his hands down flat on the marble. Then the man raised his head, and produced a stony smile.
"I've come to get a packet of cigarettes," said Rigaud. "Craven A, I suppose?"
It was the same smooth tone as the other evening.
"But I'm disturbing you in your work. I'll come back later."
And Rigaud openly bent over the book in which the man was writing his notes: a list of names that he had copied, the names of the guests written in the hotel register. The man snapped his notebook shut.
"As there aren't any Craven A, maybe you'd like one of these? …"
He offered him his packet of Caporal.
"No, thank you."
Rigaud had said that in a pleasant tone. He didn't take his eyes off the big hotel register, open in front of him.
"Were you taking notes?"
"I was gathering some information. And while I work, you are on honeymoon …"
As he had the other evening, he gave Rigaud a fond look. And his smile revealed a gold tooth.
Rigaud had lowered his head. In front of him, the dark patch of the suit. A crumpled suit. A too-small black tie hung down from the collar of the brown shirt. The man had lit a cigarette. Ash fell on to the lapels of his jacket. Rigaud suddenly noticed a strange smell – a mixture of tobacco, sweat, and violet scent.
"I'm really sorry to be on honeymoon," said Rigaud. "But that's the way it is … And it can't be any other way …"
Then he turned his back and crossed the lobby to the lift. When he reached the gate, he gazed at the man over at the reception desk. The other was also staring at him. And under Rigaud's insistent look, he finally went back to his work, trying to make it look as natural as possible. He leafed through the hotel register, and from time to time wrote something in his notebook – no doubt the name of a guest, which had escaped his attention.
•
In the room, Ingrid was still asleep. Rigaud sat down at the foot of the bed and looked at her smooth, childish face. He knew he
"Who can that fellow be?" Ingrid asked.
"I don't know."
If he had been on his own, he wouldn't have been at all worried by the presence of that man. Since the beginning of the war he had never been afraid of anything, but he was afraid for Ingrid.
•
Often, the dark patch – as Rigaud called him – remained invisible. They might almost have thought that the sun in Juan-les-Pins had caused it to vanish for ever. Unfortunately, it reappeared in places where they no longer expected it. On the balustrade of the beach when people were bathing. On the pavement of the road to the Cape. On the terrace of the casino. One evening, when Rigaud was just about to take the lift up to join Ingrid in their room, he heard a metallic voice behind him:
"Still on honeymoon?"
He turned round. The man was in from of him, looking fondly at him.
"Yes. Still on honeymoon."
He had replied in the most neutral way possible. Because of Ingrid.
•
One night he woke up at about three o'clock, and opened the window because of the stifling heat. Ingrid was asleep, and she had folded the sheet down at the foot of the bed. A glint of moonlight lit up her shoulder and the curve of her hip. He felt nervous, and couldn't get back to sleep. He got up, and tiptoed out of the room to see if he could get a packet of cigarettes. The light from the bulbs in the corridor was even dimmer than usual. The one in the lift was out, but downstairs the chandelier was shining very brightly.
He was just about to cross the lobby when he saw the dark patch behind the reception desk. The man was alone, bending over a wide-open register and taking notes. He hadn't seen Rigaud, and there was still time for him to turn round and go back up to his room. But like the other evening, at the Princesse de Bourbon's restaurant, a sudden impulse came over him. He walked slowly over to the reception desk. The man was still absorbed in his work. When he got up to him, Rigaud put both his hands down flat on the marble. Then the man raised his head, and produced a stony smile.
"I've come to get a packet of cigarettes," said Rigaud. "Craven A, I suppose?"
It was the same smooth tone as the other evening.
"But I'm disturbing you in your work. I'll come back later."
And Rigaud openly bent over the book in which the man was writing his notes: a list of names that he had copied, the names of the guests written in the hotel register. The man snapped his notebook shut.
"As there aren't any Craven A, maybe you'd like one of these? …"
He offered him his packet of Caporal.
"No, thank you."
Rigaud had said that in a pleasant tone. He didn't take his eyes off the big hotel register, open in front of him.
"Were you taking notes?"
"I was gathering some information. And while I work, you are on honeymoon …"
As he had the other evening, he gave Rigaud a fond look. And his smile revealed a gold tooth.
Rigaud had lowered his head. In front of him, the dark patch of the suit. A crumpled suit. A too-small black tie hung down from the collar of the brown shirt. The man had lit a cigarette. Ash fell on to the lapels of his jacket. Rigaud suddenly noticed a strange smell – a mixture of tobacco, sweat, and violet scent.
"I'm really sorry to be on honeymoon," said Rigaud. "But that's the way it is … And it can't be any other way …"
Then he turned his back and crossed the lobby to the lift. When he reached the gate, he gazed at the man over at the reception desk. The other was also staring at him. And under Rigaud's insistent look, he finally went back to his work, trying to make it look as natural as possible. He leafed through the hotel register, and from time to time wrote something in his notebook – no doubt the name of a guest, which had escaped his attention.
•
In the room, Ingrid was still asleep. Rigaud sat down at the foot of the bed and looked at her smooth, childish face. He knew he
Similar Books
The Wolf's Mate Book 1: Jason & Cadence
R.E. Butler
Sketches from a Hunter's Album
Ivan Turgenev
Alphas - Origins
Ilona Andrews
Poppy Shakespeare
Clare Allan
Mama Gets Trashed (A Mace Bauer Mystery)
Deborah Sharp
Designer Knockoff
Ellen Byerrum
MacAlister's Hope
Laurin Wittig
Knight of the Black Rose
Nissa Gordon
Tonya Hurley_Ghostgirl_02
Homecoming
The Singer of All Songs
Kate Constable