C.

At the time Madame Knipper was in a play in the largest theatre of the capital; the plot was impossible. It was the story of a young woman who suddenly leaves her husband, goes off to live alone at the seashore, and drowns there at the end of the fifth act. An accident, an accidental drowning so to speak. For the curtain calls, when it’s all over and the lights come up, when the audience begins to applaud wildly, Madame Knipper, surrounded by the cast, would come back dripping. Ten, fifteen times some nights, she would shiver, teeth chattering with cold and fatigue. Still she would have to bow once again, to thank the audience, bent over, hands on her soaked skirt.

A.

What must have been important, especially for us… at the time, I mean… was to wait. Let things run their course. Let people tire and return to their favorite or required activities.

B.
My husband knew. He was working at the ministry, or in some essential high administrative post… He could tell from details, a sign in the look of an important man… Or, more simply, “what was in the wind,” as people chose to call corridor gossip.

A.

“The kitchen help with their definitive views of the fate of the world!”

(She laughs.)

C.

I had my room. It was narrow and you could smell the garlic from the adjoining apartment.

D.

Madame Knipper?

C.

Yes. A story about Madame Knipper…

A.

My chambermaid…

(She laughs.)

(Pause.)

My chambermaid… The word is “chambermaid” isn’t it?

B.

I don’t know. You think…? Really…? Still…?