They had brought some provisions, which they shared. Hours passed. The help they hoped for never came.
The child, who at first had roared with laughter, was getting irritable and wouldn’t stop crying. He needed a bath, a crib, some fresh milk so he could fall asleep.
‘We have to keep going,’ Agnès said finally, when it was late afternoon. ‘We have to forget about the road and follow the railway tracks until we get to a place where the trains are running again. If necessary we can spend the night at one of the level-crossing keepers’ houses because it’s certain there won’t be a single room available in any of the villages.’
‘My God, but what about the cars, the trunks?’ murmured Marthe.
But she did not protest for long. She had reached that state of nervous exhaustion when you feel indifferent to everything, apart from the most immediate, instinctive comforts: a meal, a bed, some sleep. She climbed to her feet.
‘Let’s start walking. I agree. Are you coming?’ she asked Simone.
But Simone wanted to stay and wait for the driver, who had been gone for five hours and still wasn’t back. She was clutching a suitcase and a hatbox. She had placed all her valuables, family papers and wads of money in the folds of her clothing; her mother’s jewellery was sewn into the lining of the hats.
‘You can go with them if you like,’ she said coldly to her cousin.
Agnès had pulled Guy’s pram from the wreckage of the car. Into it they wedged Charles’s little metal box and a few suitcases, and started walking. The wind brought the smell of distant smoke. Villages were burning. Saint-Elme, perhaps, was nothing more than ashes now. Ambulances passed by. It was dusk. Pierre might be in one of them.
They walked for a long time. The railway tracks glistened in the last rays of the setting sun. They kept walking. Agnès carried the sleeping child against her shoulder, pushed the pram, gritted her teeth and said nothing. Madame Florent put on a brave face, hopping and stumbling over every stone on the path in her high heels. For Marthe, who was fat and had heavy, sluggish legs and tiny feet, it was harder. She had to stop.
‘I’d rather die,’ she cried out, in tears. ‘I can’t walk another step. Leave me here, Charles. Leave me, my darlings. My legs simply can’t carry me any more.’
Charles took her arm and said softly, ‘Come now, Marthe, be strong, my poor dear. Think of what we must look like.’
He was right to appeal to her sense of bourgeois propriety. It was the only thing that could sustain her today. It was war, they had lost everything, they were dragging themselves along the road like vagabonds, but they owed it to themselves not to cry in public, not to look upset, in short, to get hold of themselves. In the same way that a good family, despite being in mourning, stands upright in the cemetery and allows indifferent people to kiss their cheeks through their black veils.
‘Think of what we must look like,’ Marthe automatically repeated.
She adjusted her hat over her grey hair and, holding Charles’s hand, continued walking along the railway tracks that gleamed only faintly in the darkness; her brief moment of weakness overcome, she pursed her lips, forced herself not to think about Pierre, or Saint-Elme, or her house, or her varicose veins and just kept walking.
9
It was night. Simone hadn’t budged. Her cousin had left with the Hardelots. The driver hadn’t come back. She was alone; she was still waiting. Nothing could have made her leave. She was fiercely determined, as if she were defying Agnès, who had gone. She, Simone Renaudin, would not give in, would not allow destiny to get the better of her; she would rescue herself and her possessions from disaster. One day Pierre would regret not having married her; no one knew what she was capable of yet. She was young; she had always led a pampered existence, sheltered from any danger, but she felt within her all the strength and energy of her heritage. Oh, if only Pierre had married her … Old Hardelot would have been happy to have her as a daughter-in-law. She would have helped him run the factory while Pierre was away. She would have saved everything, protected everything, for Pierre. God, how she had loved him. No one had suspected, fortunately. People saw nothing in their engagement but an arrangement between two families. But she had loved him fiercely, jealously, passionately, emotions she kept well hidden deep in her heart, beneath the heavy, impassionate façade of her plump flesh and pale complexion. She wouldn’t have been afraid to stay in Saint-Elme during the bombing. She would have stood up to the Germans.
Sitting on the bank at the side of the road, with strange bright lights piercing the darkness, she listened to the confusion of voices and footsteps, the sound of heavy tyres and galloping horses. One of them, with no rider, passed so close to her that she could feel its breath right on her face. More followed, carrying wounded soldiers who still had enough strength to sit up in a saddle and look for their comrades. Other soldiers were on foot. She saw one of them walk laboriously towards her; he was dragging his leg and spoke with a breathless, husky voice. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have any water or wine, would you, Madame?’
‘Yes, I do, wait,’ she said, looking for the bottle of beer that the driver had hidden next to him before leaving Saint-Elme. ‘Oh, it’s been broken. We were in an accident,’ she said, as she felt the jagged neck of the bottle. ‘I’m terribly sorry …’
‘Never mind,’ he said automatically. He took a few more steps and fell, almost straight into Simone’s arms.
‘Are you hurt?’ she asked.
‘Yes. My shoulder.’
‘Wait a moment,’ she said, rifling through the Hardelots’ car. She finally unearthed a bottle of milk they had prepared for baby Guy. Miraculously, it was intact. She turned on her torch, shining the light towards the soldier’s face: he was a young man, covered in dirt, with the same look of exhaustion and suffering that everyone had that night. He drank eagerly, then fell back on to the bank, drained.
‘Are you hungry?’ she asked.
He opened his eyes, dark eyes that sparkled beneath the torchlight. ‘Am I hungry! Do you have anything to eat?’
‘I must have some food left.’
She found some sandwiches and a peach; he wolfed them down. Then he stretched out next to her, gazing distractedly at the dark road.
‘Where are you from?’ she asked.
‘Cateau.’
‘Have they been fighting there?’
He nodded.
‘That’s near Saint-Elme,’ she said anxiously. ‘Have … have the Germans crossed the canal? They have? It’s just that I’m from Saint-Elme.’
‘The Germans will be there by now.’
She winced.
‘Do you have family there, Madame?’
‘It’s Mademoiselle,’ she replied automatically, ‘Mademoiselle Renaudin.’
‘Mademoiselle Renaudin from Saint-Elme,’ he repeated. ‘So you got away?’
‘Yes, during the night.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To Paris.’
‘I’m a Parisian,’ he said. ‘My name is Burgères, Roland Burgères.’
The food and few minutes of rest had done him good. His voice sounded livelier. She listened and looked at him with curiosity. It was the first time in her life she found herself alone like this, sitting next to a man. At first, she hadn’t thought of him as a man, but as an anonymous soldier who had appeared out of the darkness, weary, wounded, dying of hunger; he was part of the ever-changing, confusing chaos that surrounded her. But now, a vague sensation took hold of her. It was night. And, even in the midst of a crowd, they were alone. He was a man; she could see his white teeth gleaming; his voice, his manners were not those of the working classes. He too leaned forward, trying to make out her features in the darkness.
‘If you have family in Paris,’ she said, ‘I could tell them that I met you and that you had managed to get away from the fighting.’
‘Thank you, but I have no one.’
‘You’re not married?’
‘No,’ he replied, smi
ling, ‘there’s no one.’
‘No friends?’
‘I’m not a very nice person.’
‘I’m sorry. I would have been happy to do something for you.’
‘You can … Give me your address in Paris. As soon as I can, I’ll come and thank you for having fed me and looked after me. Speaking of which, do you have any cigarettes? You don’t smoke? No, of course, you’re a young lady from Saint-Elme …’
He stood up with difficulty. ‘Goodbye, Mademoiselle. I’m very happy that chance brought us together in this charming setting. My injury is not serious. I doubt I’ll be granted leave to convalesce. But you never know, perhaps I’ll be luckier next time. Give me your address,’ he said again.
‘I’ll be staying with one of my cousins,’ she replied, quickly and quietly. ‘Madame Hullin, 184 Boulevard Saint-Germain.’
‘Good. I won’t forget. Goodbye, Mademoiselle. And good luck.’
‘Good luck to you too,’ she said.
She offered him her hand. With a sudden movement, he picked up the torch she had dropped and shone it towards her face: her forehead, her mouth and her eyes, then the rest of her body. He smiled. ‘Give me a kiss, for luck.’
‘You’re mad!’ she cried, starting with fear and secret pleasure.
His voice was soft and nonchalant. ‘We’re at war, young lady from Saint-Elme,’ he said. ‘A shell could land on our heads at any moment and you would never have known what a kiss was like.’ He walked towards her; she pulled away. He laughed again, took her hand and kissed it. ‘Don’t be afraid. The fever and exhaustion are making me feel intoxicated. Well, goodbye then. My strength is back, thanks to your excellent care. Your address in Paris is 184 Boulevard Saint-Germain, right? See you soon, Mademoiselle Renaudin. Until then!’
He picked up his bag and, dragging his leg behind him, went on his way. She sat there, breathless. The war, the defeat, all that was less real to her than this man’s voice, the way he had kissed her hand. But what about Pierre? Pierre had never touched her. He had briefly kissed her forehead one evening, in front of his parents, chastely, the night of their engagement party. But tonight, the whole of her powerful body, her fiery, rapid blood, had quivered and seemed to come alive. And her weariness, the danger, increased her disturbing exhilaration. After a moment she got hold of herself.
‘He doesn’t seem a very serious-minded person,’ she thought. ‘A Parisian, with no family, no friends. Maybe he’s a gold-digger. His name is Roland. That’s a nice name … Roland Burgères … I’ll never see him again,’ she concluded forcefully, her hand placed over her pounding heart. Was it really her heart? This strange, profound beating seemed to come from a place she had never known existed. She sat very still, watching the stream of people all around her. There were so many men … She was intoxicated by the living, sensual heat of all these starving, exhausted men who passed by without even glancing at her. She was ashamed of herself, but she couldn’t curb her thoughts any more than she could stop the blood from flowing through her veins. At last the driver returned with a truck. They loaded the bags. They coupled the car to it. They continued on their way to Paris. It was just a few days before the Battle of the Marne.
10
Agnès was waiting for her husband, who was coming home from the front. They were letting her have him for six days. He’d been fighting for two years and every now and then they were granted a few hours, a few days, a few brief nights together. Then he left again. It was the same for everyone. There was nothing they could do. People draw strength from adversity and the greater the struggle, the stronger they grow. Just as she had dragged the refugees along the road without flinching, gritting her teeth, so she had dragged herself forward through 1915 and now pushed through 1916, trying to see nothing ahead but the day that was drifting away, without longing for the past, without imagining the future. She was engulfed by the profound darkness of war, a darkness from which it seemed there would be no escape, a war that would last until the end of time itself.
‘But he’s coming home, he’s coming home tonight,’ thought Agnès.
She was overcome with joy. Prayers of gratitude, tender words of love rose to her lips. Pierre, her Pierre. He would be with her in a moment. She would kiss him, hold him close; he would be smiling, warm, alive, my God, alive!
‘Oh, I’m so happy,’ she thought, ‘I’m the happiest woman in the world.’
Everything looked bright to her: the dingy little dining room, the old faces around her. She was living in Paris with her mother and the Hardelots. Charles had never managed to get back to Saint-Elme: it was occupied by the Germans. It had been two years, now, and still they had no idea what had happened to Julien Hardelot, the house, the factory. They didn’t have much money. They didn’t have enough room; their apartment was too small for so many people. The two mothers bickered constantly. But none of that mattered: Pierre was coming home tonight. They didn’t know exactly when he would get there. They simply had to wait. Wait, staring at the door. Wait, straining to hear the sound of the taxicabs down in the street. Waiting was both unbearable and exquisite. It brought pleasure that felt like a kind of torture. They knew he was coming, didn’t they, they were sure of it. Their suffering was over. Yes, it was finally over, the horrific, incessant suffering of war. And what remained was a sense of eager impatience that burned like fire.
How sweet and pleasant everything seemed to Agnès. She loved everyone. She wanted to kiss Madame Hardelot, to stroke her father-in-law’s cheek. As for her own mother, she couldn’t contain herself; she grabbed her round the waist, pulled her close, pressed her cheek to hers, laughing. She went into the kitchen where the Breton maid, whom Madame Florent had hired, was beating some eggs. She asked her about her father, who was away at war. She took the bowl away from her: she wanted to prepare the dessert for Pierre herself. But a moment later she was afraid she might get her dress dirty — she was wearing a new dress. Would Pierre like it? Waves of ice and fire flooded through her entire body.
‘They must think I’m mad,’ she thought, running towards the entrance hall, looking at herself anxiously in the mirror. She smiled; she thought she looked pretty; her delicate face was glowing, as if lit up from inside by a pure, intense flame.
‘Agnès,’ called Madame Florent.
‘Yes, Mother, I’m coming,’ she replied. But she didn’t move. She wanted to wait there, in the dark hallway, pressed against the door that was about to open. The child was asleep in the next room. This very night, an hour from now, they would lean over their child together and kiss his hair. Together! They would be together. What did it matter if it was brief, she thought to herself. What was a week to her before? Many empty, useless hours. But now … how many smiles and tears, how much joy and sadness in the space of only six days of leave. They were living in strange, dizzying times.
Everything happened just as she had so often imagined it. Everything was exactly as in her dreams: the sound of the taxi outside, the street door banging shut, Madame Hardelot’s voice quivering like an old woman’s with joy and fear, then the old lift rising slowly, solemnly and, even before it reached their floor, the whole family rushing out on to the landing, calling, ‘Is that you? Are you really here? Is it you, Pierre?’
Yes, it was really him. The feel of a masculine cheek against hers, rough yet gentle, Pierre’s hand on her arm, his voice in her ear. Agnès felt nothing else, was oblivious to everything, forgot even the cry that had risen within her the moment she heard the taxi stop in front of the house: ‘The first, wonderful moment is already gone. How quickly the rest of the time will go, my God. He’ll be leaving again so soon.’
11
The division was waiting for the relief team. They had set up camp on a small hill, above a few ruined houses, on the site of what had formerly been a village. Only the church remained standing. Pierre could see shadows moving through the darkness: abandoned, starving cats hunted in packs amid the rubble. They weren’t the only ones still there: a few
old people, a few children remained, hidden from view in basements. Pierre heard the two-tone toll of the bells, announcing a gas attack. His ears were still not used to these mournful, mysterious sounds. He couldn’t hear them without feeling a pang in his heart. His eyes had seen so many horrific scenes of war that no sight, however horrible, however hideous, managed to affect him, at least not in an intense, lasting way. But he couldn’t get used to certain sounds. He believed that even when peace came — if it ever came — he would hear them every night in his dreams: the harsh burst of barrage fire, the whiplash of the 88s, the 75s cutting the air like scythes, the whizzing of bullets and the heavy gunfire whose rumble can be sensed coming closer, slowly, ever so slowly, until it strikes, ripping open the ground. ‘Mustn’t give up hope,’ he thought, mocking himself. ‘Another ten years or so and it will all be over.’
He found his gas mask, smelled the faint sickly odour of rubber close to his face and felt the weight of the helmet on his head. Then he went out. As always, when he was in danger but not actually in battle, he thought of Agnès. He was pleased that he had never tried to hide certain things about the war from her. All around him the other men, in their letters, or when they were on leave, kept the truth from their wives and the elderly (‘What’s the point? They wouldn’t understand,’ they told themselves). Their sense of decency was partly sincere, partly pretence. They scoffed at the mock-heroic speeches of the rearguard who believed they were punishing the civilians by not sharing details of the soldiers’ daily life with them. The sensitive ones felt compassion. Pierre remembered a poor lad who had been killed two days before; half an hour before he died he’d said, ‘Isn’t it enough that we’re suffering?’