One month later, on a rainy afternoon like the one the German and Lucile had spent together, Marthe announced that the Angellier ladies had visitors. Three women were shown into the sitting room. They wore long black coats, mourning hats and black veils that cascaded down towards the ground, imprisoning them in a kind of impenetrable, mournful cage. The Angelliers didn't often have guests. The cook, fl.u.s.tered, had forgotten to take their umbrellas; they still held them, half-open, in their hands, like bell-shaped calyx flowers, catching the last few drops of rain dripping from their veils-or like the funeral urns on the tombs of heroes into which stone women weep.

Madame Angellier had some difficulty in recognising the three black shapes. Then she said, surprised, "But it's the Perrin ladies!"

The Perrin family (proprietors of the beautiful estate pillaged by the Germans) was "the region's finest." Madame Angellier's feelings towards the bearers of this name were comparable to those one member of a royal family might feel towards another: calm certainty that one was among kindred spirits who held the same opinions about everything; that despite the fleeting differences which might naturally occur, despite wars or governmental misconduct, they remained united by an indissoluble bond, to such an extent that if the Spanish royal family were dethroned, the Swedish royal family would feel the repercussions. When the Perrins had lost 900,000 francs after a lawyer in Moulins had run off, the Angelliers felt the aftershock. When Madame Angellier had paid a pittance for a piece of land that had belonged to the Montmorts "since time began," the Perrins had rejoiced. The grudging respect the Montmorts received from the middle cla.s.ses bore no comparison to this sense of shared values.

Madame Angellier warmly asked Madame Perrin to sit down again (she'd started to get up when she saw her hostess coming towards her). She didn't experience the disagreeable feeling she always had when Madame de Montmort came to visit. She knew the Perrin ladies approved of everything: the mock fireplace, the musty smell, the half-closed shutters, the slip covers on the furniture, the olive-green wallpaper with silver palm leaves. Everything was as it should be; she would soon be offering her guests a pitcher of orangeade and some stale shortbread. Madame Perrin would not be shocked by the stinginess of this offering; she would simply see it as one more proof of the Angelliers' wealth, for the richer one is, the stingier as well; she would identify with her own tendency to save money and the inclination towards asceticism that lies at the heart of the French middle cla.s.ses and makes their shameful secret pleasures even more bitter-sweet.

Madame Perrin told them that her son had died a hero's death in Normandy as the Germans advanced; she had received permission to visit his grave. She complained at great length about the cost of this journey and Madame Angellier sympathised with her. Maternal love and money were two completely different things. The Perrins lived in Lyon.

"The city is dest.i.tute. I've seen crows being sold for fifteen frances each. Mothers are feeding their children on crow soup. And don't think I'm talking about the working cla.s.ses. No, Madame! I'm talking about people like you and me."

Madame Angellier sighed sadly; she imagined her relatives, members of her family, sharing a crow for supper. The idea was somehow grotesque, scandalous (though if it had been just the working cla.s.ses, all they would have done was say, "Those poor creatures" and then move on).

"Well, at least you have your freedom! You don't have any Germans living with you like us. Yes, Madame, here in this house, behind that wall," said Madame Angellier, pointing to the olive-green wallpaper with the silver palm leaves. "An officer."

"We know," said Madame Perrin, slightly embarra.s.sed. "We heard about it from the notary's wife who came to Lyon. Actually, that's why we've come."

They all involuntarily looked at Lucile.

"Please explain what you mean," Madame Angellier said coldly.

"I've heard that this officer behaves absolutely correctly, is that right?"

"Yes."

"And he's even been seen speaking to you extremely politely on several occasions?"

"He never speaks to me, me," Madame Angellier said haughtily. "I wouldn't stand for it. I accept that my att.i.tude may not be very reasonable" (she stressed this last word) "as has been pointed out to me, but I am the mother of a prisoner of war and because of that, even if I were offered all the money in the world, I wouldn't consider these gentlemen as anything but our mortal enemies. Although other people are more . . . how can I put it? . . . more flexible, more realistic, perhaps . . . my daughter-in-law in particular . . ."

"I answer him if he speaks to me, yes," said Lucile.

"But you're so right, absolutely right!" exclaimed Madame Perrin. "My dear girl, I'm putting all my hope in you. It's about our poor house! You've seen what a terrible state it's in . . ."

"I've only seen the garden . . . through the gates . . ."

"My dear child, do you think you could possibly arrange for us to have back certain items from inside the house to which we are particularly attached?"

"Madame, but I . . ."

"You mustn't refuse. All you have to do is speak to these gentlemen and intervene on our behalf. It might all have been burned or damaged, of course, but I can't believe the house has been so vandalised that it is impossible to recover our family portraits, correspondence or furniture, of sentimental value only to us . . ."

"Madame, you should speak to the Germans occupying your house yourself and . . ."

"Never," said Madame Perrin, pulling herself up to her full height. "Never will I cross the threshold of my house while the enemy is there. It is a question of dignity and sensitivity. They killed my son, my son who had just been accepted to study at the Ecole Polytechnique, in the top six. I'll be staying at the Hotel des Voyageurs with my daughters until tomorrow. If you could arrange to have certain things returned to us, I would be eternally grateful. Here's the list. If I found myself face-to-face with one of these Germans, I wouldn't be able to stop myself singing the 'Ma.r.s.eillaise' (I know myself!)," said Madame Perrin in an impa.s.sioned voice, "and then I'd get deported to Prussia. Not that that would be a disgrace, far from it, but I have daughters. I must keep going for my family. So, I am truly begging you, my dear Lucile, to do whatever you can for me."

"Here's the list," said Madame Perrin's younger daughter.

She unfolded the paper and began reading:

A china bowl and water jug with our monogram, decorated with b.u.t.terflies A salad dryer The white-and-gold tea service (twenty-eight pieces, the sugar bowl is missing its lid) Two portraits of grandfather: (1) sitting on his nanny's lap; (2) on his deathbed The stag's antlers from the entrance hall, a memento of my Uncle Adolphe Granny's plate warmer (porcelain and vermeil) Papa's extra set of false teeth he'd left behind in the bathroom The pink-and-black sofa from the sitting room In the left-hand drawer of the desk (key herewith): My brother's first page of writing, Papa's letters to Mama while he was away taking the waters in Vittel in 1924 (tied with a pink ribbon), all our family photographs

There was a deathly silence as she read. Madame Perrin cried softly beneath her veil.

"It's hard, so hard to watch things you care about so much being taken away from you. I beg you, my dear Lucile, do everything you can. Be clever, persuasive . . ."

Lucile looked at her mother-in-law.

"This . . . this officer," said Madame Angellier barely moving her lips, "has not yet come back. You won't see him tonight, Lucile, it's too late, but tomorrow you could speak with him and ask for his help."

"All right. I will."

Madame Perrin, her hands covered in black gloves, hugged Lucile. "Thank you, thank you, my dear child. And now we must go."

"Not before having some refreshments," said Madame Angellier.

"Oh, but we don't want to impose on you . . ."

"Don't be ridiculous . . ."

They made quiet, courteous little noises when Marthe brought in the pitcher of orangeade and the shortbread. Now that they felt rea.s.sured, they began talking about the war. They feared a German victory, yet weren't altogether happy at the idea that the English might win. All in all, they preferred everyone to be defeated. They blamed their difficulties on the fact that the desire for pleasure seemed to have taken hold of everyone. Then the conversation returned to more personal matters. Madame Perrin and Madame Angellier discussed their poor health. Madame Perrin went into great detail about her last bout of rheumatism while Madame Angellier listened impatiently and, as soon as Madame Perrin paused for breath, interjected, "It's the same with me . . ." and talked about her own bout of rheumatism.

Madame Perrin's daughters discreetly ate their shortbread. Outside, the rain kept falling.

14.

By the next morning the rain had stopped and the sun shone down on the damp, joyous ground. It was early and Lucile, who hadn't slept well, was sitting on a garden bench waiting for the German to come out of the house. As soon as she saw him she went up to him and explained her request; both of them sensed the hidden presence of Madame Angellier and the cook, not to mention the neighbours, who were spying on the couple from behind closed shutters as they stood on the path.

"If you would accompany me to these ladies' house," said the German, "I will have all the things they've requested gathered together for you; but a number of our soldiers have been billeted in this house since the owners abandoned it and I think the damage has been considerable. Let's go and see."

They walked through the village, side by side, barely speaking.

Lucile saw Madame Perrin's black veil fluttering from a window of the Hotel des Voyageurs. They were watching Lucile and her companion with curiosity, complicity and a vague sense of approval. It was clear that everyone knew she was on her way to extract from the enemy the crumbs of his conquest (in the form of a set of false teeth, a china dinner service and other household items of sentimental value).

An old woman who couldn't even look at a German uniform without being terrified nevertheless came up to Lucile and whispered, "That's it . . . Well done! At least you you're not afraid of them . . ."

The officer smiled. "They think you're Judith going to murder Holofernes in his tent. I hope you don't have the same evil plan! Here we are. Please come in, Madame."

He pushed open the heavy gate. The little bell that used to tell the Perrins they had visitors tinkled sadly. In just one year the garden had become so neglected it would have broken your heart to look at it, had it not been such a beautiful day. But it was a May morning, the day after a storm. The gra.s.s was sparkling, the damp paths overgrown with daisies, cornflowers and all sorts of other wild flowers that gleamed in the sun. The flower beds were a riot of shrubs, and fresh cl.u.s.ters of lilacs gently brushed against Lucile's face as she walked by. In the house they found about a dozen young soldiers and all the children from the village who spent happy days playing in the entrance hall (like the Angelliers' hall, it was dark, with a vaguely musty smell, greenish panes of gla.s.s in the windows and hunting trophies on the walls). Lucile recognised the cart maker's two little girls, sitting on the lap of a blond soldier who had a wide grin on his face. The carpenter's little boy was playing horsy on the back of another soldier. The illegitimate children of the dressmaker, all four of them, aged two to six, were lying on the floor, plaiting crowns out of forget-me-nots and the small, sweet-smelling carnations that had once lined the formal flower beds.

The soldiers leapt to attention the way they do in the army: chin up, eyes straight ahead, the whole body so tense you could see the veins in their necks throbbing slightly.

"Would you be so kind as to give me your list," the officer said to Lucile. "We can look for the things together."

He read it and smiled.

"Let's start with the sofa. It must be in the sitting room. Over here, I a.s.sume?"

He opened the door and went into a large room full of furniture-much of it knocked over or broken. The paintings had been removed and stacked against the walls; several had been kicked in. The floor was scattered with sc.r.a.ps of newspaper, bits of straw (vestiges, presumably, of the ma.s.s exodus in June 1940) and cigar stubs left by the invaders. On a pedestal stood a stuffed bulldog with a broken muzzle and a crown of dead flowers.

"What a terrible sight," said Lucile, upset.

In spite of everything there was something comical about the room and especially about the sheepish expression on the faces of the soldiers and the officer.

Seeing the look of reproach on Lucile's face, the officer said sharply, "My parents used to have a villa on the Rhine. Your soldiers occupied it during the last war. They smashed rare, priceless musical instruments that had been in the family for two hundred years and tore up books that once belonged to Goethe."

Lucile couldn't help but smile; he was defending himself in the same crude and indignant way a little boy does when accused of some misdeed: "But I wasn't the one who started it, it was the others . . ."

She felt a very feminine pleasure, an almost sensual, sweet sensation at seeing this childish look on a face that was, after all, the face of an implacable enemy, a hardened warrior. For we can't pretend, she thought, that we aren't all in his hands. We're defenceless. If we still have our lives and our possessions, it's only because of his goodwill. She was almost afraid of the feelings growing within her. It was like stroking a wild animal-an exquisitely intense sensation, a mixture of tenderness and terror.

Wanting to hold on to the feeling a little longer, she frowned. "You should be ashamed! These empty houses were under the protection of the German army, the honour of the German army!"

As he listened to her, he lightly tapped the back of his boots with his riding crop. He turned towards his soldiers and gave them a good dressing down. Lucile realised he was ordering them to get the house back in order, to fix what had been broken, to polish the floors and the furniture. His voice, when he spoke German, especially with that commanding tone, took on a sharp, resonant quality. Hearing it gave Lucile the same pleasure that a slightly rough kiss might-the kind of kiss that ends with a little bite. She slowly brought her hands to her burning face: Stop it! she said to herself. Stop thinking about him; you're asking for trouble.

She took a few steps towards the door. "I'm going home. You have the list; you can ask your soldiers to find everything."

In a flash he was by her side. "Please don't go away angry, I beg of you. Everything will be repaired as well as possible, I give you my word. Listen! Let's let them look for everything; they can put it all in a wheelbarrow and, under supervision from you, take it straight over to the Perrin ladies. I'll go with you to apologise. I can't do more than that. In the meantime, come into the garden. We could go for a little walk and I'll pick some beautiful flowers for you."

"No! I'm going home."

"You can't," he said, taking her by the arm. "You promised the ladies you'd bring them their things. You have to stay and make sure your orders are carried out."

They were outside now, standing on a path bordered with lilacs in full bloom. A mult.i.tude of honeybees, b.u.mblebees and wasps were flying all around them, diving into the flowers, drinking their honey and settling on Lucile's arms and hair; she was frightened and laughed nervously.

"We can't stay here. Everywhere I go is dangerous!"

"Let's walk on a little further."

They came across the village children at the back of the garden. Some of them were playing in the flower beds where everything had been pulled up and trampled; others had climbed the pear trees and were breaking off the branches.

"Little beasts," said Lucile. "There'll be no fruit this year."

"Yes, but the flowers are so beautiful."

He stretched out his arms and the children threw him some small branches with cl.u.s.ters of delicate petals.

"Take them, Madame; the petals will be wonderful in a bowl on the table."

"I would never dare walk through the village carrying branches from a fruit tree," Lucile protested, laughing. "Just wait, you little devils! The policemen will catch you."

"Not a chance," said a little girl in a black smock.

She was eating a jam sandwich while wrapping her dirty little legs round a tree and climbing up.

"Not a chance. The Bo . . . the Germans won't let them in."

The lawn hadn't been mowed for two summers and was dotted with b.u.t.tercups. The officer spread out his large, pale, almost almond-green cape and sat down on the gra.s.s. The children had followed them. The little girl in the black smock was picking cowslips; she made big bouquets of the fresh yellow flowers and stuck her nose deep inside them, but her dark eyes, both innocent and crafty, remained fixed on the grown-ups. She looked at Lucile curiously and somewhat critically: the look of one woman to another. She looks scared, she thought. I wonder why she's scared. He's not mean, that officer. I know him; he gives me money, and once he got my balloon that was caught in the branches of the big cedar tree. He's really handsome. More handsome than Daddy and all the boys around here. The lady has a pretty dress.

Surrept.i.tiously she moved closer and touched one of the folds of the dress with her little dirty finger; it was simple, light, made of grey cotton and decorated only with a small collar and cuffs of pleated linen. She tugged on the dress rather hard and Lucile suddenly turned round. The little girl jumped back, but Lucile looked through her with wide, anxious eyes. The little girl could see that the lady had gone very pale and that her lips were trembling. For sure she was afraid of being alone here with the German. As if he would hurt her! He was talking to her so nicely. But then again, he was holding her hand so tightly that there was no way she could escape. All boys were the same, the little girl thought vaguely, whether they were big or small. They liked teasing girls and scaring them. She stretched out in the tall gra.s.s which was so high that it hid her from sight. It felt wonderful to be so tiny and invisible, with the gra.s.s tickling her neck, her legs, her eyelids . . .

The German and the lady were talking quietly. He had turned white as a sheet too. Now and again, she could hear him holding back his loud voice, as if he wanted to shout or cry but didn't dare. The little girl couldn't understand anything he said. She vaguely thought he might be talking about his wife and the lady's husband. She heard him say several times: "If you were happy . . . I see how you live . . . I know that you're all alone, that your husband has abandoned you . . . I've asked people in the village." Happy? Wasn't she happy, then, the lady who had such pretty dresses, a beautiful house? Anyway, the lady didn't want him to feel sorry for her, she wanted to leave. She told him to let go of her and to stop talking. My word, it wasn't she who was scared now, it was he, in spite of his big boots and proud look. He was the nervous one now. At that moment a ladybird landed on the little girl's hand. She watched it a while. She wanted to kill it, but she knew it was bad luck to kill one of G.o.d's creatures. So she just blew on it, very gently at first, to see it lift its delicate, transparent wings; then she blew with all her might, so that the little insect must have felt it was on a raft caught in a storm at sea. The ladybird flew off. "It's on your arm, Madame," the little girl shouted. Once again, the officer and the lady turned and looked at her but without really seeing her. Meanwhile, the officer made an impatient gesture with his hand, as if he were chasing away a fly. I'm staying right here, the little girl said to herself defiantly. And first of all, what are they doing here? A man and a woman: they should be in the sitting room. Mischievously, she strained to hear them. What were they talking about? "I'll never forget you," said the officer, his voice low and trembling. "Never."

A large cloud covered half the sky; all the fresh, bright colours in the garden turned grey. The lady was picking some little purple flowers and tearing them up.

"It's not possible," she said, on the verge of tears.

What's not possible? the little girl wondered.

"Of course I've also thought about it . . . I admit it, I'm not talking about . . . love . . . but I would have liked to have a friend like you . . . I've never had any friends. I have no one. But it's not possible."

"Because of other people?" said the officer scornfully.

She just looked at him proudly. "Other people? If I myself felt innocent then . . . No! There can be nothing between us."

"There are many things you will never be able to erase: the day we spent together when it rained, the piano, this morning, our walks in the woods . . ."

"Oh, but I shouldn't have . . ."

"But you did! It's too late . . . there's nothing you can do about it. All that was . . ."

The little girl rested her face on her folded arms and heard nothing more than a distant murmur, like the humming of a b.u.mblebee. That big cloud bordered with burning rays of sunlight meant it would rain. What if it suddenly started raining, what would the lady and the officer do? Wouldn't it be funny to see them running in the rain, her with her straw hat and him with his beautiful green cape? But they could hide in the garden. If they followed her, she could show them a bower where no one would be able to see them. It's twelve o'clock now, she thought when she heard the church bells ringing the Angelus. Are they going to go home for lunch? What do rich people eat? Fromage blanc like us? Bread? Potatoes? Sweets? What if I asked them for some sweets? She went up to them and was going to tug at their hands to ask for some sweets-she was a bold little girl, this Rose-when she saw them suddenly jump up and stand there, shaking. Yes, the gentleman and the lady were shaking, just like when she was up in the cherry tree at school, her mouth stuffed full of cherries, and she heard the teacher shouting, "Rose, you little thief, come down from there at once!" But they hadn't seen the teacher: it was a soldier standing to attention, who was talking very quickly in an incomprehensible language; the words coming out of his mouth sounded like water rushing over a bed of rocks.

The officer moved away from the lady, who looked pale and dishevelled.

"What is it?" she murmured. "What is he saying?"

The officer seemed as upset as she was; he was listening without hearing. Finally, his pale face lit up with a smile.

"He says they've found everything . . . but the old gentleman's false teeth are broken because the children have been playing with them: they tried to cram them in the mouth of the stuffed bulldog."

Both of them-the officer and the lady-gradually seemed to come out of their stupor and return to earth. They looked down at the little girl and saw her this time. The officer tugged at her ear. "What have you little devils been up to?"

But his voice quivered and in the lady's laugh you could hear the echo of stifled sobs. She laughed like someone who had been very frightened and couldn't forget, while laughing, that she'd had a narrow escape. Little Rose was bothered and tried in vain to run off. She wanted to say, "The false teeth . . . yes . . . well . . . we wanted to see if the bulldog would look vicious with some brand-new teeth . . ." But she was afraid the officer would get angry (seen close up, he seemed very big and scary) so she just whined, "We didn't do anything, we didn't . . . we didn't even see any false teeth."

Meanwhile, children were coming over from all directions. They were all talking at once with their young shrill voices.