A rather dry autumn wind blew across the plain, promising a cool
evening after the sun had set. Benoist sat down on a ditch, placed his
hat on his knees as if he needed to cool off his head, and said aloud
in the stillness of the country: "If you want a fine girl, she is a
fine girl."
He thought of it again at night, in his bed, and in the morning when
he awoke.
He was not sad, he was not discontented, he could not have told what
ailed him. It was something that had hold of him, something fastened
in his mind, an idea that would not leave him and that produced a sort
of tickling sensation in his heart.
Sometimes a big fly is shut up in a room. You hear it flying about,
buzzing, and the noise haunts you, irritates you. Suddenly it stops;
you forget it; but all at once it begins again, obliging you to look
up. You cannot catch it, nor drive it away, nor kill it, nor make it
keep still. As soon as it settles for a second, it starts off buzzing
again.
The recollection of Martine disturbed Benoist's mind like an
imprisoned fly.
Then he longed to see her again and walked past the Martinière several
times. He saw her, at last, hanging out some clothes on a line
stretched between two apple trees.
It was a warm day. She had on only a short skirt and her chemise,
showing the curves of her figure as she hung up the towels. He
remained there, concealed by the hedge, for more than an hour, even
after she had left. He returned home more obsessed with her image than
ever.
For a month his mind was full of her, he trembled when her name was
mentioned in his presence. He could not eat, he had night sweats that
kept him from sleeping.
On Sunday, at mass, he never took his eyes off her. She noticed it and
smiled at him, flattered at his appreciation.
One evening, he suddenly met her in the road. She stopped short when
she saw him coming. Then he walked right up to her, choking with fear
and emotion, but determined to speak to her. He began falteringly: