She in turn had fallen in love with him because he courted her and because he was young, fairly well-off, charming and attentive. And as young girls regularly fall for young men who whisper sweet nothings in their ear, she had fallen in love with him. For those three months they had been inseparable, walking about hand in hand and gazing into each other’s eyes. Though their lips had never met, the savour of future kisses was strong in the greetings they exchanged before each morning bathe and again in their evening farewells on the sand, under the stars, and in the warmth of the deep calm night. They awoke in the mornings and fell asleep at night thinking only of each other. Without admitting it their souls yearned and their bodies were full of mutual desire.

After the wedding they had worshipped each other in the garden of earthly delights. With tireless, frenzied energy they made love at first with passion and tenderness in a kind of exaltation, and then, with experience, knowing caresses and a rapturous feeling of wickedness. Every glance they exchanged by day was charged with erotic significance and every gesture a hint of the torrid night before.

Now, however, though they hesitated to admit it, they were becoming, unconsciously perhaps, just a touch bored. Of course they were still fond of each other, but neither had anything more to reveal. There was nothing they had not done many times before, nothing in which either could initiate the other. Not so much as an endearment was new, no fresh gesture, no unexpected intonation came to add piquancy or meaning to their oft-repeated exchanges.

They tried hard to fan the dying embers of their passion into flame. Every day they devised some new kind of play, a new game, sometimes childish, sometimes sophisticated, in a series of desperate attempts to rekindle the once inextinguishable fire that had consumed them during the days and nights of their honeymoon. Every so often they whipped up their desire enough to enjoy an hour or so of feigned frenzy. Immediately afterwards, however, they were filled with a kind of weary revulsion.

They had tried everything – moonlit walks through the forest in the soft air of the night; romantic wanderings along the river bank in the mist; they had even on occasion joined in with the dancing in the streets. Then one day Henriette said to Paul: ‘Will you take me one night to a cabaret?’1

‘Certainly darling.’

‘A real one … you know.’

‘Of course.’

He looked at her with curiosity, realizing she had something in mind which she could not bring herself to say.

She went on: ‘You know what I mean, the sort of place … a private room … where you can have a … an assignation …’

He smiled. ‘I know exactly what you mean … a private cubicle in a … private restaurant.’