It was the beginning of August. Anxious people everywhere turned their attention towards Spain, or China, or Czechoslovakia. But Czechoslovakia seemed the least threatening. Lord Runciman was in Prague where everything had been arranged for him to work, to enjoy himself and to act as mediator in the conflict over the Sudetenland. ‘That will buy time until the autumn,’ people said, ‘so we can get the harvest in; wars never start in autumn; everybody knows that.’ ‘Indeed,’ said the elderly Hardelot-Demestre, ‘in ’14 it started a month too late.’ It was unanimous; spring was the dangerous time. Come now, they thought, 1938 would carry on and finish its course without terror becoming a reality.
A month and a half later, when everyone was waiting with bated breath for the results of Chamberlain’s talks with Hitler, Madame Florent was leaning out of her window, trying to catch a glimpse of the gate into the Burgères’s grounds. She had sent a little note to Rose. ‘I must speak to you, my darling. Be brave and trust me.’ The whiff of danger excites the elderly, imbues them with strength; except when it doesn’t have the opposite effect of killing them with anxiety. Perhaps this is because they do not feel that they alone are threatened by death: a sense of equality is re-established between them and the rest of the world. Madame Florent, hearing the distant rumble of the cannons heading towards the border, quivered with warrior-like passion. The current situation brought undreamed-of opportunities to arrange a marriage between Guy and Rose. Rose was a determined girl, with a lively, fighting spirit, but she was still so young … Would she dare stand up to her mother, to society? And yet, so much was at stake. ‘The happiness of a lifetime,’ thought the elderly woman: the factory won back and she herself, Madame Florent, in her twilight years, recovering the respect, the envy and the admiration of Saint-Elme. Nostalgically she recalled the happy days gone by (the ones after the reconciliation of grandfather Hardelot and his grandson). There wasn’t a wedding between Calais and Arras that Madame Florent hadn’t been invited to after that. And so many visits at New Year, from really the most respected people in the area. She sighed. Finally, she saw Rose walking towards her along the road. She waved to her from the window and let her in, welcoming her with open arms.
‘Well, my dear girl, is there to be a war?’ she asked as they went into the sitting room.
Rose stood next to her, tight lipped, eyes sparkling. ‘I received a letter from …’ she whispered finally. She couldn’t bring herself to say Guy’s name. She burst into tears, fell sobbing on to a chair, biting its grey slipcover to muffle the sound of her crying.
The elderly Madame Florent raised her eyes towards heaven; she had a way of rolling them upwards beneath her heavy, ageing eyelids that gave her a fleeting resemblance to a bulldog.
‘My poor darling …’ she said. ‘There’s nothing to be done. But it’s awful. To be separated like this, in the prime of youth, and for how long? Alas, the war will be long, the war will be harsh. But in one way it’s perhaps better that this is happening now, while you’re still only engaged. For just imagine how painful it would be for a young wife …’
Rose broke in. ‘Oh, don’t say that, Madame. If we could live together just for one day, for one hour! And then … there would be memories, just think of it, memories that would last a lifetime. But this way, to lose him before I’ve had the joy of being his wife. I love him so much, Madame, I do love him. He told me he’ll be among the first to go, he’s said goodbye to me. Oh, I want to see him again, I’m begging you, what should I do? If he comes to Saint-Elme, Mama would keep me locked away. Listen, Madame …’
She dried her eyes.
‘I want to leave. I want to get away from here,’ she said, her voice trembling and breaking with emotion. ‘Yes, I’ll go to Paris. After that my mother will be forced to give her consent. That’s what you would tell me to do, isn’t it, Madame? Listen, there’s a train leaving at three fifty-five. I’ll go straight from here to the station. Only, the thing is, I have no money. My mother has refused to give me my allowance this month, so I can’t even buy a stamp without her knowing. But you’ll lend me enough money for a ticket to Paris, won’t you? Oh, Madame, I’m coming to you as your daughter Agnès did before, begging … begging you, “You are so intelligent; you understand everything!” ’
Madame Florent hesitated only a second. ‘I was born to be a great leader,’ she thought with pride.
‘You have to risk your all,’ she said, ‘that’s my advice. You should go.’
She gave her the money she needed, walked her to the garden gate, watched her run towards the station. Then she put on her hat and went to tell all of Saint-Elme what had just happened.
23
As soon as morning came that day, all the sensible people began leaving Paris. The rain continued to fall. Everywhere, women came out of their houses, arms full of packages and children. They looked up at the sky with questioning eyes, either trying to find a glimmer of hope from above, or spot the first enemy plane, it was difficult to say which. Those who couldn’t make up their minds telephoned each other: ‘What are you going to do? Are you leaving?’ and faltering voices replied with feigned indifference: ‘Oh, if it were up to me, you know … if I were the only one to consider … the idea wouldn’t even cross my mind, my dear friend. But there are the children (or my sick mother, my father, my younger sister …).’ On all the roads leading away from Paris, cars headed for the peaceful regions of central France. They didn’t drive overly fast: panic had not yet set in; they weren’t actually very afraid. It was caution that led them far from the threatened capital. The roofs of powerful luxury automobiles were piled high with luggage; old family cars had birdcages hanging from the window and two or three babies asleep in the back. The men who had been called up to fight carried small suitcases and made their way to the train stations. On the Boulevard de Courcelles, where the Hardelots lived, the shops were locking up; women, eyes red from crying, hung notices on the metal shutters: ‘Closed due to mobilisation’. Agnès was packing for Pierre and Guy; Guy was joining his regiment; Pierre had decided to go to Saint-Elme, to try to talk things through with Simone and convince her to agree to an official engagement between Guy and her daughter.
Rose had arrived at the Hardelots’ house the night before, trembling with fear, pride and love. ‘Don’t send me back,’ she had said. ‘I’ve run away. I wanted to see Guy before he leaves.’
‘My poor child,’ cried Agnès, ‘what have you done?’
‘What you did when you were young, Madame. You married the man you loved. You weren’t afraid of upsetting your family: you can’t send me away, you just can’t.’
They were moved by her words and especially by seeing Guy so happy. Knowing that Guy would be leaving the next day, they were prepared to give their lives for him and even more prepared to take responsibility for any foolish acts their son might commit. They went into the next room, leaving the young couple alone.
‘This is so awful,’ Pierre said over and over again, ‘so awful … Good Lord … There are going to be hideous complications to face.’
‘But he’ll go away happy,’ said Agnès. ‘Pierre, my darling love, I would have done exactly the same for you, thirty years ago.’
‘But Simone will never agree to this marriage.’
‘She’ll have to now, or there’ll be such a scandal …’
‘Yes, but Rose has very little money of her own. If her mother doesn’t give in …’
‘What can we do?’ said Agnès. ‘They can come and live here.’
Her husband looked at her. ‘You’ve never been jealous where Guy is concerned. It’s odd.’
She shook her head. ‘I have loved you too much to be jealous of my children, my old darling. We’ve had a good life; we’ve been happy. Now it’s their turn.’
‘Happy,’ he murmured bitterly, pointing at Guy’s suitcase, at the sweater and socks, the chocolate and sugar, and the bottle of medicinal alcohol Agnès had laid out on the bed before packing them for his departure, �
��happy, when for the second time …’
Agnès’s hands were shaking, but she said nothing. He turned away, muttered, ‘I’ll go and find out what’s happening.’
In the sitting room Guy and Rose were on the settee, talking quietly, their faces anguished but radiant with love. Pierre remembered how his son had lain dying on a hospital bed, over a woman he had now forgotten; he shrugged his shoulders, switched on the radio, buried his head in his hands and listened to the news of the negotiations between various governments. It wasn’t good. Another night of torture. And Guy would leave tomorrow.
He refused to allow Agnès to go to the station with their son. ‘You can remember what it was like, can’t you? It’s no place for a woman. It will be him and me, just the two of us.’
But when they came out of the Métro station he couldn’t bring himself to go any further. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed by a moment of weakness. He recovered his composure with difficulty, patted his son on the back and leaned against his shoulder. Guy was a head taller than him. ‘Don’t worry, my boy.’
‘I’m not, Papa. Everything will die down, you’ll see. But there’s Rose …’
‘Yes. Don’t worry. I’ll go and see Simone tonight.’
‘Make sure she understands that we won’t change our minds. We’ll just wait until Rose is twenty-one, that’s all.’
‘Yes. I know.’
They hugged each other. He watched his son walk away and disappear into the crowd. Then head down, dragging one leg along behind him, he stepped into the street. People were waiting for newspapers to be delivered to the empty stands and, even though they didn’t know each other, they started conversations.
‘That’s a bad sign,’ thought Pierre, ‘a bad sign.’
He didn’t want to wait for the newspapers. He had no hope left. He climbed on to a bus. A large gentleman was talking loudly, saying he had it on good authority ‘that the King of Italy would abdicate if his country declared war’. People shook their heads.
‘It’s no surprise, coming from Victor Emmanuel,’ the large gentleman said proudly. ‘I’ve always held him in the utmost esteem.’
The rain kept falling.
After having lunch, Pierre said goodbye to his family and left for Saint-Elme. It was nine o’clock when he arrived at Simone’s house. He waited for a long time in the dimly lit room, next to the yellow lamp with a bronze stand that he knew so well. It had been handed down from one of the Renaudin grandmothers and whenever he had been to see Simone on those formal visits during their engagement they had sat next to each other, beside this lamp, in silence, while the chaperones (poor Marthe and an elderly female cousin of Simone’s) had sat in armchairs, watching them with an expression that was both affectionate and mistrustful at the same time. The memory of those times had been so odious for so long; yet now, it seemed almost sweet and comical. Pierre pushed his fingers through his hair several times; he was going grey. My God, how quickly time passed. How terrifying and strange it was …
He was so immersed in thoughts of the past that he jumped when he saw Simone. He had hardly recognised the heavy woman in her black dress. He walked over to her and took her hand. ‘Simone, I understand how angry you are, but …’
She cut in. ‘More suffering because of you and your family,’ she said. She was utterly furious. ‘You bring me nothing but bad luck. Wasn’t it enough that everything was your fault, everything that’s happened to me all my life?’
She was choking; she covered her mouth with her handkerchief. ‘Tell Rose to stay where she is. I never want to see her again. Let her marry your son. She’s never to set foot here again. I will not congratulate you; you won’t have an easy daughter-in-law. A young woman capable of defying her mother will not make a good wife. But she’ll get along with your wife, no doubt. You …’
He tried to calm her down. ‘There is nothing to reproach her about. She disobeyed you, it’s true, but her reputation has not been ruined. As soon as she arrived at the station she came straight to our house. And ever since then she has been looked after by my wife.’
‘Your wife! Don’t talk to me about your wife. I …’
She stopped herself, then continued. ‘I hate her,’ she said more quietly, her voice icy with rage, ‘and everything to do with her. Her son, even you, who belong to her and her alone. I …’
‘But you loved me once,’ he said, looking with pity at her enormous, pale, tear-stained face. ‘We’re old, Simone, all that is in the past. How can you still be so resentful over something that happened so long ago?’
‘It feels like yesterday,’ she whispered.
‘You got married. You didn’t mourn for long. You were happy.’
‘Married for my money,’ she said bitterly. ‘Cheated on, abandoned, and him, dying with your son’s mistress. I’m telling you, you bring me nothing but suffering. Rose can do what she likes. I know her; she won’t give in. Keep her. Let them get married. But she’d better not expect anything from me. You know she has no money. She can wait until I die, if she likes. But as long as I live …’
‘It’s nothing to do with money,’ he said coldly.
They had moved apart. They looked at each other with hatred. A beam of light scanned the dark sky, looking for enemy planes. Pierre’s heart was pierced by the thought of how, perhaps at that very moment, war had been declared and his son would be leaving. If Rose could bring Guy some happiness, even if only when he was home on leave, even for forty-eight hours or one night, nothing else mattered.
‘Guy has been called up,’ he said. ‘He left this morning. You don’t have a son. You can’t understand. We ask nothing of you except your consent. Rose can live with us. Will you oppose their marriage?’
‘No,’ she replied.
‘All right, then …’
He bowed and started to leave the sitting room. In silence, she walked him to the door and switched on the large white lamp that lit up the street. He found himself once more in Saint-Elme; the town was darker and more silent than ever, asleep beneath the rain.
24
‘I’m not jealous of her,’ Agnès said to her husband, once they were in their room and could talk, while ‘the children’ sat together in the sitting room and made them, the parents, feel like intruders. ‘I’m not jealous of her, she’s jealous of me.’
‘She’ was Rose, Guy Hardelot’s wife of just a few weeks.
‘If they could have their own apartment, things would be easier,’ replied Pierre as he slowly undressed next to the large bed where Agnès was lying, ‘but everything is so expensive.’
Guy was earning two thousand eight hundred francs a month. Simone Burgères had kept her word: Rose had no dowry. Pierre Hardelot was financially responsible for the young couple. After a brief honeymoon in the Midi, they had to make do with one room in the apartment on the Boulevard de Courcelles. Rose immediately began to feel she had lost what was rightfully hers and, far from lessening as the days went by, this feeling grew more painful and bitter. Being controlled by her mother had seemed hideous to her; she’d felt that nothing could be more lovely or pleasant than living with the Hardelots. But this was not the case. Even though Pierre and Agnès did their very best to remain in the background, everything reminded Rose that they were in charge: where they sat at the dining table, the menus Agnès chose, the grudging way the maid reacted if Rose asked her to stop doing the housework in the morning and iron one of her nightdresses; most especially, the tender deference Guy displayed towards his family. All these things were constant reminders to Rose of the situation she had been forced into. She did not regret her marriage; she loved Guy with a passion that was exclusive and jealous. But it was exactly because of her ardour and jealousy that she wanted her husband to herself, and to herself alone.
‘I can’t show my love for you freely here,’ she would say when they were in bed, their warm, trembling young bodies holding each other tightly in the darkness. ‘I feel embarrassed. I feel as if Colette and your mother are listen
ing through the wall.’
‘Don’t be silly; that’s madness,’ he’d reply.
Yet he too was trying to find a way to change their lives. But how could they live even reasonably well on two thousand eight hundred francs a month?
‘Your father could give us an allowance,’ whispered Rose.
Guy knew that his father didn’t have enough money to support two households. There was nothing to be done, they simply had to wait.
‘Look, my parents are wonderful, they are so fond of you,’ he would say as he stroked his wife’s strong white neck.
Then she would start to cry. Her tears dripped on to Guy’s bare chest. In the next room Agnès could hear them whispering; she could make out the odd word, an annoyed cry from Rose, stifled by kisses. Her daughter-in-law’s animosity aroused the same feeling in Agnès. One look, a single awkward word, caused icy tension between them. If Rose said something rude, Agnès would snap back at her. Even her voice changed when she was speaking to Rose; her normally measured, sweet tone became shriller, more nervous and clipped. She realised that she was beginning to hate Rose, just as in the past her mother-in-law, deep down, had undoubtedly secretly hated her.
‘How can you say that? Mama was always so nice to you,’ Pierre said reproachfully.
‘Oh, you thought everything your parents did was perfect,’ she replied.
Then, because she realised when something was ridiculous, she thought about how she was parroting the discussions between her son and her daughter-in-law and she laughed at herself, but with a hint of bitterness.
So they staggered forward towards summer one day at a time. Beneath the rain and cold wind, the famous Longchamps Races closed the season in Paris. The Hardelots left for Wimereux. Guy’s holidays began in August, and he and his wife had been invited to stay with friends at Ciboure. But within a few days he received a call to return to the factory in Paris. The colleague who was standing in for him needed an emergency operation. The setback would be temporary and Guy hoped to be back in Ciboure by 25 August.
All Our Wordly Goods Page 14