Fouchard kept on good terms with the guerrillas of Dieulet woods, who for nearly three months had been emerging from their impenetrable thickets at dusk and prowling on the roads, killing and robbing any Prussians they could surprise, and falling back on the farms and extorting money from the peasants when enemy game was scarce. They were the terror of the villages, particularly because after every attack on a convoy or killing of a sentry the German authorities took reprisals on places in the district, accusing them of aiding and abetting, levying fines, imprisoning mayors, burning cottages. Much as they would have liked to, the peasants did not betray Sambuc and his band simply out of fear of stopping a bullet round some corner if the deal misfired.
Fouchard had had the extraordinary idea of doing business with them. Combing the countryside in all directions as they did, ditches as well as cowsheds, they had become suppliers of dead animals. Not an ox or a sheep gave up the ghost for three leagues around but they stole it at night and brought it to him. He paid them in provisions, especially bread, batches of loaves that Silvine baked specially for them. Besides, although he had no particular liking for them, he had a sneaking admiration for the guerrillas, bright lads who made a good thing out of it by cocking a snook at everybody; and although he was making a fortune out of his dealings with the Prussians, he had a good laugh to himself, a savage laugh, whenever he heard that another of them had been found by the roadside with his throat cut.
‘Your good health,’ he said, clinking glasses with the three men.
Then, wiping his lips with the back of his hand:
‘By the way, they’ve made quite a thing of those two Uhlans they picked up near Villecourt, with their heads chopped off… You know Villecourt’s been on fire since yesterday, what they call a sentence on the village to punish them for harbouring you… Must be careful, you know, and don’t you come back here too soon. We’ll deliver your bread elsewhere.’
Sambuc shrugged and gave a fearful sneer. Never you fear, the Prussians could run after him! Then he suddenly came over angry and banged the table with his fist.
‘God Almighty, the Uhlans are all very well, but between you and me it’s that other bloke I should like to lay my hands on, you know, the spy, the one who worked for you…’
‘Goliath, you mean.’
Silvine, who had taken up her sewing again, stopped dead and listened.
‘That’s it, Goliath! Ah, the bastard, he knows the Dieulet woods like the back of his hand, and he can get us pinched one of these mornings, especially as he boasted at the Croix de Malte today that he’d settle our account within a week… A dirty sod who for certain must have guided the Bavarians the day before Beaumont, don’t you think so, you chaps?’
‘As true as that candle’s lighting us,’ Cabasse agreed.
‘Per amica silentia lunae,’ added Ducat, whose Latin tags sometimes went awry.
Sambuc shook the table with another thump of his fist.
‘That swine is judged and condemned! If some day you get to know which way he’s going, let me know, and his head will join those of the Uhlans in the Meuse. By God, yes, you can take it from me!’
In the silence that followed Silvine watched them attentively. She was very pale.
‘These are all things we shouldn’t be talking about,’ Fouchard went on prudently. ‘Your good health and good night.’
They finished the second bottle. Prosper had come back from the stable and gave a hand with loading on to the barrow, in the place of the two dead sheep, the loaves that Silvine had put in a sack. But he didn’t even answer, and turned his back when his brother and the two others went off, disappearing with the barrow into the snow and saying:
‘Good night, see you again soon!’
The next day, while Fouchard was alone after lunch, he saw Goliath himself come in, tall, big and pink-faced as ever, with his imperturbable smile. If this sudden appearance gave him a shock he didn’t show anything but just blinked, as the man came over and vigorously shook his hand.
‘Good morning, Monsieur Fouchard.’
Only then did Fouchard appear to recognize him.
‘Oh, fancy, it’s you, my boy!… Oh, you’ve filled out a bit. You are getting fat, aren’t you?’
He had a good look at him; he was wearing a sort of cape of coarse blue cloth and a cap of the same material, and looking prosperous and pleased with himself. Of course he had no German accent, but spoke the thick, slow speech of the peasants of that region.
‘Oh yes, it’s me, Monsieur Fouchard. I didn’t want to pass this way without saying hallo to you.’
The old man stayed on his guard. What was this fellow up to, coming here? Had he heard about the guerrillas coming to the farm yesterday? He would have to watch it. All the same, as he was coming very civilly it would be best to be polite in return.
‘Well, my boy, as you are so kind we must have a drink.’
He put himself out to go and find two glasses and a bottle. All this wine being drunk made his heard bleed, but you must know when to give something away in the interests of business. So the scene of the night before began all over again, and they toasted each other with the same gestures and the same words.
‘Your good health, Monsieur Fouchard.’
‘And yours, my boy.’
Then Goliath calmly made himself at home. He looked about him like a man enjoying seeing old scenes again, but made no reference to the past, nor, for that matter, to the present. The conversation turned to the severe cold which was going to make work hard on the land; fortunately there was a good side to snow, it killed the pests. He did show just the slightest unhappiness when he spoke of the sullen hatred or mingled contempt and fear that had been shown him in other homes in Remilly. After all, We all have our own country, don’t we, and it’s only natural that you should serve your country according to your lights. But in France there were some things they had funny ideas about. The old man watched him talking so glibly and being so conciliatory and told himself that this good fellow, with his big jolly face, had certainly not come with evil intentions.
‘So you’re all on your own today, Monsieur Fouchard?’
‘Oh no, Silvine is out there feeding the cows… Do you want to see Silvine?’
A smile spread over Goliath’s face.
‘Yes of course I do… To tell you the truth, I came because of Silvine.’
Old Fouchard jumped up at once, very relieved, and shouted at the top of his voice:
‘Silvine! Silvine! Someone to see you!’
And off he went, now quite reassured, as she was there and could protect the house. If a man can let that thing master him for so long, after all these years, he’s done for.
Silvine was not surprised to see Goliath when she came in. He did not get up from his chair, but sat looking at her with his bland smile, though he was just a little ill at ease. She had been expecting him, and all she did was stop just inside the door, and her whole being stiffened. Chariot ran in after her and hid in her skirts, taken aback to see a man he didn’t know.
There was an awkward silence for a few seconds, and then Goliath broke the silence in honeyed tones:
‘So this is the kid?’
‘Yes.’ Silvine’s voice was hard.
Silence fell again. He had left in the seventh month of her pregnancy and so knew he had a child, but he was seeing it for the first time. So he wanted to get things straight, being a practical, sensible fellow convinced he was in the right.
‘Look here, Silvine, I can understand you bear me a grudge, but it isn’t quite fair… I went off and hurt you very much, but you should have realized at once that perhaps it was because I wasn’t my own master. When you’ve got superiors you’ve got to obey them, haven’t you? Even if they had sent me off somewhere on foot, a hundred leagues away, I should have gone. And of course I couldn’t say anything – it nearly broke my heart to go off like that without even saying good-night… Today, God knows, I’m not going to pretend that I was sure of com
ing back. But I meant to try, and as you see here I am.’
She had turned her head away and was looking through the window at the snow in the yard, as though determined not to hear. He was disconcerted by this silent contempt, and broke off his explanation to say:
‘Do you know you’re prettier than ever?’
At that moment she was indeed very beautiful, with her wonderful big eyes lighting up her pale face. Her heavy black hair was like eternal widow’s weeds.
‘Come on, be a good sort! You ought to know I don’t wish you any harm… If I didn’t still love you I wouldn’t have come back, and that’s a fact… But as I am back and it’s all worked out all right, we’re going to see more of each other, aren’t we?’
She drew back quickly, looked him straight in the face and said:
‘Never!’
‘What do you mean, never? Aren’t you my wife, and isn’t that child ours?’
She kept her eyes on him and said deliberately:
‘Listen, we’d better put an end to this at once… You knew Honoré, I loved him and have never loved anyone else. And he is dead, and you people killed him… I shall never have anything more to do with you, never!’
She raised her hand and swore this oath in a voice so full of hatred that for a moment he was quite abashed, abandoned his affectionate tone and murmured :
‘Yes, I knew Honoré was dead. He was a very nice chap. Still, after all, others have been killed, there’s a war on… And then I thought that as he was dead there was no obstacle left between us. Because, as a matter of fact, Silvine, let me remind you, I didn’t use force, you consented…’
But he had to break off because she was in such a distracted state, with her hands raised to her face as though she were going to claw herself to pieces.
‘Oh, yes, I know, yes, it’s just that that’s driving me crazy. Why did I let you when I didn’t love you?… I can’t remember, I was so miserable and so ill after Honoré had gone, and it may have been perhaps because you talked about him and seemed to be fond of him. Oh God, how many nights have I spent crying my eyes out thinking about it! It’s horrible to have done something you didn’t mean to do and not to be able to understand afterwards why you did it… And he had forgiven me, he had told me that if those Prussian swine didn’t kill him he would marry me just the same when he came back home from the army. And you think I’m going back with you? Now look, even with a knife at my throat I shall say no, no, never!’
This time Goliath’s face darkened with anger. When he had known her she was submissive, but now he sensed that she was unshakeable and fiercely determined. Amiable creature he might be, but he wanted her, even if it meant using force now he was the master, and if he was not imposing his will with violence it was because of his innate prudence, his instinct for ruse and patience. This heavy-fisted giant disliked coming to blows. So he thought of another way of cowing her into submission.
‘Right, as you don’t want me, I’ll take the kid.’
‘The kid? What do you mean?’
Chariot had been forgotten, and was still hiding in his mother’s skirt, trying not to burst out crying in the middle of the quarrel. Goliath got up from his chair and came over.
‘You’re my little boy, aren’t you, a little Prussian… Come along with me…!’
Silvine snatched the boy up indignantly in her arms and clasped him to her breast.
‘A Prussian, him! No! French, born in France!’
‘A Frenchman! Just look at him and look at me. He’s the very image of me! Is he anything like you?’
And only then did she really see this tall, fair man with his curly hair and beard, wide pink face and big blue eyes shining like porcelain. It was quite true, the child had the same yellow mop of hair, same cheeks, same light-coloured eyes, all that race was in him. She felt she was the different one, with her straight dark hair, strands of which had come out of her chignon and were hanging down her back.
‘I made him, he’s mine!’ she went on furiously. ‘He’s a Frenchman who’ll never know a word of your filthy language. Yes, a Frenchman who one day will go and kill the lot of you to avenge those you have killed!’
Charlot began crying and screaming, clinging to her neck.
‘Mummy, Mummy, I’m frightened, take me away!’
Then Goliath, no doubt anxious to avoid a scene, drew back and contented himself with saying contemptuously and in a hard voice:
‘Just bear in mind what I’m going to say, Silvine… I know everything that’s going on here. You harbour the guerrillas from the Dieulet woods, that chap Sambuc, the brother of your farm-hand, a bandit you’re supplying with bread. And I know that this labourer Prosper is a Chasseur d’Afrique and a deserter who belongs to us. And I know too that you are hiding a wounded man, another soldier who would be taken off to prison in Germany at a word from me… So you see, I’m well informed.’
She was listening now, mute and terrified, while Chariot, with his face buried in her bosom, kept moaning:
‘Oh Mummy, Mummy, take me away, I’m frightened!’
‘Very well,’ went on Goliath, ‘I’m not all that ill disposed and I don’t like quarrels, as you well know, but I swear that I’ll have the whole lot arrested, old Fouchard and all the rest of them, unless you let me come to your room next Monday. And I’ll take the child and send him back home to my mother, who will be very glad to have him, for if you insist on breaking off everything he’s mine… Do you get that? Understand that I shall only have to come and take him, because there won’t be anybody else left here. I’m the master and I do what I like… What do you decide? Come on!’
But she said nothing, and held the child closer as though afraid he might be snatched away there and then, and her great eyes filled with fear and loathing.
‘All right then, I give you three days to think it over… You will leave the window of your room open, the one facing the orchard… If I don’t find that window open on Monday evening at seven I’ll have everyone here arrested the next day and come for the child… I’ll be seeing you, Silvine!’
He went off calmly and she stood there rooted to the spot, with so many ideas, far-fetched and horrible, buzzing through her head that they almost drove her silly. All through that day there was a tempest going on inside her. At first she had the instinctive thought of carrying her child away in her arms, straight ahead of her, anywhere. But what would become of them by nightfall, and how could she earn a living for him and herself? Apart from the fact that the Prussians patrolled the roads and would stop her and probably bring her back here. Then she thought of speaking to Jean, warning Prosper and even old Fouchard, but again she hesitated and recoiled from it, for was she sure enough of people’s friendship to know for certain that they would not sacrifice her for everybody else’s comfort and peace of mind? No, no, she wouldn’t tell anyone, she would get out of the danger by her own efforts since she alone had got into it by her obstinate refusal. But, oh God, what could she think of and how could she prevent this horrible thing? For her own decency protested, she would never forgive herself all through her life if because of what she had done some disaster overtook so many people, especially Jean, who was so kind to Chariot.
The hours went by and all the next day passed, and she had thought of nothing. She went about her business as usual, swept the kitchen, saw to the cows, did the supper. In the complete and terrible silence that she clung to, what grew and poisoned her more every hour was her hatred of Goliath. He was her sin, her damnation. If he had not existed she would have waited for Honoré and Honoré would still be alive and she would be happy. What a tone of voice he had used when he told her he was the master! Of course it was true, there was now no police force, no judges to appeal to, only might was right. Oh to be the stronger and seize him when he came, this man who talked of seizing others! For her there was only the child left, for he was her own flesh. This chance father didn’t count and never had. She was not a wife, and when she thought of him she only f
elt moved by the anger and resentment of a conquered victim. Rather than give up the child to him she would have killed the boy and herself afterwards. She had told him clearly – she wished this child he had given her, like a gift of hatred, were already grown up and capable of defending her; she saw him later with a gun, putting bullets through the lot of them over yonder! Yes, one more Frenchman, another French slayer of Prussians!
Meanwhile, she only had one day left and she had to come to some decision. From the first moment one murderous thought had been going through her poor, bewildered head, and that was to alert the guerrillas and give Sambuc the tip he was waiting for. But the idea had been a fleeting, intangible one, and she had rejected it as monstrous and out of the question – after all, wasn’t the man the father of her child? She couldn’t have him murdered. But then the idea had kept coming back, steadily more obsessive and urgent, and now it was forcing itself upon her with all the persuasive strength of its simplicity and finality. Once Goliath was dead, Jean, Prosper, old Fouchard would have nothing left to fear. She herself would then keep Chariot and nobody would ever again question her right to him. And there was something else much deeper, unrecognized even by her, which was rising up from the depths of her being – the need to make an end, to eliminate the paternity of the child by eliminating the father, the savage joy of telling herself that she would emerge with her sin amputated, as it were, mother and sole mistress of the child, without having to share with a male. For the whole of another day she turned the idea over, having no strength left to thrust it aside but brought back in spite of herself to the details of the trap, foreseeing the smallest details and fitting them in. By now it was an obsession, an idea that has driven home its point and that one no longer argues about. When she eventually acted in obedience to this pressure of the inevitable, she moved as in a dream, motivated by some other person, somebody she had never known in herself.
On the Sunday old Fouchard, who was nervous, had told the guerrillas that their sack of loaves would be taken to the Boisville quarries, a lonely spot two kilometres away, and as Prosper was doing something else it was Silvine he sent with the barrow. Was this not Fate taking a hand? She read in this a decree of destiny, and she talked and made the arrangements with Sambuc for the following evening in a clear voice, with no emotion, as though there was nothing else she could have done. The next day there were further signs and positive proofs that people and even things were willing the murder. To begin with old Fouchard was suddenly called away to Raucourt and left orders for the meal to be had without him, foreseeing that he could hardly be back before eight; and then Henriette, whose turn of duty at the hospital did not come until Tuesday, was warned quite late that she would have to act as replacement that evening for the person on duty, who was indisposed. And as Jean never left his room whatever noise was made, that only left Prosper who, she feared, might intervene. He didn’t hold with slaughtering a man like that, several to one. But when he saw his brother arrive with his two lieutenants his disgust with that vile crew only reinforced his hatred of the Prussians – certainly he was not going to save one of those filthy swine, even if he were dealt with in a foul manner, and he preferred to go to bed and bury his head in the pillow so as not to hear anything and be tempted to behave as a soldier should.