Authors: Irene Nemirovsky
“Speaking of Bonnet, did you talk to him?”
“Madame, my friend Bonnet is not a simple fellow. Until now, he’s been having some innocent fun, but if the husband starts getting frustrated, he’s capable of getting really involved.
Schadenfreude,
do you understand? He could even fall in love for real, and if the young woman isn’t faithful . . .”
“There’s no question of that,” said Lucile.
“She really loves that country bumpkin?”
“Without a doubt. And don’t think that all the women around here are the same just because certain young girls let themselves get involved with your soldiers. Madeleine Sabarie is a good wife and a good Frenchwoman.”
“I understand,” said the officer, nodding his head.
He helped Lucile move the card table over to the window. She put out some antique crystal glasses cut with large facets, the wine carafe with the gilt silver stopper and some small painted dessert plates. They dated back to the First Empire and were decorated with military scenes: Napoleon inspecting the troops, Hussars in gold brocade setting up camp in a clearing, a parade along the Champ-de-Mars.
The German admired the strong, bright colours. “What beautiful uniforms! How I’d love to own a jacket embroidered in gold like that Hussar!”
“Have some cakes,
mein Herr
. They’re home-made.”
He looked at her and smiled.
“Madame, have you ever heard of those cyclones which rage in the South Seas? If I’ve understood what I’ve read, they form a sort of circle whose edges are made of wind and rain but whose centre is so still that a bird or even a butterfly caught in the eye of the storm wouldn’t be harmed; their wings would remain unruffled, while all around them the most horrible damage was being unleashed. Look at this house! Look at us about to have our wine from Frontignan and our cakes, and think of what’s going on in the rest of the world.”
“I prefer not to think about it,” Lucile replied sadly.
Nevertheless, in her soul she felt a kind of warmth she’d never felt before. Even her gestures were more delicate, more adept than usual, and she listened to her own voice as if it were a stranger’s. It was lower than normal, this voice, deeper and more vibrant; she didn’t recognise it. Most exquisite of all was this sense of being on an island in the middle of the hostile house, and this strange feeling of safety: no one would come in; there would be no letters, no visits, no telephone calls. Even the old clock she had forgotten to wind that morning (what
would
Madame Angellier say—“Of course nothing gets done when I’m away”), even the old clock whose grave, melancholy tones frightened her, was silent. Once again, the storm had damaged the power station; no lights or radios were on for miles. The radio silent . . . how peaceful . . . It was impossible to give in to temptation, impossible to look for Paris, London, Berlin, Boston on the dark dial, impossible to hear those mournful, invisible, cursed voices telling of ships being sunk, planes crashing, cities destroyed, reading out the number of dead, predicting future massacres . . . Just blessed forgetfulness, nothing else . . . until nightfall, time passing slowly, someone beside her, a glass of light, fragrant wine, music, long silences. Happiness . . .
13
One month later, on a rainy afternoon like the one the German and Lucile had spent together, Marthe announced that the Angellier ladies had visitors. Three women were shown into the sitting room. They wore long black coats, mourning hats and black veils that cascaded down towards the ground, imprisoning them in a kind of impenetrable, mournful cage. The Angelliers didn’t often have guests. The cook, flustered, had forgotten to take their umbrellas; they still held them, half-open, in their hands, like bell-shaped calyx flowers, catching the last few drops of rain dripping from their veils—or like the funeral urns on the tombs of heroes into which stone women weep.
Madame Angellier had some difficulty in recognising the three black shapes. Then she said, surprised, “But it’s the Perrin ladies!”
The Perrin family (proprietors of the beautiful estate pillaged by the Germans) was “the region’s finest.” Madame Angellier’s feelings towards the bearers of this name were comparable to those one member of a royal family might feel towards another: calm certainty that one was among kindred spirits who held the same opinions about everything; that despite the fleeting differences which might naturally occur, despite wars or governmental misconduct, they remained united by an indissoluble bond, to such an extent that if the Spanish royal family were dethroned, the Swedish royal family would feel the repercussions. When the Perrins had lost 900,000 francs after a lawyer in Moulins had run off, the Angelliers felt the aftershock. When Madame Angellier had paid a pittance for a piece of land that had belonged to the Montmorts “since time began,” the Perrins had rejoiced. The grudging respect the Montmorts received from the middle classes bore no comparison to this sense of shared values.
Madame Angellier warmly asked Madame Perrin to sit down again (she’d started to get up when she saw her hostess coming towards her). She didn’t experience the disagreeable feeling she always had when Madame de Montmort came to visit. She knew the Perrin ladies approved of everything: the mock fireplace, the musty smell, the half-closed shutters, the slip covers on the furniture, the olive-green wallpaper with silver palm leaves. Everything was as it should be; she would soon be offering her guests a pitcher of orangeade and some stale shortbread. Madame Perrin would not be shocked by the stinginess of this offering; she would simply see it as one more proof of the Angelliers’ wealth, for the richer one is, the stingier as well; she would identify with her own tendency to save money and the inclination towards asceticism that lies at the heart of the French middle classes and makes their shameful secret pleasures even more bitter-sweet.
Madame Perrin told them that her son had died a hero’s death in Normandy as the Germans advanced; she had received permission to visit his grave. She complained at great length about the cost of this journey and Madame Angellier sympathised with her. Maternal love and money were two completely different things. The Perrins lived in Lyon.
“The city is destitute. I’ve seen crows being sold for fifteen frances each. Mothers are feeding their children on crow soup. And don’t think I’m talking about the working classes. No, Madame! I’m talking about people like you and me.”
Madame Angellier sighed sadly; she imagined her relatives, members of her family, sharing a crow for supper. The idea was somehow grotesque, scandalous (though if it had been just the working classes, all they would have done was say, “Those poor creatures” and then move on).
“Well, at least you have your freedom! You don’t have any Germans living with you like us. Yes, Madame, here in this house, behind that wall,” said Madame Angellier, pointing to the olive-green wallpaper with the silver palm leaves. “An officer.”
“We know,” said Madame Perrin, slightly embarrassed. “We heard about it from the notary’s wife who came to Lyon. Actually, that’s why we’ve come.”
They all involuntarily looked at Lucile.
“Please explain what you mean,” Madame Angellier said coldly.
“I’ve heard that this officer behaves absolutely correctly, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“And he’s even been seen speaking to you extremely politely on several occasions?”
“He never speaks to
me,
” Madame Angellier said haughtily. “I wouldn’t stand for it. I accept that my attitude may not be very reasonable” (she stressed this last word) “as has been pointed out to me, but I am the mother of a prisoner of war and because of that, even if I were offered all the money in the world, I wouldn’t consider these gentlemen as anything but our mortal enemies. Although other people are more . . . how can I put it? . . . more flexible, more realistic, perhaps . . . my daughter-in-law in particular . . .”
“I answer him if he speaks to me, yes,” said Lucile.
“But you’re so right, absolutely right!” exclaimed Madame Perrin. “My dear girl, I’m putting all my hope in you. It’s about our poor house! You’ve seen what a terrible state it’s in . . .”
“I’ve only seen the garden . . . through the gates . . .”
“My dear child, do you think you could possibly arrange for us to have back certain items from inside the house to which we are particularly attached?”
“Madame, but I . . .”
“You mustn’t refuse. All you have to do is speak to these gentlemen and intervene on our behalf. It might all have been burned or damaged, of course, but I can’t believe the house has been so vandalised that it is impossible to recover our family portraits, correspondence or furniture, of sentimental value only to us . . .”
“Madame, you should speak to the Germans occupying your house yourself and . . .”
“Never,” said Madame Perrin, pulling herself up to her full height. “Never will I cross the threshold of my house while the enemy is there. It is a question of dignity and sensitivity. They killed my son, my son who had just been accepted to study at the Ecole Polytechnique, in the top six. I’ll be staying at the Hôtel des Voyageurs with my daughters until tomorrow. If you could arrange to have certain things returned to us, I would be eternally grateful. Here’s the list. If I found myself face-to-face with one of these Germans, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself singing the ‘Marseillaise’ (I know myself!),” said Madame Perrin in an impassioned voice, “and then I’d get deported to Prussia. Not that that would be a disgrace, far from it, but I have daughters. I must keep going for my family. So, I am truly begging you, my dear Lucile, to do whatever you can for me.”
“Here’s the list,” said Madame Perrin’s younger daughter.
She unfolded the paper and began reading:
A china bowl and water jug with our monogram, decorated with butterflies
A salad dryer
The white-and-gold tea service (twenty-eight pieces, the sugar bowl is missing its lid)
Two portraits of grandfather: (1) sitting on his nanny’s lap; (2) on his deathbed
The stag’s antlers from the entrance hall, a memento of my Uncle Adolphe
Granny’s plate warmer (porcelain and vermeil)
Papa’s extra set of false teeth he’d left behind in the bathroom
The pink-and-black sofa from the sitting room
In the left-hand drawer of the desk (key herewith): My brother’s first page of writing, Papa’s letters to Mama while he was away taking the waters in Vittel in 1924 (tied with a pink ribbon), all our family photographs
There was a deathly silence as she read. Madame Perrin cried softly beneath her veil.
“It’s hard, so hard to watch things you care about so much being taken away from you. I beg you, my dear Lucile, do everything you can. Be clever, persuasive . . .”
Lucile looked at her mother-in-law.
“This . . . this officer,” said Madame Angellier barely moving her lips, “has not yet come back. You won’t see him tonight, Lucile, it’s too late, but tomorrow you could speak with him and ask for his help.”
“All right. I will.”
Madame Perrin, her hands covered in black gloves, hugged Lucile. “Thank you, thank you, my dear child. And now we must go.”
“Not before having some refreshments,” said Madame Angellier.
“Oh, but we don’t want to impose on you . . .”
“Don’t be ridiculous . . .”
They made quiet, courteous little noises when Marthe brought in the pitcher of orangeade and the shortbread. Now that they felt reassured, they began talking about the war. They feared a German victory, yet weren’t altogether happy at the idea that the English might win. All in all, they preferred everyone to be defeated. They blamed their difficulties on the fact that the desire for pleasure seemed to have taken hold of everyone. Then the conversation returned to more personal matters. Madame Perrin and Madame Angellier discussed their poor health. Madame Perrin went into great detail about her last bout of rheumatism while Madame Angellier listened impatiently and, as soon as Madame Perrin paused for breath, interjected, “It’s the same with me . . .” and talked about her own bout of rheumatism.
Madame Perrin’s daughters discreetly ate their shortbread. Outside, the rain kept falling.
14
By the next morning the rain had stopped and the sun shone down on the damp, joyous ground. It was early and Lucile, who hadn’t slept well, was sitting on a garden bench waiting for the German to come out of the house. As soon as she saw him she went up to him and explained her request; both of them sensed the hidden presence of Madame Angellier and the cook, not to mention the neighbours, who were spying on the couple from behind closed shutters as they stood on the path.
“If you would accompany me to these ladies’ house,” said the German, “I will have all the things they’ve requested gathered together for you; but a number of our soldiers have been billeted in this house since the owners abandoned it and I think the damage has been considerable. Let’s go and see.”
They walked through the village, side by side, barely speaking.
Lucile saw Madame Perrin’s black veil fluttering from a window of the Hôtel des Voyageurs. They were watching Lucile and her companion with curiosity, complicity and a vague sense of approval. It was clear that everyone knew she was on her way to extract from the enemy the crumbs of his conquest (in the form of a set of false teeth, a china dinner service and other household items of sentimental value).
An old woman who couldn’t even look at a German uniform without being terrified nevertheless came up to Lucile and whispered, “That’s it . . . Well done! At least
you
’re not afraid of them . . .”
The officer smiled. “They think you’re Judith going to murder Holofernes in his tent. I hope you don’t have the same evil plan! Here we are. Please come in, Madame.”
He pushed open the heavy gate. The little bell that used to tell the Perrins they had visitors tinkled sadly. In just one year the garden had become so neglected it would have broken your heart to look at it, had it not been such a beautiful day. But it was a May morning, the day after a storm. The grass was sparkling, the damp paths overgrown with daisies, cornflowers and all sorts of other wild flowers that gleamed in the sun. The flower beds were a riot of shrubs, and fresh clusters of lilacs gently brushed against Lucile’s face as she walked by. In the house they found about a dozen young soldiers and all the children from the village who spent happy days playing in the entrance hall (like the Angelliers’ hall, it was dark, with a vaguely musty smell, greenish panes of glass in the windows and hunting trophies on the walls). Lucile recognised the cart maker’s two little girls, sitting on the lap of a blond soldier who had a wide grin on his face. The carpenter’s little boy was playing horsy on the back of another soldier. The illegitimate children of the dressmaker, all four of them, aged two to six, were lying on the floor, plaiting crowns out of forget-me-nots and the small, sweet-smelling carnations that had once lined the formal flower beds.