Part 20 (1/2)
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.”