No, it wasn’t fair. She felt guilty and deplored herself. In truth, Mrs X’s actual betrayals were limited to a tear or two shed over lines from an old sonata (written by a man dead some two hundred years) or a shiver over the refrain of a Spanish song. Then, after the last note faded, she realized that her steadfast, anguished, everyday love was actually expanding, absorbing every manner of feeling – that of a daughter, mother, sister, an eternally beloved – its roots growing ever more intricate and deep. Her emotions were overflowing to the point that she dared to ask what she had never before dared: ‘Do you love me?’ And she clung to his adored chest, took possession of it, insensitive now to the fear of annoying him. Her conquest had become solid as a rock, all doubts, regrets slipped away, disappeared: ‘We were born to be together,’ she said, inflamed, her ear pressed against his heart, every heartbeat ecstatic, her palm resting on his delicate, almost childlike upper arm.

Ultimately, living day by day is easy if one isn’t too demanding. The world is a small stage and everyone has a role in the drama, even those behind the scenes, and, at worst, one can always sleep, and sleeping, dream. Mrs X dreams a lot of things – for example, when she has a migraine, she dreams of beautiful music. The sets change: singing lessons, tennis matches, incredibly boring games of bridge and canasta, with occasional friends whom she curiously observed. Terrible player that she was, she didn’t keep track of the cards. And she, who was silent once upon a time, began to chat. Without realizing it, this new loquaciousness of hers took on the rhythm of a storyteller: she recounted her childhood memories, the city where she spent her youth, and how much she loved her enchanting aunt who died so young. Talking, talking, digressing, telling fantastic tales. Somewhat dazed, the players ended up neglecting their spades and diamonds, and listened to her, riveted. Yes, there was no doubt, Mrs X was a terrible card player, but she knew how to tell a good story. This observation was not devoid of malice, the implication being that she revealed too much.

Blunt arrows. A delightful spring swept away the green felt of the card table, the cards, the chips, the whisky and cigarettes. Midway through April, the garden behind the house was covered with violet and blue, the rose thorns as delicate as baby teeth. After having planted the seeds, watered them, played with the latest litter of kittens, she was able to sit outside, in the sun and under shade. Nothing was missing from that idyllic scene in which, like the protagonist of a George Sand novel, she decided to diligently play the role of the lonely noblewoman who had been wandering in a fog for thirteen years. Under a thicket of holly oaks and eucalyptus trees, a chaise longue was ready to welcome her, along with a book, its pages still uncut, a notebook and a fountain pen. She sat down but didn’t feel like reading, her attention captured by the blossoming azalea.