face, the tears of a hard woman who seldom pities either herself or anyone else. A feeling of anger, sadness and shame swept through her, so violently that she felt a physical pain, piercing and sharp, near her heart. Finally she said, “You know I love my husband . . . Poor Louis, it’s just the two of us and he works, doesn’t drink, doesn’t fool around, you know, we love each other, he’s all I’ve got, but even if they told me, ‘You’ll never see him again, he’s just died, but we won . . .’ well, I’d rather have that, oh, I’m telling you, I’m not kidding, I’d rather have that!”
“I know,” said Aline, trying in vain to find better words, “I know, it’s upsetting.”
Jules said nothing, thinking of his partially paralysed arm, which had allowed him to escape military service and the war. “I’ve been very lucky,” he said to himself, but at the same time there was something upsetting him, he didn’t know what, maybe remorse. “Well, that’s the way it is, that’s the way it is, nothing we can do about it,” he said gloomily.
They started talking about Corte again. They thought with pleasure of the excellent dinner they had eaten instead of him. All the same, they now judged him less harshly. Hortense, who at the Countess Barral du Jeu’s house had seen writers, academics and even, one day, the Countess de Noailles, made them laugh till they cried with her stories about them.
“It’s not that they’re so bad,” said Aline. “They just don’t know about life.”
16
The Péricands couldn’t get lodgings in the town, but they did find a large room in a neighbouring village, in a house inhabited by two elderly spinsters which was opposite the church. The children were put to bed still in their clothes, utterly exhausted. Jacqueline asked in a tearful voice if she could have the cat’s basket next to her. She was obsessed by the idea he might escape, that he would be lost, forgotten, and would die of hunger on the road. She put her hand through the basket’s wicker bars, which made a kind of window for the cat allowing a glimpse of a blazing green eye and long whiskers bristling with anger. Only then did she calm down. Emmanuel was frightened by this strange, enormous room and the two old ladies running about like headless chickens. “Have you ever seen anything like it?” they groaned. “How could you not feel sorry for them . . . poor unfortunate dears . . . dear Jesus . . .” Bernard lay there watching them without batting an eye, a dazed, serious expression on his face as he sucked on a piece of sugar he’d kept hidden in his pocket for three days; the heat had melted it, so it was lumped together with a bit of lead from a pencil, a faded stamp and a piece of string. The other bed in the room was occupied by the elder Monsieur Péricand. Madame Péricand, Hubert and the servants would spend the night on chairs in the dining room.
Through the open windows you could see a little garden in the moonlight. A brilliant peaceful light glistened on the clusters of sweet-scented white lilacs and on the path’s silvery stones where a cat stepped softly. The dining room was crowded with refugees and villagers listening to the radio together. The women were crying. The men, silent, lowered their heads. It wasn’t exactly despair they were feeling; it was more like a refusal to understand, the stupor you feel when you’re dreaming, when the veil of sleep is about to lift, when you can feel the dawn light, when your whole body reaches out towards it, when you think, “It was just a nightmare, I’m going to wake up now.” They stood there, motionless, avoiding each other’s eyes. When Hubert switched off the radio, the men left without saying a word. Only the group of women remained in the room. You could hear them sighing, lamenting the misfortunes of their country, which, for them, bore the features of cherished husbands and sons still at the front. Their pain was more
“I know,” said Aline, trying in vain to find better words, “I know, it’s upsetting.”
Jules said nothing, thinking of his partially paralysed arm, which had allowed him to escape military service and the war. “I’ve been very lucky,” he said to himself, but at the same time there was something upsetting him, he didn’t know what, maybe remorse. “Well, that’s the way it is, that’s the way it is, nothing we can do about it,” he said gloomily.
They started talking about Corte again. They thought with pleasure of the excellent dinner they had eaten instead of him. All the same, they now judged him less harshly. Hortense, who at the Countess Barral du Jeu’s house had seen writers, academics and even, one day, the Countess de Noailles, made them laugh till they cried with her stories about them.
“It’s not that they’re so bad,” said Aline. “They just don’t know about life.”
16
The Péricands couldn’t get lodgings in the town, but they did find a large room in a neighbouring village, in a house inhabited by two elderly spinsters which was opposite the church. The children were put to bed still in their clothes, utterly exhausted. Jacqueline asked in a tearful voice if she could have the cat’s basket next to her. She was obsessed by the idea he might escape, that he would be lost, forgotten, and would die of hunger on the road. She put her hand through the basket’s wicker bars, which made a kind of window for the cat allowing a glimpse of a blazing green eye and long whiskers bristling with anger. Only then did she calm down. Emmanuel was frightened by this strange, enormous room and the two old ladies running about like headless chickens. “Have you ever seen anything like it?” they groaned. “How could you not feel sorry for them . . . poor unfortunate dears . . . dear Jesus . . .” Bernard lay there watching them without batting an eye, a dazed, serious expression on his face as he sucked on a piece of sugar he’d kept hidden in his pocket for three days; the heat had melted it, so it was lumped together with a bit of lead from a pencil, a faded stamp and a piece of string. The other bed in the room was occupied by the elder Monsieur Péricand. Madame Péricand, Hubert and the servants would spend the night on chairs in the dining room.
Through the open windows you could see a little garden in the moonlight. A brilliant peaceful light glistened on the clusters of sweet-scented white lilacs and on the path’s silvery stones where a cat stepped softly. The dining room was crowded with refugees and villagers listening to the radio together. The women were crying. The men, silent, lowered their heads. It wasn’t exactly despair they were feeling; it was more like a refusal to understand, the stupor you feel when you’re dreaming, when the veil of sleep is about to lift, when you can feel the dawn light, when your whole body reaches out towards it, when you think, “It was just a nightmare, I’m going to wake up now.” They stood there, motionless, avoiding each other’s eyes. When Hubert switched off the radio, the men left without saying a word. Only the group of women remained in the room. You could hear them sighing, lamenting the misfortunes of their country, which, for them, bore the features of cherished husbands and sons still at the front. Their pain was more
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