Part 6 (1/2)

”Are you a soldier?”

”No, I was travelling with my family. I left them. I joined the troops.”

”That's wonderful!” she said.

Even though she'd spoken with the tone of admiration he'd hoped for, he blushed when she looked at him; he didn't know why. Close up, she didn't seem young. You could see tiny wrinkles on her lightly powdered face. She was very slim, very elegant, with magnificent legs.

”What's your name?” she asked.

”Hubert Pericand.”

”Isn't there a Pericand who's the curator at the Beaux-Arts?”

”He's my father, Madame.”

While they were talking, she had stood up and poured him some coffee. She had just finished breakfast and the tray with the half-full coffee pot, cream jug and toast was still on the table.

”It's not very hot,” she said, ”but you should have some anyway; it will do you good.”

He obeyed.

”It's such madness downstairs with all those refugees; I could ring for service all day long and still no one would come! You come from Paris, of course?”

”Yes, and you as well, Madame?”

”Yes. I got caught in the bombing at Tours. Now I'm thinking about going to Bordeaux. Though I imagine the Opera in Bordeaux has been evacuated.”

”Are you an actress, Madame?” Hubert asked respectfully.

”A dancer. Arlette Corail.”

Hubert had only ever seen dancers on stage at the Chatelet Theatre. Instinctively he glanced with curiosity and longing at her long ankles and muscular calves, sheathed in silk stockings. He was extremely fl.u.s.tered. A lock of his blond hair fell into his eyes.

The woman gently pushed it back with her hand. ”And where will you be going now?”

”I don't know,” Hubert admitted. ”My family was staying in a small village about thirty kilometres from here. I'd go back and find them, but the Germans must be there by now.”

”We expect them here too, any time now.”

”Here?”

He started and leapt up as if to run away.

She held him back, laughing. ”Now what do you think they would do with you? A young boy like you . . .”

”All the same, I did fight,” he protested, his feelings hurt.

”Yes, of course you did, but no one's going to tell them that, that, are they?” She was thinking, frowning slightly. ”Listen. This is what you're going to do. I'll go downstairs and ask for a room for you. They know me here. It's a very small hotel but marvellous food and I've spent a few weekends here. They can give you their son's room-he's away at the front. Rest for a day or two and then contact your parents.” are they?” She was thinking, frowning slightly. ”Listen. This is what you're going to do. I'll go downstairs and ask for a room for you. They know me here. It's a very small hotel but marvellous food and I've spent a few weekends here. They can give you their son's room-he's away at the front. Rest for a day or two and then contact your parents.”

”I don't know how to thank you,” he murmured.

She went out. When she came back a few moments later he was asleep. She wanted to lift his head, put her arms round his broad shoulders, feel his chest gently rising and falling. She watched him closely, smoothed back the lock of wild golden hair that had fallen on to his forehead, then looked at him again with a dreamy, hungry look, like a cat staring at a little bird. ”He's not at all bad, this boy . . .” she sighed.

19.

The entire village was waiting for the Germans. Faced with the idea of seeing their conquerors for the first time, some people felt desperate shame, others anguish, but many felt only apprehensive curiosity, as when some astonis.h.i.+ng new theatrical event is announced. The civil servants, police, postmen had all been ordered to leave the day before. The mayor was staying. He was a placid old farmer with gout; nothing fl.u.s.tered him. With or without a leader, things in the village went on much the same. At noon, in the noisy dining room where Arlette Corail was finis.h.i.+ng lunch, some travellers brought news of the armistice. The women burst into tears. It seemed that the situation was rather confused. In certain places the army was still resisting and civilians had joined them. However, everyone agreed that the army had failed and there was nothing more to be done; they had no choice but to give up. The room was filled with chatter. It was stiflingly hot.

Arlette pushed away her plate and went out into the hotel's small garden. She had some cigarettes, a deckchair, a book. She'd left Paris a week earlier so panic-stricken she'd felt close to madness; now, despite having met with real danger, she was herself again: perfectly calm and collected. What's more, she was convinced that, from now on, she could survive any situation, that she was gifted with a real genius for obtaining maximum pleasure and comfort regardless of the circ.u.mstances. Her flexibility, lucidity, detachment were qualities that had been of enormous use to her in her career and relations.h.i.+ps, but until now she hadn't realised they would be just as useful in a crisis.

When she thought of how she had begged Corbin's help she smiled scornfully. They had arrived in Tours just in time to be bombed; Corbin's suitcase with his personal effects and the bank's doc.u.ments had been buried in the rubble, while she had emerged from the disaster without having lost a single handkerchief, a single box of make-up, a single pair of shoes. She had seen Corbin's face distorted with terror and thought how much pleasure she would get from reminding him of it, often. Then she remembered his drooping, corpse-like jaw; she'd wanted to give him a chin strap to hold it closed. Pathetic! Leaving him in Tours amid the terrible confusion and chaos, she'd taken the car, managed to find some petrol and left. She'd spent two days in this village, where she'd had good food and lodgings, while a pathetic crowd of people camped in barns and in the village square. She had even allowed herself the luxury of being charitable by leaving her room for that lovely boy, that young Pericand . . . Pericand? They were an upper-middle-cla.s.s family, dull, respectable, very rich, with excellent connections in the government, among diplomats and wealthy industrialists, thanks to their relatives from Lyon . . . the Maltetes . . . She sighed with annoyance, realising she would now have to rethink everything. How irritating, too, that she'd recently gone to so much trouble to seduce Gerard Salomon-Worms, the Count de Furieres's brother-in-law. A quite useless conquest that had cost her a great deal of time and effort.

Frowning slightly, Arlette studied her fingernails. The ten little sparkling mirrors seemed to put her in a pensive mood. Her lovers knew that when she contemplated her hands in this reflective, malicious way, it meant she was about to express her opinion on things like politics, art, literature and fas.h.i.+on, and that, in general, her opinions were insightful and just. For a few seconds, in this little garden in bloom, while b.u.mblebees gathered pollen from a bush with scarlet bell-shaped flowers, the dancer imagined the future. She came to the conclusion that for her nothing would change. Her wealth consisted of jewellery-which could only increase in value-and property (she'd made some good investments in the Midi, before the war). Yet they were mere tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs. Her princ.i.p.al a.s.sets were her legs, her figure, her scheming mind-things vulnerable only to time. But there was the rub . . . She immediately thought of her age and, taking a mirror from her handbag in the way that you touch a good-luck charm to ward off evil spirits, looked carefully at her face. An unpleasant thought occurred to her: she used nothing but American make-up. It had been difficult to get hold of any for a few weeks now. That put her in a bad mood. So what! Things might change on the surface but underneath everything would be the same. There would be new rich men, just as there always were after great disasters-men prepared to pay dearly for their pleasures because their money had come easily and so would love. But please, dear G.o.d, let all this chaos end quickly! Please let us get back to a normal way of life, whatever it might be; these wars, revolutions, great historical upheavals might be exciting to men, but to women . . . Women felt nothing but boredom. She was positive that every woman would agree with her: they were tired of crying, bored to death by all these n.o.ble words and n.o.ble feelings! As for men . . . it was hard to know, difficult to say . . . In some ways those simple souls were incomprehensible, whereas for at least fifty years women had been concerned only with the commonplace, the ordinary . . . She looked up and saw the owner of the little hotel leaning out of the window, looking at something. ”What is it, Madame Goulot?” she asked.

”Mademoiselle,” the woman replied in a solemn, trembling voice, ”it's them . . . they're coming . . .”

”The Germans?”

”Yes.”

The dancer was about to get up to go to the gate so she could see down the road, but she was afraid to in case someone took her deckchair and her spot in the shade, so she stayed where she was.

It wasn't the Germans who were coming but one one German: the first. From behind closed doors, through half-closed shutters, from attic windows, the entire village watched him arrive. He stopped his motorcycle in the deserted village square. He had on a green uniform, gloves and a helmet with a visor. When he raised his head, you could see a rosy, thin, almost childlike face. ”But he's so young!” murmured the women. Without actually realising it, they were expecting some vision from the Apocalypse, some terrifying, foreign monster. Since he looked around expectantly, the newsagent, who had fought in '14 and wore his Croix de Guerre and military medals on the inside of his old grey jacket, came out of his shop and walked towards the enemy. For a moment, the two men just stood there, face-to-face, without saying a word. Then the German took out a cigarette and asked for a light in bad French. The newsagent replied in bad German; he had been among the occupying forces in Mainz in '18. There was such total silence (the whole village was holding its breath) that you could hear each and every word. The German asked for directions. German: the first. From behind closed doors, through half-closed shutters, from attic windows, the entire village watched him arrive. He stopped his motorcycle in the deserted village square. He had on a green uniform, gloves and a helmet with a visor. When he raised his head, you could see a rosy, thin, almost childlike face. ”But he's so young!” murmured the women. Without actually realising it, they were expecting some vision from the Apocalypse, some terrifying, foreign monster. Since he looked around expectantly, the newsagent, who had fought in '14 and wore his Croix de Guerre and military medals on the inside of his old grey jacket, came out of his shop and walked towards the enemy. For a moment, the two men just stood there, face-to-face, without saying a word. Then the German took out a cigarette and asked for a light in bad French. The newsagent replied in bad German; he had been among the occupying forces in Mainz in '18. There was such total silence (the whole village was holding its breath) that you could hear each and every word. The German asked for directions.

The Frenchman replied, then became bolder: ”Has the armistice been signed?”

The German threw open his arms. ”We don't know yet. We hope so,” he said.

And the humanity of his words, his gesture, everything proved they were not dealing with some bloodthirsty monster but with a simple soldier like any other, and suddenly the ice was broken between the town and the enemy, between the country folk and the invader.

”He doesn't seem so bad,” the women whispered.

He smiled and then, raising his hand to his helmet, made an unconfident, half-finished gesture: not quite a military salute but not a civilian greeting either. He glanced curiously at the closed windows for a moment, started up his motorcycle and disappeared. One after the other, doors opened and the entire village spilled out into the square until the newsagent was surrounded. Standing motionless, his hands in his pockets, he was frowning and staring into the distance. Contradictory expressions appeared on his face: relief it was all over, sadness and anger that it had all ended this way, memories of the past, fear of the future; and all these feelings were mirrored in the faces around him. The women dried tears from their eyes; the men stood silent, looking obstinate and hostile. The children, distracted from their games for a moment, turned back to their marbles and hopscotch. The sky was s.h.i.+ning with the kind of brilliant, silvery light you sometimes find in the middle of a truly beautiful day; an almost imperceptible iridescent mist hovered in the air and all the fresh colours of June were intensified, looked richer and softer, as if reflected through a prism.

The hours pa.s.sed by peacefully. There were fewer cars on the road. Bicycles still sped along as if caught up in the angry wind that had been blowing in from the north-east for over a week now, dragging with them their miserable human cargo. A little while later there was a surprising sight: cars appeared-travelling in the opposite direction from a week ago. People were going back to Paris. When they saw that, the villagers finally believed it was all over. They went home. Once again you could hear the women rattling the dishes as they washed them in their kitchens, the faint footsteps of an old woman going to feed her rabbits, even a little girl singing as she drew water from a pump. Dogs rolled around, playing in the dust.

It was an exquisite evening with clear skies and blue shadows; the last rays of the setting sun caressed the roses, while the church bells called the faithful to prayer. But then a noise rose up from the road, a noise unlike any they'd heard these past few days, a low, steady rumbling that seemed to move slowly closer, heavy and relentless. Trucks were heading towards the village. This time it really was the Germans. The trucks stopped in the village square and men got out; others pulled up behind them, then more and still more. In a few seconds the whole of the old, dusty square, from the church to the munic.i.p.al hall, became a dark, still ma.s.s of grey vehicles with a few faded branches clinging to them, the remains of their camouflage.

There were so many! Silently, cautiously, people came out on to their doorsteps again. They tried in vain to count the flood of soldiers. Germans were coming from all directions. They filled the squares and streets-more and more of them, endlessly. The villagers hadn't heard the sound of footsteps in the street, young voices, laughter, since September. They were stunned by the noise emerging from this wave of green uniforms, by the scent of these healthy men, their young flesh, and especially by the sound of this foreign language. Germans poured into the houses, the shops, the cafes. Their boots clanked over the red tiles of the kitchens. They asked for food, drink. They stroked the children as they went by. They threw open their arms, they sang, they laughed with the women. Their obvious happiness, their delight at being conquerors, their feverish bliss-a bliss combined with a touch of wonder, as if they themselves could hardly believe what had happened-all this contained such drama, such excitement, that the defeated villagers forgot their sadness and bitterness for a few seconds. They just stood and watched, speechless.

In the little hotel, below the room where Hubert was still sleeping, the main room echoed with songs and shouting. The Germans had immediately demanded champagne (Sekt! Nahrung!) and corks flew from their hands. Some of them were playing billiards, others went into the kitchen carrying piles of raw pink pork cutlets which they threw on to the fire; the meat sizzled and let off thick smoke as it cooked. The soldiers brought bottles of beer up from the cellar, impatiently pus.h.i.+ng aside the waitress who wanted to help them; a young man with a rosy complexion and a ma.s.s of golden hair was cracking eggs open on the edge of the stove; in the garden, someone else was picking the first strawberries of summer. Two half-naked young boys were dipping their heads in buckets of cold water drawn from the well. They ate their fill, gorged themselves with all the good things the gardens provided; they had cheated death, they were young, alive, they were conquerors! Their excitement spilled out in urgent, rapid chatter; they spoke bad French to anyone who would listen to them, pointing to their boots, saying over and over again, ”We walking, walking, comrades falling and we always walking . . .” The clinking of weapons, belts, helmets filled the room.

Hubert could hear it in his dream and, confusing it with his memories of the day before, imagined once more the battle on the Moulins bridge. He tossed about, sighing and moaning as if in pain, fighting off some invisible person. When he finally woke up, he was in a strange bedroom. He'd slept all day. He could see the full moon s.h.i.+ning through the open window. Hubert started, rubbed his eyes and looked at the dancer who had come in while he was asleep. He muttered his thanks and apologies.

”You must be hungry,” she said. It was true, he was famished. ”You know, perhaps it would be better if you had dinner here with me? It's unbearable downstairs; there are soldiers everywhere.”