The Most Beautiful Book in the World by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt Read Free Book Online

calves to his thighs, following the tension and strength hidden beneath his skin, and she caught herself wishing she could touch the blond hairs on his legs, a delicate moss that would be soft under her palm.
    Here she had just been all around the world and seen thousands of different types of dress: yet she found that the man next to her was audacious. How dare he exhibit his legs in this way? Weren’t his shorts indecent?
    She looked more closely and concluded that she was wrong. His shorts were quite normal, she had already seen hundreds of men wearing shorts like those. Whereas he himself . . .
    Aware that he was being observed, the man pivoted towards her. He smiled. His face was golden, weathered, marked with deep creases. There was something unquiet in the green of his irises.
    Confused, she returned his smile, then absorbed herself in the drama of the ocean. What would he think? That she was trying to pick him up? How dreadful! She could appreciate his expression; his face was sharp, honest, sincere, although his features hinted at a tendency toward sadness. How old was he? Her age. Yes, or something thereabouts, forty-eight . . . Perhaps less, because he was tanned, sporty, with pleasing little wrinkles; he was not the type to smear himself with sun cream.
    Suddenly there was a silence; the air stopped humming with insects; then, after four seconds, heavy drops began to fall. A first rumbling of thunder, solemnly confirming the storm’s arrival. The light deepened with contrasts, saturating the colors, and moisture rolled over them like the spindrift unleashed on the shore in a tidal wave.
    â€œWhat filthy weather!” exclaimed the man next to her.
    She was astonished to hear herself say, “No, you’re mistaken. Not ‘What filthy weather’ but ‘It’s a fine rainy day.’”
    The man turned to Hélène and examined her closely.
    She seemed to mean what she said.
    In that split second, he became absolutely certain of two things: that he desired this woman, profoundly, and, if he could, he would never leave her.

The Intruder
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    T his time, she’d really seen her. The woman had gone through the far end of the living room, and had stared at her with an astonished air before disappearing into the shade in the kitchen.
    Odile Versini hesitated: should she run after her, or leave the apartment as fast as she could?
    Who was this intruder? This was at the third time, at least . . . The previous visitations had been so fleeting that Odile thought her imagination was playing tricks on her, but this time they had actually been able to exchange a glance; it seemed to Odile that the other woman, once she had recovered from her surprise, had winced with fear as she ran off.
    Without giving it any further thought, Odile followed her with a shout: “Stop, I’ve seen you! Don’t try to hide, there’s no way out!”
    Odile rushed into every room—the bedroom, the kitchen, the toilet, the bathroom: no one.
    The only place left was the hanging closet at the end of the corridor.
    â€œCome out! Come out or I’ll call the police!”
    Not a sound from the closet.
    â€œWhat are you doing in my house? How did you get in?”
    Heavy silence.
    â€œRight, I’ve warned you.”
    Odile felt a sudden wave of panic: what did this stranger want? She withdrew feverishly to the hallway, grabbed the phone, and after misdialing several times finally managed the number for the police. “Quick, quick,” she thought, “that woman is going to pop out of the closet and attack me.” Finally, when she had made her way through the barrage of answering machine messages, the beautifully resonant voice of an agent replied: “Paris police, 16th arrondissement, how may I help you?”
    â€œCome to my house, quickly. A woman has gotten in. She’s hiding in the closet in the corridor and refuses to come out. Quickly, I