intended “they” to mean the French government. We didn’t think the Germans’ stay in Paris could last more than a few days.
At the crossroads of a byway and the Gien road, two women and two children were resting. They were coming from the Paris area pushing a cart loaded with a trunk and two suitcases. Their clothes were neat and brushed, their faces washed and fresh-looking. As I pointed this out with admiration, one of the women said to me, smiling, “But it’s perfectly normal … water and straw can be found everywhere.”
When the Germans were camping at Les Douciers, Lerouchon held a salon in front of her trailer. A couple of soldiers balanced on folding stools. We could hear peals of laughter.
Behind the house, we opened a can of food (we got a little bread from Ouzouer and Soutreux brought us some soup). Lerouchon came from her trailer offering us three pieces of rabbit. “You’re welcome to it, I swear …” My wife, thanking her, refused, saying we had enough to eat. I confess, I admire that dignity and regret the rabbit. Something of the soldier was reconstituted in me. I truly believe I would have accepted, for I have been hungry for days and hiding it heroically. And Lerouchon has such an air of a camp follower offering a bottle. So much a camp follower that she doesn’t distinguish between French soldiers and German soldiers. It’s an air she has. I don’t believe her husband, who is at the front, would have anything else to reproach her for. Anyway she speaks of him readily. “Let’s hope nothing has happened to him … No, I’m sure nothing has … I can sense it …” She repeats several times, “I sense it … I sense it … I sense it …” And you might say she senses it with her nose: She juts forward a muzzle that grimaces and sniffs.
She has a battery-powered radio in her trailer. We listen to the German broadcast from Compiègne. Chancellor Hitler … the railcar … the 1918 monument b … No commentary. It’s sober and terrible. It’s nighttime and a cow is mooing in the meadow.
Radio-Journal de France announces that a prefect who deserted has been dismissed and that there is fighting on the front in the Vosges and near Clermont-Ferrand.
I must look unhappy, because Lerouchon bursts out laughing, shouting in my ear.
“But laugh a little …”
What’s more, she reassures us about the fate of France.
“It will be a protectorate, like Morocco … We won’t be any unhappier; we’ll work like before …”
Lerouchon is a simple monster. Soutreux is more complicated. She isn’t plebeian, but rather a “ petite dame ,” simpering, precious and pretentious. Lerouchon ties herself into knots; Soutreux more does somersaults. I’m not searching for the origins of the German salient these two women set up in the Loiret. I only wish to describe Soutreux as I saw her day by day, kind or contemptible, hateful or ridiculous; like a domesticated animal, closer to a dog or cat than a human being. She differed from the Lerouchon woman in that she did not express emotions in simple barks; she used a few twigs, a few slivers of ideas. She told us about a conversation between two Germans. One said that he believed in God but not the God of religions. Lerouchon would be incapable of retaining and repeating such lofty abstractions.
Soutreux’s husband—I get these details from Aufresne—is of very humble origins. An industrialist, he owns millions’ worth of merchandise in inventory. He is not a talkative man, but his steadiness and loyalty are certain. I can easily imagine this businessman, who is not the kind that collects paintings, who absolutely doesn’t give a damn about Jouvet’s stage directing, who though a “naturalized” bourgeois endures not knowing the rites of high society and takes pleasure in nothing more than hunting and fishing on the weekend.
Does he know his wife’s feelings and how she behaves? It can be assumed he disregards
At the crossroads of a byway and the Gien road, two women and two children were resting. They were coming from the Paris area pushing a cart loaded with a trunk and two suitcases. Their clothes were neat and brushed, their faces washed and fresh-looking. As I pointed this out with admiration, one of the women said to me, smiling, “But it’s perfectly normal … water and straw can be found everywhere.”
When the Germans were camping at Les Douciers, Lerouchon held a salon in front of her trailer. A couple of soldiers balanced on folding stools. We could hear peals of laughter.
Behind the house, we opened a can of food (we got a little bread from Ouzouer and Soutreux brought us some soup). Lerouchon came from her trailer offering us three pieces of rabbit. “You’re welcome to it, I swear …” My wife, thanking her, refused, saying we had enough to eat. I confess, I admire that dignity and regret the rabbit. Something of the soldier was reconstituted in me. I truly believe I would have accepted, for I have been hungry for days and hiding it heroically. And Lerouchon has such an air of a camp follower offering a bottle. So much a camp follower that she doesn’t distinguish between French soldiers and German soldiers. It’s an air she has. I don’t believe her husband, who is at the front, would have anything else to reproach her for. Anyway she speaks of him readily. “Let’s hope nothing has happened to him … No, I’m sure nothing has … I can sense it …” She repeats several times, “I sense it … I sense it … I sense it …” And you might say she senses it with her nose: She juts forward a muzzle that grimaces and sniffs.
She has a battery-powered radio in her trailer. We listen to the German broadcast from Compiègne. Chancellor Hitler … the railcar … the 1918 monument b … No commentary. It’s sober and terrible. It’s nighttime and a cow is mooing in the meadow.
Radio-Journal de France announces that a prefect who deserted has been dismissed and that there is fighting on the front in the Vosges and near Clermont-Ferrand.
I must look unhappy, because Lerouchon bursts out laughing, shouting in my ear.
“But laugh a little …”
What’s more, she reassures us about the fate of France.
“It will be a protectorate, like Morocco … We won’t be any unhappier; we’ll work like before …”
Lerouchon is a simple monster. Soutreux is more complicated. She isn’t plebeian, but rather a “ petite dame ,” simpering, precious and pretentious. Lerouchon ties herself into knots; Soutreux more does somersaults. I’m not searching for the origins of the German salient these two women set up in the Loiret. I only wish to describe Soutreux as I saw her day by day, kind or contemptible, hateful or ridiculous; like a domesticated animal, closer to a dog or cat than a human being. She differed from the Lerouchon woman in that she did not express emotions in simple barks; she used a few twigs, a few slivers of ideas. She told us about a conversation between two Germans. One said that he believed in God but not the God of religions. Lerouchon would be incapable of retaining and repeating such lofty abstractions.
Soutreux’s husband—I get these details from Aufresne—is of very humble origins. An industrialist, he owns millions’ worth of merchandise in inventory. He is not a talkative man, but his steadiness and loyalty are certain. I can easily imagine this businessman, who is not the kind that collects paintings, who absolutely doesn’t give a damn about Jouvet’s stage directing, who though a “naturalized” bourgeois endures not knowing the rites of high society and takes pleasure in nothing more than hunting and fishing on the weekend.
Does he know his wife’s feelings and how she behaves? It can be assumed he disregards
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