She Who Was No More by Pierre Boileau Read Free Book Online Page A

himself in that dimly lit garage. So they went back into the house together. Lucienne cleared the dining-room table, emptied the carafe, and rinsed it thoroughly. She mopped up the water on the bathroom floor. Then she put her things on. Meanwhile he had tidied up the bed and put back the counterpane, after which, finding nothing else to do, he had brushed his jacket. At last, when all was in order, they had a final look round, Ravinel in his overcoat, hat in hand, Lucienne carrying Mireille’s bag, coat and hat. Satisfied, she turned toward him.
    ‘Well?… Pleased?… Give me a kiss then.’
    Heavens, no! Not there! Really that was a heartless thing to suggest. There were moments like that when he couldn’t make her out at all, she seemed so utterly inhuman. He pushed her out into the hall, shut and locked the door. Then back to the garage. Before getting into the car he glanced at each of the tires. He drove out, then came back to shut the garage door. A moment’s panic seized him at the thought that any casual passer-by might look into the car.
    A minute later they were driving towards the station, choosing the less well-lit streets. In the Rue du Général Buat they jolted over the cobblestones.
    ‘No need to drive so fast,’ commented Lucienne.
    But Ravinel was in a tearing hurry to leave the town and get out into the dark countryside. Gas pumps, red, white, flashed by, workmen’s cottages, the walls of a factory. At the far end ofan avenue the barriers of a grade crossing were lowered, their reflectors scintillating. It was now that fear surged up within him. He stopped behind a truck and switched off his lights.
    ‘Keep your lights on, silly!’
    Was she made of wood, this woman? The train passed. A freight train. Cars full of ballast, drawn by an old locomotive from whose cab a segment of light glared up into the sky. The truck moved forward. The way was clear. Ravinel would have said a prayer if he had been able to remember one.

FOUR
    Ravinel was used to driving at night. He preferred it, for he liked being alone and liked it all the more when tearing through the darkness at top speed. At night there was no need to slow down even at a village. The headlights lit up the road fantastically, making it seem like a canal stirred by a slight swell. Sometimes he could almost imagine he was in a speedboat. Then suddenly it would be like shooting down the slope of a switchback: the white posts bordering the road at the turnings would sweep giddily past, their reflectors glittering like precious stones. It was as if you yourself were conjuring up with a touch of your magic wand this unearthly fairy world, round which was a dim, shadowy void with no horizon. You dream. You leave your earthly flesh behind, to become an astral body gliding through a sleeping universe. Fields, streets, churches, stations. Created on the moment out of nothing and then swept away into nothingness again. A touch of the accelerator is sufficient to destroy them. Perhaps they have never really existed. Mere figments, created by you and lasting no longer than your whim, except, now and again, for an image that stamps itself on your retina like a dead leaf caught on your radiator—yet even that is no more real than the rest.
    Yes. Ravinel loved the night. They had already passed Angers, which was now no more than a cluster of lights behind them. The roads were deserted. Lucienne sat silent beside him, herhands tucked into her sleeves, her chin buried in her turned-up collar.
    As a matter of fact, Ravinel had not driven particularly fast since leaving Nantes. He took the bends gently, as though taking pity on the inert body behind, which might be thrown from side to side. Indeed, he probably wasn’t averaging much more than fifty kilometers an hour. At that rate they would still reach Enghien before dawn, as arranged. That is, if all went well. The engine had stalled once as they passed through Angers. Perhaps he ought to have had the