Mathilde took out her diary and wrote: 'the man sitting next to me has got one hell of a nerve.' She sipped her beer and glanced once more at the neighbour on her left, a strikingly tall man who had been drumming his fingers on the café table for the past ten minutes. She made another note in the diary: 'He sat down too close to me, as if we knew each other, but I've never seen him before. No, I'm sure I've never seen him before. Not much else to say about him, except that he's wearing dark glasses. I'm sitting on the terrace outside the Café Saint-Jacques, and I've ordered a glass of draught lager. I'm drinking it now. I'm concentrating as hard as I can on the beer. Can't think of anything better to do.' Mathilde's neighbour went on drumming his fingers. 'Something the matter?' she asked. Mathilde had a deep and very husky voice. The man guessed that here was a woman who smoked as much as she could get away with. 'No, nothing. Why?' he replied. 'Just that it's getting on my nerves, that noise you're making on the tabletop. Everything's setting my teeth on edge today.' Mathilde finished her beer. Tasteless. Typical for a Sunday. Mathilde considered that she suffered more than most from the fairly widespread malaise she called seventh-day blues. 'You're about fifty, I'd guess?' offered the man, without moving away from her. 'Might be,' said Mathilde. She felt annoyed.What business was that of his? Just then, she had noticed that the stream of water from the fountain opposite the café was blowing in the wind and sprinkling drops on the arm of the stone cherub beneath: one of those little moments of eternity. And now here was some character spoiling the only moment of eternity of this particular seventh day. Besides, people usually thought she looked ten years younger. As she told him. 'Does it matter?' asked the man. 'I can't guess ages the way other people do. But I imagine you're rather beautiful, if I'm not mistaken.' 'Is there something wrong with my face?' asked Mathilde. 'You don't seem very sure about it.' 'It's not that. I certainly do imagine you're beautiful,' the man replied, 'but I won't swear to it.' 'Please yourself,' said Mathilde. 'At any rate, you 're very good-looking, and I'll swear to that, if it helps.Well, it always does help, doesn't it? And now I'm going to leave you. I'm too edgy today to sit around talking to people like you.' 'I'm not feeling so calm, either. I was going to see a flat to rent, but it was already taken. What about you?' 'I let somebody I wanted to catch up with get away.' 'A friend?' 'No, a woman I was following in the metro. I'd taken lots of notes, and then, suddenly, I lost her. See what I mean?' 'No, I don't see at all.' 'You're not trying, you mean.' 'Well, obviously I'm not trying.' 'You are. You're very trying.' 'Yes, I am trying. And on top of that, I'm blind.' 'Oh, Christ!' said Mathilde. 'I'm so sorry.' The man turned towards her with a rather unkind smile. 'Why are you sorry?' he said. 'It's not your fault, is it?' Mathilde told herself that she should just stop talking. But she also knew that she wouldn't be able to manage that. 'Whose fault is it, then?' she asked. The Beautifu Excerpted from The Chalk Circle Man by Fred Vargas All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.