By the time their train arrives at the coast, it is night and they have fallen silent; she is weary, her veil spotted with a little soot that makes her feel there is something wrong with her eyesight. At Fecamp they prepare to leave the train for a hansom cab to etretat. Olivier collects their smaller bags from the shelf in the compartment where they have talked all day--the trunks will follow--and it seems to her when he stands up that he is stiff, that his body under his well-cut traveling suit is indubitably old, that he has no business touching her elbow when he speaks with her, not because he isn't Yves but because he isn't young. But he sits down again and takes her hand. They are both wearing gloves. "I am holding your hand," he tells her, "because I can, and because it is the most beautiful one in the world."
She can't say anything to equal that, and the train is shivering, stopping. Instead she pulls herself free and peels off her glove, then returns her hand to his. He lifts it up to examine it, and in the dim compartment light she sees it objectively, noticing as always that the fingers are too long, the whole hand too big for the small wrist, that there is blue paint around the ends of her first and second fingers. She thinks he will kiss it, but he only bows his head, as if pondering something private, and lets her go. Then he stands, agile, picks up their bags, and invites her politely to leave the compartment ahead of him.
The conductor helps her down into the night, which smells like coal and damp fields. The monstrous train behind them is still groaning, steam from the engine white against dark rows of houses, the shapes of engineers and passengers vague. In their cab, Olivier settles her carefully on a seat beside him; the horses pull forward, and she wonders for the hundredth time why she has consented to such a journey. Is it because Yves insisted or because Olivier wanted her to come with him? Or is it because she herself wanted to and was too weak to talk Yves out of it, too curious? etretat, when they arrive, is a blur of gas lamps and cobbled streets. Olivier offers a hand for her to alight, and she pulls her cloak around her, stretches discreetly--she is stiff herself, from traveling. The wind smells of salt water; somewhere out there is the Channel, making its lonely sound. etretat has the injured air of a resort caught off-season. She knows that melody, knows this town from previous visits, but tonight it seems to her a new place, a wilderness, the edge of the world. Now Olivier is giving some orders about their things. When she allows herself a glance at his profile, she finds him distant, sad. What decades have brought him here? Did he visit this coast long ago with his wife? Can she ask him such a thing? Under the streetlamps, his face looks lined, his lips elegant, sensitive, wrinkled. In the first-floor windows of one of the tall, chimneyed houses across from the station, someone has lit candles; she can see a shape moving around inside, perhaps a woman straightening up a room before going to bed. She wonders what the life in that house is like and why she herself inhabits a different one, in Paris; she thinks how easily fate might have accomplished such a trade.
Olivier does everything gracefully, a man long used to his own skin--accustomed, also, to having his own quiet way. Watching, she realizes with a sudden lurch of her insides that unless she tells him some kind of no, she will eventually find herself lying naked in his arms here, in this town. It is a shocking thought, but once it presents itself she can't turn away. She will have to find the strength to form that word, "non." Non --there is no such word between them, only this strange openness of spirit. He is closer to death than she is; he doesn't have time to wait for answers, and she is far too moved by his desire. The inevitability of it catches tightly in her rib cage.
"You must be tired, my dear," he is saying. "Shall we go straight to the hotel? I'm certain they will give us a little supper."
"Will our rooms be nice?" It comes out more starkly than she intends, because she means something else.
He looks at her, surprised, mild, amused. "Yes, they both are very nice, and I believe there is a sitting room for you as well." She feels a wave of shame. Of course; Yves has sent them here together. Olivier has the grace not to smile. "You will want to sleep late, I hope, and we can meet to paint tomorrow in the late morning, if you'd like. We shall see how the weather is--fine, I think, by the feel of this air."
The man has moved up the street already with their luggage in a wheeled cart, their bags and boxes, her leather-strapped trunk. She and her husband's uncle are alone at the edge of another world, bounded by only the dark salt water, a place where she knows no one but him. She suddenly wants to laugh.
Instead, she sets down the bag with her precious painting supplies in it and raises her veil; she steps close to him, her hands touching his shoulders. His eyes are alert in the light of the gas lamp. If he is surprised by her upturned face, her rashness, he hides it at once. She surprises herself in turn by accepting his kiss without reservation, feeling in it his forty years' experience, seeing the edge of his cheekbone. His mouth is warm and moving. She is one in a line of loves, but she is the only one at this moment, and she will be the last. The unforgettable, the one he takes with him to the end.