Free Fire in the Blood by Irène Némirovsky

area that year, and fires set, and that several prowlers were arrested. I did sometimes wonder whether this accident wasn't an accident at all, whether poor Jean was murdered. But still, this lad's story is very strange indeed. Why didn't Jean go straight home? You're quite sure he stayed beside the car for a long time?"
    "You were sleeping," I said to the lad. "You said so yourself. When you're asleep, you can lose all sense of time, you know. Sometimes you think only a few minutes have passed when half the night has gone. And then, sometimes, you can have a long dream and think you've been asleep for hours when you've only closed your eyes for a second."
    "That's very true," several people said.
    "Here's what I think happened," I said. "The boy was sleeping; he woke up; he heard the sound of the car; he went back to sleep. It felt as if a long time had passed when, in fact, there were no more than a few seconds between the moment Jean arrived and when he crossed the bridge. A prowler-maybe someone who knew there weren't many people at home that night since even the servant had gone-this prowler got into the mill. Jean caught him by surprise. He heard footsteps, ran outside. Jean tried to stop him. The man fought him off and, during the struggle, he pushed Jean into the water. That's what must have happened."
    "We have to report it to the police," said Francois. "This is a serious matter."
    They noticed that Colette was crying. The men gradually got to their feet.
    "Come on, everyone out," said Maluret. "Let's get back to work."
    They finished their drinks and left. Only the women remained, going about their business in the large kitchen without looking at Colette. Her father took her arm, helped her into the car and we left.
    IT WAS A WARM EVENING, so I sat down on the bench outside the kitchen, from where I can see my little garden.
    For a long time I only wanted it to provide me with vegetables for my soup, but for several years now I've been taking better care of it. I planted the rose bushes myself, saved the vine that was dying, dug, weeded, pruned the fruit trees. Little by little, I have become attached to this tiny piece of land. On summer evenings, at dusk, the sound of ripe fruit coming away from the trees and falling gently on to the grass fills me with a sense of happiness. Night descends . . . but you can't really call it night: the azure blue of the day grows misty, turns almost green; colour slowly melts away, leaving a delicate hue that is midway between translucent pearl and steel grey. But every shape is perfectly clear: the well, the cherry trees, the little low wall, the forest and the head of the cat who's playing at my feet, nipping at my shoe. It's then that the housekeeper goes home; she puts on the light in the kitchen and everything around me is suddenly lost in darkness. Dusk is the best time of day and, of course, the time Colette chose to come and ask for my advice. I was quite cold towards her, so cold, in fact, that she seemed disconcerted. But it's like this: when I go out and mix with other people voluntarily, I agree, more or less, to get involved in their odd lives; but when I've climbed back into my hole, I want to be left in peace, so don't come bothering me with your loves and your regrets.
    "What can I do to help you?" I said to Colette, who was crying. "Nothing. I can't see what you're so tormented about. It's your parents' decision whether or not to follow up that little idiot's story. Go and talk to them. They're not children. They know about life. Tell them you had a lover and that he killed your husband . . . What exactly did happen?" "I was waiting for Marc that night. Jean wasn't supposed to get home until the next day. I still don't know what happened or why he came back early."
    "You don't know why, you innocent thing? Because someone told him that you'd be meeting your lover that night, that's why."
    She shuddered and lowered her head every time I said the word "lover." I