Suite Francaise (18 page)

His temptation was different: it was a kind of impatience to be holy, the desire to gather liberated souls around him, a ripple of urgency which, once he had opened someone’s heart to God, propelled him towards other conquests, leaving him forever frustrated, dissatisfied, disappointed with himself. It wasn’t enough! No, Lord Jesus, it wasn’t enough! The old heathen who had confessed, taken Communion in his final hour, the sinful woman who had renounced vice, the pagan who had wanted to be baptised. Not enough, no, not enough! He recognised something similar in the way a greedy man hoards his gold. And yet, no, it wasn’t exactly like that. It reminded him of certain moments he’d spent at the river when he was a child: the quiver of joy every time he caught a fish (yet now he didn’t understand how he could have liked such a cruel game, and even found it difficult to eat fish; vegetables, dairy products, fresh bread, chestnuts and that country soup so thick the spoon stands straight up in it all by itself, these were all he needed to sustain him). But as a child he had been fanatical about fishing and he remembered his anguish when the sun began to set on the water, when he had hardly caught any fish and he knew the day was nearly over. He had been criticised for his excessive scruples. He himself feared they might not come from God but from an Other . . . Yet never had he felt that anguish as he did today, on this journey, beneath this sky where lethal planes sparkled, among these children whose physical bodies were the only thing he could hope to save . . .

They had been walking for some time when they saw the first houses of a village. It was very small, intact, empty: its inhabitants had fled. However, before leaving, they had firmly secured the doors and windows; they had taken their dogs with them, carried the rabbits and chickens. Only a few cats were left behind, sleeping in the sunshine on garden paths or walking along the low roofs, looking replete and tranquil. It was the time of year when all the roses were in bloom, so above every doorway beautiful flowers opened their petals, generously, happily, inviting the wasps and bumblebees to drink from deep inside their hearts. This village abandoned by its people, where no footsteps, no voices could be heard and where all the sounds of the countryside were absent—the creaking of wheelbarrows, the cooing of pigeons, the clucking from the poultry yards—this village had become the kingdom of the birds, the bees and the hornets. Philippe thought he had never heard so many vibrant, joyous songs nor seen so many swarms all around him. Hay, strawberries, blackcurrants, the little sweet-smelling flowers in the borders, each flower bed, each lawn, each blade of grass gave off a soft buzzing sound, like a spinning wheel. All these small plots had been tended with loving care; all of them had an archway covered with roses, a tunnel where you could still see the last lilacs of the season, two iron chairs, a bench in the sunshine. The redcurrants were enormous, transparent and golden.

“What a wonderful dessert they will make for us tonight,” said Philippe. “The birds will have to share with us—we won’t be harming anyone by picking this fruit. Now, you all have plenty of food in your backpacks, so we won’t go hungry. But don’t expect to be sleeping in a bed tonight. I don’t suppose sleeping under the stars for one night would frighten you, would it? You have good blankets. Let’s see, what do we need? A meadow, a natural spring. The barns and stables don’t appeal to you, I bet! Me neither . . . It’s so beautiful out. Come on, eat some fruit to keep you going and follow me, we’ll try to find a good spot.”

He waited a quarter of an hour while the children gorged themselves on strawberries; he watched them carefully to make sure they didn’t step on the flowers and vegetables but he didn’t have to intervene, they were really very good. He didn’t blow the whistle this time, he just spoke loudly. “Come on, now, leave some for tonight. Follow me. If you don’t dawdle you won’t have to line up.”

Once again they obeyed. They looked at the trees, the sky, the flowers, without Philippe being able to guess what they were actually thinking . . . What they really liked, he thought, what really touched their hearts, was not the natural world, but this intoxicating scent of fresh air and freedom they were breathing in, so new to them.

“Do any of you know the countryside?” Philippe asked.

“No, Father, no, Sir, no,” they all said, one after the other.

Philippe had already noticed that he would only get a response from them after a few moments’ silence, as if they were making up a story, a lie, or as if they didn’t exactly understand what they were meant to do . . . Always the same feeling of dealing with people who were . . . not quite human . . . he thought. Out loud he said, “Come on, let’s get moving.”

When they left the village, they saw a large, overgrown private park, a beautifully deep, clear lake and a house up on a hill.

The château, without a doubt, thought Philippe. He rang the bell at the gate in the hope of finding someone at home, but the caretaker’s cottage was locked up and no one answered.

“There’s a meadow over there that looks perfect for us,” said Philippe, pointing towards the banks of the lake. “We must make the best of it, boys! We’ll cause less damage there than in these beautiful little gardens; we’ll be better off than on the road and, if there’s a storm, we could take shelter in those little changing huts . . .”

The park had only a wire fence round it; they got over it easily.

“Don’t forget,” Philippe said, laughing, “that even though I’m breaking a rule, I still insist you treat this property with the utmost respect; I don’t want to see a single branch broken, papers left on the lawn, or any empty tins. Understand? If you behave then I’ll let you go swimming in the lake tomorrow.”

The grass was so high it came up to their knees and they crushed flowers underfoot. Philippe showed them the flowers associated with the Virgin, stars with six white petals, and St. Joseph’s flowers, pale lilac, almost pink.

“Can we pick them, Sir?”

“Yes. You can pick as many of those as you like. They just need a bit of sun and rain to grow back again. Now
those
must have taken a lot of time and effort,” he said, pointing to the flower beds planted all around the château.

One of the boys next to him raised his small square face towards the large shuttered windows. “There must be some great stuff in there!”

He had spoken quietly but with such muted envy that the priest was troubled. When he didn’t reply, the boy persisted: “Don’t you think, Father, there must be some great stuff in there?”

“We ain’t never seen a place like that,” said another.

“Of course, there must be some very beautiful things inside, furniture, paintings, statues . . . but many of these houses are just ruins and you would probably be disappointed if you expected to see amazing things,” Philippe replied cheerfully. “But I suppose you are most interested in the food. I should tell you that the people from around here seem to have planned ahead and taken everything away with them. And since we wouldn’t have the right to help ourselves to anything that didn’t belong to us in any case, it’s better not to think about it and just make do with what we have. Now, I’m going to put you into three groups: the first will find some dead wood, the second will get some water, the third will lay out the food.”

They followed his orders, working quickly and efficiently. They lit a big fire at the edge of the lake; they ate, they drank, they picked some wild strawberries. Philippe wanted to organise some games but the children seemed gloomy and restrained; there was no shouting, no laughter. The lake no longer shone in the sunlight, just faintly glimmered, and they could hear frogs croaking on the banks. In the light of the fire the boys sat motionless, wrapped up in their blankets.

“Do you want to go to sleep?”

No one answered.

“You aren’t cold, are you?”

Silence again.

They can’t all be asleep, thought the priest. He got up and walked between the rows. Sometimes he bent down, covered someone up who was thinner, frailer than the others, with limp hair, ears that stuck out. Their eyes were closed. They were pretending to be asleep, or perhaps sleep really had overcome them. Philippe went back to read his Bible next to the fire. Now and again he raised his eyes to look at the reflections in the water. These moments of silent meditation took away all his cares, made up for all his pain. Once again, love entered his heart like rain falling on dry ground, first drop by drop, fighting to carve a path through the pebbles, then in a long cascade straight to his heart.

These poor children! One of them was dreaming and letting out a long plaintive moan. The priest raised his hand in the darkness, blessed them, murmured a prayer.
“Pater amat vos,”
he whispered. He liked to say this to his catechism students when he was urging them to repent, to be submissive, to pray. “The Father loves you.” How could he have believed they were lacking divine Grace, these poor wretches? Might he not perhaps be less loved than them, treated with less indulgence, less divine affection than the most insignificant, the most lowly of them? Oh Lord Jesus, forgive me! It was a moment of pride, a trap set by a demon! What am I? Less than nothing, dust beneath your dear feet, Lord! Yes, without a doubt, I whom you have loved, whom you have protected since I was a child, whom you have led towards you—you have the right to ask anything of me. But these children . . . some will be saved . . . the others . . . The Saints will redeem them . . . Yes, all is well, all is goodness, all is Grace. Lord Jesus, forgive me my sorrow!

The water gently rippled, the night was peaceful and solemn. This presence without whom he could not live, this Breath, this watchful Eye was upon him in the darkness. A child sleeping in the dark, pressed against his mother’s heart, has no need of light to recognise her cherished features, her hands, her rings! He even laughed softly with pleasure. “Jesus, you are here, with me once again. Please remain by my side, my cherished Friend!” A long pink flame shot up from a black log. It was late; the moon was rising, but he wasn’t tired. He took a blanket, stretched out on the grass. There he remained, eyes wide open, a flower brushing lightly against his cheek. There wasn’t a single sound in this little corner of the world.

He heard nothing, saw nothing, but felt by a kind of sixth sense two boys silently rushing towards the château. It happened so quickly that at first he thought he was dreaming. He didn’t want to call out for fear of waking the other sleeping boys. He got up, brushed the grass and flowers off his cassock and headed for the château. The thick lawn hid the sound of his footsteps. He remembered now he had noticed one of the shutters had been badly secured and was slightly ajar. Yes, he was right! The moon lit up the front of the house. One of the boys was pushing the shutter, forcing it open. Before Philippe could shout at them to stop, a stone shattered the window and there was a rain of glass. The boys, as lithe as cats, leapt inside.

“Oh, you little brats! Just wait till I sort you out!” Philippe said to himself.

Hoisting up his cassock, he followed them through the window, and found himself in a drawing room with furniture covered by dustsheets and a large, cold parquet floor. He groped about in the dark for a few moments before finding the light switch. When he turned the lights on he saw no one. He hesitated, looked around (the boys were hiding or had run off): the sofas, the piano, the winged bergère chairs covered by billowing sheets, the flowered chintz curtains at the windows—all made good hiding places. Seeing some fabric move, he walked towards a bay window and yanked back the curtains. One of the boys was there. He was among the oldest, almost an adult with a blackish face, rather beautiful eyes, a low forehead and a strong jaw.

“What are you doing here?” said the priest.

He heard a noise behind him and turned round; another boy was in the room, standing right behind him; he too was about seventeen or eighteen. He had thin, contemptuous lips and his yellowish face looked wild, as if he were possessed. Philippe was on his guard but they were too fast for him. In a flash they attacked; one tripped him and knocked him down, the other grabbed his throat. But he managed to fight them off, silently, successfully. Catching hold of one of them by the collar, he tightened his grip so much that the boy was forced to let go. As the boy pulled away, something fell out of his pocket and rolled along the ground: it was some silver.

“Congratulations, you’ve moved fast,” said Philippe, half choking, sitting on the floor, thinking to himself, “The main thing is not to make a big thing of it, just get them out of here and they’ll follow me like little puppies. Then we’ll sort it out tomorrow.”

“That’s enough, now! Enough of this nonsense . . . get going.”

He had barely finished speaking when once again they threw themselves on him, silently, desperately, savagely; one of them bit him, drew blood.

“They’re going to kill me,” Philippe thought in amazement. They hung on to him like wolves. He didn’t want to hurt them, but he was forced to defend himself; they punched him, kicked him, he fought them off and they came back at him even more violently than before. They no longer looked human, they were demented, animals . . . Philippe would have proven the stronger in spite of everything but they hit him on the head with a pedestal table with bronze legs; he fell down and as he fell he heard one of the boys run to the window and whistle. He saw nothing else: not the twenty-eight teenagers suddenly waking up, running across the lawn, climbing through the window; not the rush towards the delicate furniture that was being ripped apart and thrown out on to the grass. They were frenzied, they danced around the priest as he lay sprawled on the floor, they sang and shouted. One of the youngest, with a girlish face, jumped with both feet on to a sofa whose old springs creaked under the weight. The older ones had discovered a liquor cabinet. They dragged it into the drawing room, kicking it to move it along; when they opened it, they saw it was empty but they didn’t need liquor to be drunk: the carnage was enough for them. They felt a terrifying kind of joy. Dragging Philippe by the feet, they threw him out of the window, so he fell heavily on to the lawn. At the edge of the lake, they swung him like a bundle . . . “Heave-ho! Kill him!” they shouted in their harsh, high-pitched voices, some of which still sounded childlike.