The postilion accompanied Herman all the way to the kitchen, and it was the postilion himself who ordered some food for his “mate who can’t stand being pent up inside four walls.” So Herman was able to buy, at little expense, a big chunk of pig’s knuckle and some slightly dry bread pudding. And he made his way over to the hay shed. From where he was, he could see the big window of the dining room and, farther inside, the tall flames in the fireplace. They must have placed her table in front of the hearth. He saw her silhouette. Each time the tall flames died down, leaving shadow behind, something lingered within that shadow—something that kept on shining. And when the fire rekindled, the shining patch persisted, like a brighter core within the blaze. At last, he saw that it was straw-colored hair.

Abruptly, he felt a shiver run down his spine. It had just occurred to him that perhaps she was going to stay here, that she wouldn’t carry on with the journey, that she’d reached her destination, that he’d never see her again. The familiarity she had with the innkeeper showed they were expecting her, they knew her. The baggage he’d seen them loading in London was still stowed away between the rear springs of the coach, but perhaps, in a minute or two, when the postilion had finished eating, he’d come and unfasten the big trunk and the two cases. Either that, or maybe this wasn’t her baggage. Maybe she’d come here to wait for someone.

He suffered in solitude for more than an hour. He thought: I’ll have to find a way to sleep out in the hay shed. I’ll ask them at the kitchen. I’ll say that I’ll pay the same as I would for a room, but that I prefer to sleep outdoors. He was absolutely incapable of going into that inn and running the risk of encountering that woman on the stairs or in a corridor, of being forced to speak to her . . . even if it was only to excuse himself if they happened to meet in a doorway or to offer her the banister side of the staircase.

But the hay shed was the best place on earth. If, in the course of the afternoon, she were to come out, he’d see her. At last, the postilion came back to lounge around the coach, and he went up to the baggage. He checked the knots and cords, possibly because he was going to have to undo them. Herman didn’t dare ask him anything. He offered him a little Manila cigar. He said to himself that now he really had to get the man interested in a good, long story, to charm him so he’d want to be helpful. But he was incapable of telling a story like the one he’d told when a new world was awakening inside of him. Now he was increasingly certain she was going to stay here. He could think of nothing else.