She said, “Good, set up the table,” and walked ahead down the long row of farmers, brushing their backs with her long dress. But she still had the same gait and held herself very erect. He followed her. He wasn’t capable anymore of doing otherwise. He asked himself if it might not be better to leave, to get out of this place and take to the road. Still, he found himself sitting down across from her. He didn’t dare look at her. He didn’t know where to put his hands. He had a hard lump in his throat that he couldn’t swallow. He tried to serve himself a drink. But suddenly the motion he made to take hold of the pitcher seemed extremely rash and he held back. As a result, he found himself with his hand up in the air, no longer knowing what to do, his mind a blank . . . frozen from head to toe. The only thing he could think of was that she smelled of incense. He managed to will himself to grab hold of the pitcher and pour himself some water, very clumsily.

She had a scent similar to pine resin, but sugary, with a hint of vanilla. He tried two or three times to speak, to offer her a dish. But each time, the waft of incense—like a tepid breeze—robbed him of his powers. He thought: I must look at her. But he couldn’t resolve to do it, not until he’d finally succeeded in saying “I beg your pardon, madame,” in a voice he didn’t recognize. He looked at her. Fortunately, at that particular moment, her eyelids were lowered, and her long, curved lashes appeared to be pressing onto her cheeks. Her eyebrows rose toward her temples; her long, narrow nose sloped down and there was something a little sly about it. But she lifted her eyes, and again he was dazzled by the unnameable color. He didn’t have the presence of mind to avert his gaze right away, or to shut his own eyes. He remained stunned (his mouth could have been hanging wide open), and she was the one who looked away first. Immediately, he convinced himself that he had, in fact, remained there with his mouth wide open, like a total imbecile. Then he was so certain there was no longer any hope that he experienced a kind of calm. For a brief instant, there was no one across from him, not even an ordinary woman, and he was able to make a few controlled movements. He even risked looking at her.

He saw she had a slightly protruding forehead, with an almond-shaped swelling over the bridge of her nose, and that, despite all these signs of intelligence, her nostrils were exquisitely delicate. She was lightly and expertly made up. The skin of her cheeks was pearl-like behind a touch of rouge. Finally, when he was bold enough to note that her lips were full and glistening, he became conscious of the consummate beauty of this face. He experienced a feeling of deep peacefulness, a relaxation of mind and body, a sense of well-being, as if life had become easy at last. It was a matter of comfort, however much he might not like the word. This intense beauty, so close to him, no longer made him freeze. On the contrary, it brought him to life, in a way he couldn’t remember ever having lived before. He was now capable of talking with ease, in a natural way. And when she stood up, acknowledging him with a slight movement of her head, he remained glued to his stool and said to her, “Good evening, madame,” with a voice like a cadaver.