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The night is gentle
On
the
pleasant
shore
of
the
French
Riviera
,
about
half
way
between
Marseilles
and
the
Italian
border
,
stands
a
large
,
proud
,
rose
-
colored
hotel
.
Deferential
palms
cool
its
flushed
façade
,
and
before
it
stretches
a
short
dazzling
beach
.
Lately
it
has
become
a
summer
resort
of
notable
and
fashionable
people
;
a
decade
ago
it
was
almost
deserted
after
its
English
clientele
went
north
in
April
.
Now
,
many
bungalows
cluster
near
it
,
but
when
this
story
begins
only
the
cupolas
of
a
dozen
old
villas
rotted
like
water
lilies
among
the
massed
pines
between
Gausse
’
s
Hôtel
des
Étrangers
and
Cannes
,
five
miles
away
.
The
hotel
and
its
bright
tan
prayer
rug
of
a
beach
were
one
.
In
the
early
morning
the
distant
image
of
Cannes
,
the
pink
and
cream
of
old
fortifications
,
the
purple
Alp
that
bounded
Italy
,
were
cast
across
the
water
and
lay
quavering
in
the
ripples
and
rings
sent
up
by
sea
-
plants
through
the
clear
shallows
.
Before
eight
a
man
came
down
to
the
beach
in
a
blue
bathrobe
and
with
much
preliminary
application
to
his
person
of
the
chilly
water
,
and
much
grunting
and
loud
breathing
,
floundered
a
minute
in
the
sea
.
When
he
had
gone
,
beach
and
bay
were
quiet
for
an
hour
.
Merchantmen
crawled
westward
on
the
horizon
;
bus
boys
shouted
in
the
hotel
court
;
the
dew
dried
upon
the
pines
.
In
another
hour
the
horns
of
motors
began
to
blow
down
from
the
winding
road
along
the
low
range
of
the
Maures
,
which
separates
the
littoral
from
true
Provençal
France
.
A
mile
from
the
sea
,
where
pines
give
way
to
dusty
poplars
,
is
an
isolated
railroad
stop
,
whence
one
June
morning
in
1925
a
victoria
brought
a
woman
and
her
daughter
down
to
Gausse
’
s
Hotel
.
The
mother
’
s
face
was
of
a
fading
prettiness
that
would
soon
be
patted
with
broken
veins
;
her
expression
was
both
tranquil
and
aware
in
a
pleasant
way
.
However
,
one
’
s
eye
moved
on
quickly
to
her
daughter
,
who
had
magic
in
her
pink
palms
and
her
cheeks
lit
to
a
lovely
flame
,
like
the
thrilling
flush
of
children
after
their
cold
baths
in
the
evening
.
Her
fine
forehead
sloped
gently
up
to
where
her
hair
,
bordering
it
like
an
armorial
shield
,
burst
into
lovelocks
and
waves
and
curlicues
of
ash
blonde
and
gold
.
Her
eyes
were
bright
,
big
,
clear
,
wet
,
and
shining
,
the
color
of
her
cheeks
was
real
,
breaking
close
to
the
surface
from
the
strong
young
pump
of
her
heart
.
Her
body
hovered
delicately
on
the
last
edge
of
childhood
—
she
was
almost
eighteen
,
nearly
complete
,
but
the
dew
was
still
on
her
.
As
sea
and
sky
appeared
below
them
in
a
thin
,
hot
line
the
mother
said
:
"
Something
tells
me
we
’
re
not
going
to
like
this
place
.
"
"
I
want
to
go
home
anyhow
,
"
the
girl
answered
.
They
both
spoke
cheerfully
but
were
obviously
without
direction
and
bored
by
the
fact
—
moreover
,
just
any
direction
would
not
do
.
They
wanted
high
excitement
,
not
from
the
necessity
of
stimulating
jaded
nerves
but
with
the
avidity
of
prize
-
winning
schoolchildren
who
deserved
their
vacations
.
"
We
’
ll
stay
three
days
and
then
go
home
.
I
’
ll
wire
right
away
for
steamer
tickets
.
"
At
the
hotel
the
girl
made
the
reservation
in
idiomatic
but
rather
flat
French
,
like
something
remembered
.
When
they
were
installed
on
the
ground
floor
she
walked
into
the
glare
of
the
French
windows
and
out
a
few
steps
onto
the
stone
veranda
that
ran
the
length
of
the
hotel
.
When
she
walked
she
carried
herself
like
a
ballet
-
dancer
,
not
slumped
down
on
her
hips
but
held
up
in
the
small
of
her
back
.
Out
there
the
hot
light
clipped
close
her
shadow
and
she
retreated
—
it
was
too
bright
to
see
.
Fifty
yards
away
the
Mediterranean
yielded
up
its
pigments
,
moment
by
moment
,
to
the
brutal
sunshine
;
below
the
balustrade
a
faded
Buick
cooked
on
the
hotel
drive
.
