He snipped at a few dead flowers before he realized he had no proper sense of what he was trying to do.

"Let me," she said. Her arm brushed across the front of his suit and her hand touched his as she took the little shears from him. "You do it like this. Beneath each bloom that's died you cut at a slight angle to the stem, like this. Look." The brown petals of a formerly white rose fell away. Stephen moved a little closer to catch the smell of Madame Azaire's laundered clothes. Her skirt was the colour of baked earth; there was a dogtoothed edging to her blouse that suggested patterns or frippery of an earlier, more elaborate age of dressing. The little waistcoat she wore above it was open to reveal a rosy flush at the bottom of her throat, brought on by the small exertion of her gardening. Stephen imagined the different eras of fashion and history summoned by her decorative way of dressing: it suggested victory b.a.l.l.s from the battles of Wagram and Borodino or nights of the Second Empire. Her still-unlined face seemed to him to hint at intrigue and worldliness beyond her obvious position.

"I haven't seen your daughter for a day or two," he said, bringing his reverie to a halt. "Where is she?"

"Lisette is with her grandmother near Rouen for a few days."

"How old is Lisette?"

"Sixteen."

Stephen said, "How is it possible for you to have a daughter of that age?"

"She and Gregoire are my stepchildren," said Madame Azaire. "My husband's first wife died eight years ago and we were married two years after that."

"I knew it," he said. "I knew you couldn't be old enough to have a child that old."

Madame Azaire smiled again, a little more self-consciously.

He looked at her face, bent over the thorns and dry blooms of the roses, and imagined her flesh beaten by her withered, corrupt husband. Without thinking, he reached out and grabbed her hand, folding it in both of his own.

She turned swiftly to him, the blood rushing into her face, her eyes filled with alarm.

Stephen held her hand against the thick serge of his jacket. He said nothing. The satisfaction of acting on impulse had lent him calm. He looked into her eyes as though daring her to respond in a way not dictated by their social positions.

"Monsieur. Please let go of my hand." She tried to laugh it off. Stephen noticed that there was not much pressure of withdrawal from her hand itself to accompany her words. The fact that her other hand held the pruning shears made it difficult for her to extract herself without pulling in some way that risked making her lose her composure.

Stephen said, "The other night I heard sounds from your room. Isabelle--"

"Monsieur, you--"

"Stephen."

"You must stop this now. You must not humiliate me."

"I have no wish to humiliate you. Ever. I merely wanted to rea.s.sure you." It was a strange choice of words, and Stephen felt its oddness as he spoke, but he let go of her hand.

She looked into his face with more composure than she had managed before.

"You must respect my position," she said.

"I will," said Stephen. It seemed to him there was some ambiguity in what she had said and that he had capitalized on it by using the future tense in his acquiescence.

Seeing he could not improve on this advance, he dragged himself from her presence.

Madame Azaire watched his tall figure retreat across the gra.s.s to the house. She turned back to her roses, shaking her head as though in defiance of some unwanted feeling.

Since his flight from the room in the factory where the workers took their meals, Stephen had found a cafe on the other side of the cathedral to which he went each day for lunch. It was a place frequented by young men, students or apprentices, many of whom sat at the same tables each day. The food was prepared by a st.u.r.dy Parisian exile who had once had a cafe in the Place de l'Odeon. Knowing student appet.i.tes, he served only one dish, but in quant.i.ty, with bread and wine included in the price. His commonest dish was beef, with custards or fruit tart to follow it. Stephen was halfway through lunch at a seat in the window when he saw a familiar figure bustle past, her head lowered, with a basket on her arm. Her face was concealed by a scarf but he recognized her by her walk and the tartan sash at her waist.

He left some coins spinning on the table as he pushed back his chair and went out into the street. He saw her disappear from the corner of the square and go down a narrow side street. He ran to catch her up. He drew level just as she was pulling the bell handle outside a double door with flaking green paint. Madame Azaire was fl.u.s.tered when he accosted her. "Monsieur... I, I wasn't expecting you. I am delivering something to a friend."

"I saw you go past the cafe I was in. I thought I would come and see if I could help carry anything for you."

She looked doubtfully at her basket. "No. No, thank you." The door was opened by a young man with brown wavy hair and an alert expression. His face showed recognition and urgency.

"Come in," he said and laid his hand on Madame Azaire's shoulder as he ushered her into a courtyard.

"This is a friend," she said uncertainly, indicating Stephen, who was lingering in the doorway.

"Come in, come in," said the man and closed the door behind them. He led the way across the courtyard and up some stairs to a small apartment. He told them to wait in a cramped sitting room in which the shutters were closed and piles of papers and leaflets lay on the surface of every table and chair. He returned and pulled back a curtain, letting in some light on the cramped and squalid room.

He waved his hand at it and apologized. "There are five of us living in this little place at the moment." He held out his hand to Stephen. "My name is Lucien Lebrun."

They shook hands and Lucien turned to Madame Azaire. "Have you heard the news? They have agreed to take back the ten men they sacked last week. They won't back down on the question of pay, but still, it's a start." Feeling Stephen's quizzical eyes on her, Madame Azaire said, "You must wonder what I'm doing here, Monsieur. I bring food to Monsieur Lebrun from time to time and he gives it to one of the dyers' families. Some of them have five or six children--even more in some cases--and they find it hard to live."

"I see. And your husband doesn't know."

"He doesn't know. I couldn't involve myself with his workers one way or another but the dyers are a separate group of people, as you know."

"Don't be apologetic!" said Lucien. "A gift of food is just an act of Christian charity. And in any case, the injustice done to my people is outrageous. Last week at the local meeting of the syndicate--"

"Don't start on that again." Madame Azaire laughed.

Lucien smiled. "I despair of you, Madame."

Stephen felt an acid worry at the familiar way in which Lucien addressed Madame Azaire. He did not feel particularly concerned with the politics of the strike or the ethical nicety of Madame Azaire's position. He only wanted to know how she had come to be on such easy terms with this forceful young man.

He said, "I think it's time I went back to the factory. Your husband is going to show me the finishing process."

"You work with Azaire?" Lucien was dumbfounded.

"I work for an English company who have sent me here for a short time."

"You speak very good French for an Englishman." I learned it in Paris."

"And what has he told you about the dyers' strike?"

Stephen remembered Azaire's remark about "little Lucien."

"Not very much. I think he will be more worried when it begins to affect his own factory."

Lucien gave a short, animal laugh. "That won't be long, I can a.s.sure you. Madame, will you have something to drink?"

"That's very kind. Perhaps a gla.s.s of water."

Lucien disappeared and Stephen lingered, unwilling to leave Madame Azaire.

"You mustn't think badly of me, Monsieur," she said.

"Of course not," said Stephen, pleased that she should care what he thought of her.

"I am loyal to my husband."

Stephen said nothing. He heard Lucien's footsteps approaching. He reached forward, laid his hand on Madame Azaire's arm, and kissed her cheek. He left at once, before he could see the blood he had raised, calling, "Good-bye," as though his kiss might have been merely a polite farewell.

Isabelle Azaire, born Fourmentier, came from a family that lived near Rouen. She was the youngest of five sisters and had disappointed her father by not being the son he had wanted.

As the youngest child, she lived life unregarded by her parents, who by the time their fifth daughter was born no longer found much to charm them in the noises and changes of childhood. Two of her elder sisters, Beatrice and Delphine, had early in their lives formed an alliance against the remote tyranny of their father and Madame Fourmentier's manipulative indolence. They were both lively, quickwitted girls with various talents that went unnoticed and unencouraged by their parents. They developed a shared selfishness that prevented them from venturing far from their own mutual rea.s.surance.

The eldest sister, Mathilde, was given to outbursts of temper and to sulks that could last for days. She had dark hair and a cold eye that sometimes made even her father think twice before crossing her. When she was eighteen she developed a pa.s.sion for an architect who worked near the cathedral in Rouen. He was a small, shifty-looking man with a certain weasel quickness in his movements. He had been married for ten years and was himself the father of two girls. Rumours of a growing friendship between them reached the ears of Monsieur Fourmentier, and there was a noisy confrontation. From her attic bedroom the five-year-old Isabelle heard the first sound of adult pa.s.sion as her father's pleading turned to anger and her sister's well-known temper became something more wailing and elemental. She felt the house tremble as Mathilde slammed the front door behind her.

Isabelle was a child of exceptionally sweet nature. She did not question her parents' indifference. The closest thing she had to a confidante was her sister Jeanne, who was two years older. Jeanne was the most resourceful of the girls. She had not had to make the first moves into the world, like Mathilde, nor was she included in Beatrice and Delphine's alliance. When blood came one day to Isabelle, unexplained and unpredicted, it was Jeanne who explained what their mother, through idleness or prudishness, had failed to do. This blood, Jeanne said, was supposed to be shameful, but she had never thought of it that way. She valued it because it spoke of some greater rhythm of life that would lead them away from the narrow boredom of childhood. Isabelle, who was still shocked by what had happened, was suggestible enough to share Jeanne's private pleasure, though not without a qualm. She could never quite reconcile herself to the fact that this secret thing that promised new life and liberation should manifest itself in the colour of pain.

Isabella's father was a lawyer who had political ambitions but lacked the ability to realize them or the charm that might have made connections where talent had failed. He became bored by his houseful of women and spent mealtimes reading Parisian newspapers with their accounts of political intrigues. He was unaware of the complexity or pa.s.sion of the lives led by his family. He would rebuke the girls for bad behaviour and occasionally punish them severely, but he had no other interest in their development. Madame Fourmentier was driven by his indifference into an excessive concern with fashion and appearance. She a.s.sumed her husband had a mistress in Rouen and that this was the reason he no longer showed any interest in her. To compensate for this presumed slight she devoted her time to making herself look attractive to men.

A year after her failed affair with the married architect, Mathilde was married off to a local doctor, to the relief of her parents and the envy of her sisters. It was a.s.sumed that when the other girls had also left home Isabelle would stay and look after her parents.

"Is that what I'm supposed to do, Jeanne?" she asked her sister. "Stay here forever while they grow old?"

"I think they'd like it, but they have no right to expect it. You must find your own life. That's what I'm going to do. If no one marries me I'm going to live in Paris and open a shop."

"I thought you were going to be a missionary in the jungle."

"That's only if the shop fails and my lover rejects me."

Jeanne had a greater sense of humour and detachment than Isabelle's other sisters, and their conversations together gave Isabelle the feeling that the things she had read about in books and newspapers were not just the ingredients of other people's lives, as she had once believed, but were open to some extent to her too. She loved Jeanne as she loved no one else.

At the age of eighteen Isabelle was a self-reliant but gentle girl who had no proper outlet either for her natural instincts or for the exuberant energy that was frustrated by the routine and torpor of her parents' house. At her sister Beatrice's wedding she met a young infantry officer called Jean Destournel. He spoke to her kindly and seemed to value her for some quality of her own. Isabelle, who had only ever been made to feel a shadowy version of a child who should in any case have been a boy was confused to find that someone could think she was unique and worth knowing for herself. Jean was not just anyone, either; he was attentive and handsome in a conventional way. He wrote to her and sent small presents. After a year of courtship, most of it conducted by letter since Jean's various postings seldom allowed him to be in Rouen, Isabelle's father made one of his rare interventions into family life. He summoned Jean to see him when he came to visit Isabelle and told him he was too old, too junior in rank, too undistinguished in family, and too dilatory in his courtship. Destournel, who was essentially a shy man, was taken aback by the force of Fourmentier's objection and began to question his own motives. He was entranced by Isabelle's character and her individual appearance, which was already different from that of most girls of her age. When he had spent an evening in the mess he loved to go to his room and think of this young, vital woman. He allowed his imagination to dwell on the details of her feminine home life, with the trappings of peace and domesticity and the company of her two remaining unmarried sisters, Delphine and Jeanne. He liked to evaluate their comparative worth in his mind and was pleased with his perverse judgement that the youngest one, pretty well unregarded by the others, was the most beautiful and most interesting. But while Isabelle Fourmentier and her pale skin and her fresh clothes and her laughter undoubtedly gave him a wonderful source of relief from the daily details of army life, he was not certain that in his heart he had any definite intention of marrying her. Perhaps if Fourmentier had not interfered it might have come naturally to that; but the sudden advent of self-consciousness prompted a destructive doubt.

A few months later, on his next visit, he took Isabelle for a walk in the garden and told her that he was being posted abroad and that he was not in a position to continue their friendship. He skated around the question of marriage with pleas of poverty and unworthiness. Isabelle didn't care whether he married her or not, but when he said he would not see her again she felt the simple agony of bereavement, like a child whose only source of love has gone.

For three years her loss coloured every moment of her day. When at last it became bearable it was still like a wound on which the skin would not thicken, so the least thing could reopen it. The reckless innocence of her unguided childhood was finished, but eventually a sweetness and balance in her nature returned. At the age of twenty-three she no longer seemed the baby of the house; she appeared older than her age, and began to cultivate a style and manner of her own that were not those of her parents or her elder sisters. Her mother was a little frightened by the certainty of her tastes and the a.s.surance of her opinions. Isabelle felt herself grow, and she met no resistance.

At a party her father heard of a local family called Azaire who had gone to live in Amiens, where the wife had died, leaving two young children. He manoeuvred an introduction and distinctly liked the look of Rene Azaire. Isabelle was not the comfort he had hoped for at home; she had become far too strong-willed to be a housekeeper, and although she was an accomplished helper to her mother she threatened at times to become an embarra.s.sment to him. In the strict and experienced figure of Rene Azaire, Isabelle's father saw a solution to a number of difficulties.

The match was adroitly sold to Isabelle by both men. Her father played on her sympathy for Azaire while he in turn introduced his children, both then at captivating stages of their lives. Azaire promised her some independence in their marriage, and Isabelle, who longed to be free of her parents' house, agreed. Her interest in Lisette and Gregoire was the most important thing to her; she wanted to help them and to submerge her own disappointments in their successes. It was also agreed that she and Azaire should have children of their own. So she changed from the little Fourmentier girl into Madame Azaire, a woman of dignity beyond her age, of p.r.o.nounced taste and opinion but with an acc.u.mulation of natural impulse and affection that had not been satisfied by any of the circ.u.mstances of her life. Azaire was at first proud to have married such a young and attractive woman and liked to display her to his friends. He saw his children prosper under her attention. Lisette was taken tactfully through the awkward changes in her body; Gregoire was encouraged in his enthusiasms and forced to improve his manners. Madame Azaire was well regarded in the town. She was an affectionate and dutiful wife to her husband, and he required no more from her; she did not love him, but he would have been frightened to have aroused such an unnecessary emotion. Madame Azaire grew into her new name. She was content with the role she had accepted and thought that her ambitious desires could be safely and permanently forgotten. It was, by a paradox she did not seem to understand at the time, the cold figure of her husband who kept those desires alive.

He saw the production of further children as an important proof of his standing in society and a confirmation that this was a balanced match in which his age and the difference in tastes were not important. He approached his wife in a businesslike and predatory manner; she reacted with the submissive indifference which was the only response he left open to her. He made love to her each night, though, once embarked on it, he seemed to want it to be over quickly. Afterward he never referred to what they had done together. Madame Azaire, who was initially frightened and ashamed, slowly became frustrated by her husband's att.i.tude; she could not understand why this aspect of their lives, which seemed to mean so much to him, was something he would not talk about, nor why the startling intimacy of the act opened no doors in her mind, made no connections with the deeper feelings and aspirations that had grown in her since childhood.

She did not become pregnant, and each month as the blood returned Azaire became a little more desperate. Some reflexive guilt made him blame himself. He began to believe that there might be something wrong with him, even though he had two children to prove that this was unlikely; he even suspected in some quiet moments of the night that he was being punished for marrying Isabelle, though why this should be so or what he had done wrong he couldn't say. Eventually his feelings of frustration affected the frequency with which he was able to perform. He began also to see that there was an absence of feeling in his wife, though the prospect of examining it and finding a remedy was so appalling that he could not bring himself to face it.

Madame Azaire, meanwhile, became less concerned about her husband. She was frightened of Stephen. From the day he arrived in the boulevard du Gange with his dark face and staring brown eyes and his swift impetuous movements, she was afraid of him. He was not like the other men she had known, not like her father or her husband, not even like Jean Destournel, who, though young and romantic, had proved in the end to be weak.

Because Stephen was nine years younger than she was, she viewed him with a little condescension; she could see in him the youth, or at least a stage of it, that she had left behind. She tried to think of him as the third child, as Lisette's brother; after all, she thought, he is only four years older. To some extent she was successful in making herself look down on him, though she noticed that this only seemed to add an element of motherly tenderness to her alarm.

On Sunday morning Stephen rose early and went downstairs to find something to eat in the kitchen. He walked along the pa.s.sageways of the ground floor, his footsteps alive in the closed air. There were still rooms in the house he had not visited and others which, having once glanced into, he could not refind. From the doors of a small sitting room he let himself into the cool of the garden and walked down to the end of the lawn. Beneath a chestnut tree there was a bench, where he sat chewing on the bread he had taken from the kitchen, looking back at the house. The night before he had taken his knife and made a small sculpture from a piece of soft wood he had found in the garden. He took it from his jacket pocket and examined it in the fresh, damp air of the morning. It was the figure of a woman in a_ _long skirt and little jacket; close indentations in the wood indicated her hair, though the features could only be represented by marks for the eyes and mouth. He took the knife and trimmed a few shavings from around the feet, to make them look more realistic where they emerged from the skirt. He saw some shutters being opened on a first-floor bedroom. He imagined the sound of voices and running water and door handles being turned. When he judged that the whole family would be dressed and downstairs, he returned to the house.

The children were not excited by the prospect of the trip round the water gardens. Madame Azaire leant across Gregoire to stop him tapping his spoon on the table. She was dressed in cream linen with a blue sash and a panel in the dress with a row of b.u.t.tons that neither opened nor held anything together.

Lisette eyed Stephen flirtatiously. "So are you coming to the famous water gardens?" she said.

"I don't know if I'm invited."

"Of course you are," said Madame Azaire.

"In that case I will, with pleasure."

Lisette said, "Well, that might make it a bit less boring."

"It's very kind of Monsieur Berard to invite us," said Madame Azaire. "You must be very polite to both of them. And I don't think that dress is quite right, either, for a girl of your age. It's too small."

"But it's so _hot," _said Lisette.

"I can't help the weather. Now run and put on something else."

"Run, run, run," said Lisette sulkily as she pushed back her chair. Her arm brushed Stephen's shoulder on her way to the door. The dress in question emphasised the plump swell of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, of which she was clearly proud. The five of them set out toward eleven o'clock, with Marguerite, the maid, helping Stephen and Madame Azaire to carry the various baskets of food, parasols, rugs, and extra clothes that had been deemed necessary. It was only a short walk to the edge of the water gardens. They went down a flight of steps to the landing stage, where Berard was waiting in a straw hat. Madame Berard was already installed in the stern of a flat-bottomed boat that was shaped, after long local tradition, like a punt with a raised and squared-off end.

"Madame, good morning! What a lovely day." Berard was at his most expansive. He held out his arm to help Madame Azaire down into the boat. Gripping his proffered arm with one hand, she raised her skirt with the other and stepped lightly into the low craft. Gregoire, no longer bored as he had been, pushed excitedly past the others and jumped in, making the boat rock. Madame Berard let out a little scream, "Oh, Papa!"

Berard laughed. "Women and children first."

Lisette embarked with his help and sat next to Madame Azaire.

"I shall be the helmsman in the stern of the craft," said Berard impressively, "so you sit facing Lisette and you, Monsieur," he said to Stephen, "if you sit next to Gregoire, and Madame Berard would like to go here, opposite you, Azaire--that's right--then we shall have perfect balance."

Stephen settled opposite Madame Azaire, as instructed, and found room for his feet on the floor of the boat while trying not to touch hers.

Berard let out a nautical cry and clambered into the stern, pushing the boat off from the bank with a long wooden pole.

The gardens were formed by the backwaters of the Somme, which had been channelled between numerous small islands whose banks were secured with wooden plank revetting. The land was intensely cultivated for vegetables, either in small plots, where the owner lived in a simple house on the site, or in larger areas whose farmer was likely to live in town. The area was regarded by the people who had nothing to do with its work as a site of natural beauty and an object of civic pride.

Berard worked the boat along with some skill, plunging in the pole with a vigorous thrust and moving it to the left or right to steer as he pulled it out again. They slid along beneath the overhanging trees, occasionally coming close to other Sunday pleasure-seekers who called out greetings and comments on the sunny weather from their own boats. Berard sweated freely at his work, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief, but was still able to give an account of the history of the water gardens as he punted them along.

Stephen sat uncomfortably on his wooden seat with his back to the direction of the boat's movement. The stagnant water, unmoved by any breeze, seemed to emphasize the unnatural heat of the day. His polished leather shoes lay on the slatted wooden floor of the craft at the unnatural angle required by his feet if they were not to touch the white shoes of Madame Azaire, which lay together in the position dictated by the slightly sideways att.i.tude of her closed legs. The extreme lowness of the seats, however, which were only a few inches off the floor of the boat, meant that her knees were a little raised and the pale skirt was drawn up to reveal the taut stretch of the stockings over her instep. They were of a fine, silken material that was not, Stephen thought, the product of either of her husband's factories. He noticed the delicate definition of her ankles and the beginning of her calves and found himself wondering what fastening beneath the folds of her linen skirt achieved the tension that made the stocking's fabric look so light and open on the arch of her foot.

... by the Roman soldiers. But the channelling of the water between the parcels of the land was to some extent a natural phenomenon and it was several centuries before the banks of the little islands were secured by planks in the way you see now. So what we have really is man and nature working in harmony and cooperation."

Berard's discourse was interrupted by his occasional gasps for breath, though not by any of the others, least of all Azaire, whose interjections were ignored. Stephen looked at the water, trailed his hand in it, smiled at Gregoire, and tried to engage Madame Azaire's eye. When he did, she gave a composed smile before turning to ask Lisette a question.

The broad channels of the water gardens were public thoroughfares, though narrower strips of water, marked "Private," led to large houses obscured from general view by thick hedges and tall, abundant flowers. When Berard was exhausted, Azaire took over and pushed the little craft onward until Gregoire's pleas for lunch were eventually rewarded.

Berard had been allowed by a friend to moor the boat at the foot of a shady garden and take lunch beneath some apple trees. Azaire made great play of lowering the wine by the boat's painter into the water to cool, while Madame Azaire and Lisette laid out rugs on the gra.s.s. Gregoire ran round the garden, returning occasionally to report his discoveries, and Stephen made conversation to Madame Berard, though her eyes were only for her husband, who settled himself at the foot of a tree with a gla.s.s of wine and some chicken, which he ripped from the bone with a sideways shake of his head.

The men took off their jackets, and as he laid his down Stephen felt the little wood carving in his pocket. He took it out and turned it round in his fingers.