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Updated: May 18, 2025
In the courtyard he patted the dog and lifted the patron's son on to his shoulder, then he asked the patronne if the cook had a name and whether he might some day come and watch her churn butter. In the dining room he praised the coffee, and admired the geraniums. St. Jean-les-Flots must have a particularly fine soil for geraniums, and what air! Why, he felt a different man already.
In any case no one had a right to make you do things for your own good. It was a horrible form of self-sacrifice. If Marthe had said, "Please go to St. Jean-les-Flots and pick me a poppy," he would have been delighted, but to stay at the Hotel Bungalow in the interests of his own health was a very different matter. Marie Aimée was putting a pot with one red geranium in it on his writing table.
Her movements gave an effect of invisible wheels. During the afternoon she remained undetectable, which was a tour de force at St. Jean-les-Flots, where the landscape was a successful conspiracy against concealment, and a sunshade could be seen for miles. Maurice had a tiresome feeling that she was lying out somewhere with that horrible sunshade over her head and a novel by Gyp on her lap.
Jean-les-Flots would throw any one to romance. He walked into the dining room. At the far end with her back to him sat the lady. She wore a white coat embroidered with black, a white skirt, a white hat with a white lace veil. On the chair beside her lay a Holland sunshade lined with green. It was he thought, deplorable, and indicated yellow spectacles.
And then he said that he must be indiscreet specifically so. Why had she come to St. Jean-les-Flots? The Hotel Bungalow was very clean, the food was good, the air was marvellous.... She pulled herself together. When you took a holiday, she said, you had to make a careful choice between old acquaintances and new ones. Which was likely to be the more tiring?
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