Marie-Thérèse lived far away from her, in another wing of the house, separated from hers by an entire floor. She couldn’t hear the low groans that her daughter was hiding beneath her blankets. It was a calm night, without a hint of a breeze; the leaves on the palm trees barely rustled in the wind; the sea, lit up by the moon, was as white and creamy as milk. Cool air wafted up from the tiled floors. The chambermaid had lit a fire in the fireplace and Gladys was absent-mindedly poking at it, tilting her long neck: it was so supple, so soft, so white … She couldn’t bring herself to go to bed. ‘When this is all over,’ she thought, ‘I’ll take Marie-Thérèse away from here and we’ll never come back. She’ll forget. She’s still only a child. It’s a terrible thing, but she’ll forget. There will just be one more useless little creature in the world. Why didn’t she listen to me? How I want this all to be over. What a nightmare …’ She stood up, sighed, went out into the garden, slowly walked through the cedar trees, made her way down to the sea, came back up and threw some little stones against Marie-Thérèse’s dark windows, quietly calling out her name.
