The Widow (15 page)

Eugène, Félicie's father, was no doubt down at the village bar, playing cards, or perhaps talking about himself, and when he came home again, heavy-footed and his cheeks on fire, it would be to swallow his soup noisily and fall into a drunken sleep.

Tati had told Jean the story of the lock-keeper. It was not in the war, but in the colonies, that he had lost his leg. He had bouts of malaria. When he did, he would shut himself up in his room. From time to time he would be heard shouting. Sometimes, when his wife opened the door to ask whether he wanted anything, he'd throw a chair, or whatever came handy, at her head.

“Let me alone, for God's sake, or I'll set the place on fire!”

The bargees knew him well. When they did not see him, they guessed that the bout was on him and worked the lock gates themselves.

His wife never complained. She was pregnant. She was always pregnant, even before the youngest baby was weaned, and she had the mask, as they called it—a large blotch of ugly yellow covering half her face.

“Why do you always think about it?”

Jean gave a start. He was not in the least thinking about what she imagined he was. It made him smile.

“I was thinking of the lock-keeper,” he said.

“Is he having one of his spells?”

“No. I was just thinking of him, for no particular reason.”

“You're bored?”

“No. I think it's about time for me to get the cows. Tomorrow you'll have to explain how to make the butter.”

The transition from day to evening was imperceptible because of the veil spread across the sky ever since morning.

The cows, used to him by now, watched his approach and, as soon as he untethered them, began to move cheerfully toward the shed.

Why, the rain had stopped! The earth was spongy. He bent down to pull out the two iron stakes and to gather up the chains.

He was surprised to hear a voice, quite close to him.

“Usually, they're left.”

It was Félicie. She had come up to him, her body askew because she held the baby on her arm. Fine drops powdered her russet hair. She did not smile, but it was pretty clear she would have liked to.

“That's true,” he stammered.

What was the use of taking in the stakes and chains? Was anyone likely to come and steal them?

Straightening himself, and turning toward the drawbridge, which the two animals were already crossing, he murmured, “Thank you.”

She let him move a few steps away. She was going home too. Each was going his own way. Yet, she added, “Good night.”

He turned around abruptly. Too late! She was already off, lifting her feet high because of the grass.

And he walked more heavily. He stroked the ribs of one of the cows with the end of his stick. The lights were on at her mother's. Couderc's silhouette could be vaguely seen behind the curtain.

For his part, Jean got the stable lantern and lit it.

“Be good, you. I'm doing all I can, you know.”

The cow wet his legs and feet, knocked over the bucket twice, while the other watched him and lowed. He had not shut up the hens yet. He must not forget to fill the incubator lamp with kerosene.

And Tati, upstairs, lay in the dark. The evening was cool, the window wide open. Frogs were beginning to croak beside the stagnant ponds left by the Cher on the low-lying land.

“All right, Jean?”

The voice came from far away and high up.

“All right!” he called.

In the dairy there were broad dishes in glazed stoneware. As Jean poured in the foaming milk, he remembered how his sister, as a child, used to go and drink milk fresh from the cow at a farm their father had bought.

Would he sleep better tonight? Would it seize him again, like a neuralgia that comes at a fixed time, as soon as he had lain down under the skylight?

“
Every person condemned to death shall be
…”

He finished his work quickly and lit the lamp, an old fashioned one with a bluish glass base. He shut the door and fixed the chain.

“Is that you?” Tati called.

Yes, of course! It was he!

Entering the bedroom, he detected her eyes in spite of the darkness.

“Shut the window first, because of the mosquitoes. Then you can light the lamp. Have you had anything to eat?”

“Not yet.”

“Was there much milk spilled?”

So she had heard the bucket upset twice!

“No, not much.”

“I'm not finding fault. I know you're doing everything you can. You've not forgotten the incubator? I'm wondering how we'll manage about the market on Saturday.”

“I could go.”

She touched wood, just as he lit the lamp. It frightened her to talk of a future so distant. Who knows whether by Saturday …

“You didn't see Félicie again?”

“No.”

He had not hesitated. The lie had been instinctive, and no one could have been more surprised than he was.

“Her parents ought to put her to work. She doesn't do a thing all day long. Of course, neither does her father. And Françoise hardly more. They're the sort of people who'd rather crawl with vermin than do anything about it. They think the world owes them a living, and that's a real Couderc way of looking at things. They've just barely enough to eat. And not often meat, at that! Yet they're prouder than if …”

She wondered at the silence enveloping her.

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Just listening.”

“My chatter bores you, eh? But if you had come into this house at fourteen, like me…. I didn't play with dolls much, I can tell you. It was Tati, here! Tati, there! And carry up some water! And take down the buckets! And go to the shed and see if … ! It was always Tati, the softie! And the two girls getting as fat as big slugs and never turning a hand. What are you going to eat, my poor Jean?”

“I don't know. I haven't given it any thought yet.”

“Tomorrow the butcher will be going through the village. Just get yourself some meat. For tonight, there must still be a couple of cans of sardines in the cupboard. Take one. Bring me only a bowl of milk with a dash of coffee. I'm afraid of not sleeping.”

Going down the stairs, Jean thought: “So am I.”

But he took comfort by telling himself that tomorrow would be another day, a soft gray day or a day of sun, both were good, and that he'd light the kitchen fire, then grind the coffee, that he'd go to the shed where the cows would annoy him with their tails, and that finally, when he tethered them in the meadow, Félicie would doubtless be at her door, or on watch behind the curtain.

As she had bidden him good night, she would bid him good morning. She was not altogether tamed yet, but she was beginning to trace ever-narrowing circles around him.

He ate by himself at the foot of the table. He warmed up some coffee for Tati. Then he lit a last cigarette and climbed up to his loft, which was damper than on other days. The bedclothes were a little clammy. He curled up in his bed. His eyes were wide open.

He kept wondering whether it would seize him again. He did not want to think about it.

“
Every person condemned
…”

Down below, Tati did not sleep either. There was no one in the old man's room. Who was Couderc sleeping with down at his daughter's place, where there were only two rooms?

The frogs croaked louder than ever. If he thought too much, he would get up and walk in the garden. No—Tati would be scared, she would think he meant to leave.

Would his father come? Tati had thought so. She might perhaps not be wrong. He had always known his father with the gray hair that suited him so well. Now it must be white. But his face must have remained young, with that special expression, that sparkle, that slightly ironic gaiety which are the mark of the man who lives for women.

His sole interest had always been women, all women, and he had spent his life moving from the warmth of one bed to the scented warmth of another, enveloped always by the stale breath of love.

“Are you asleep, Jean?”

She had called softly, but he had heard.

“Almost!” he answered sincerely.

“Good night.”

Félicie too had said good night to him. What could a girl like Félicie think of him, knowing that he had killed a man? And how had she come by her baby? Who had fathered it? Where?

He seemed to hear the cheerful voice of his lawyer, fresh from the barber's, with talcum powder behind his ears and his skin smooth and pink, booming at him, “Well, old man?”

“
Article 314 of the Penal Code
…”

“No!” he cried out as in a nightmare.

Realizing it, he wondered whether Tati had heard. No doubt she thought he was dreaming aloud, as children do.

The frogs … Hadn't he forgotten the kerosene for the incubator? … What had she told him? … Oh yes! … The butcher … in the village … It was his day to call…. He had to buy some meat….

They did not eat any meat, at Françoise's, because….

“Good night!”

… But she had already turned away….

… Cock-a-doodle-doo! …

The sun was very pale, almost white, over the skylight, and Tati was stirring in her bed.

F
IRST
the woman in mourning, dignified and disdainful, then the woman from the shop, her neck swathed in medicated wadding. She had lost her voice, that morning.

Then came Félicie's turn. There were others, coming out of nearly all the nearby houses and making for the butcher's truck. They took their time. Many of them, their stomachs swaying in front of them, waddled like geese and ate as they walked.

The rear of the truck, when it was let down, revealed a sort of shop, with quarters of meat hanging from hooks, the scales, the brass weights, and the squares of brown paper hung up on a string.

“Who's next?”

Between two customers, the butcher would blow a little trumpet blast and look toward the upper part of the village to make sure everyone had heard him.

A few drops had fallen again, but it was not raining now. Félicie had come in sabots, a red shawl over her blue smock, and she was carrying an oilcloth bag.

On seeing Jean come up to the van, she had given a little smile. He was the only one not to realize how utterly unexpected he was! As much in himself as in the minor details of his appearance or manners.

He was striding up. He had hurried, because he had seen Félicie at the far end of the towpath. As he was not wearing a hat, his hair was disheveled. He had not shaved. He was on the thin side, and his face was rather reminiscent of an image of Christ.

He did not walk like other people. He seemed to be going nowhere. His arms hung down. In his canvas shoes, he made no noise and his gait seemed all the more lithe. The blue daub of his trousers. The white daub of the shirt he had washed but not ironed.

He found it quite natural to be there, to wait his turn, to glance at Félicie from time to time, then to turn shyly away.

“Eight francs fifty, my pet…. And now, young lady?”

“I want some stewing meat. Not more than a pound. How much is it?”

“Four francs a pound.”

In astonishment Jean looked at the scrap of blackish meat, just skin and bone.

“Five francs.”

And she, simply and firmly:

“I only want four francs' worth. Cut some off.”

She had the two two-franc pieces ready in the hollow of her hand. She paid, swept Jean with a brief look, and went off in the direction of the canal, clacking her sabots as she went.

“And what would you like, young man?”

“A steak.”

“How many for?”

“One.”

“You like it thick, I bet?”

“Yes, fairly thick.”

He was in a hurry. He watched Félicie as she went along, without realizing that the old gossips were watching him, rather as they would have watched a strange animal.

“Eight francs.”

It startled him. Eight francs for his steak and only four for the stew that was to be eaten at Félicie's, where there was her father, her mother, and old Couderc.

“You're forgetting your change.”

“Oh yes … sorry.”

“You're welcome.”

As he dared not run, he did not overtake Félicie till halfway home. A barge drawn by a donkey was coming from the other direction, and a tiny girl, almost a baby, led the donkey.

The tiller must have been lashed, for no one was to be seen on deck. The canal was quite straight, with, just above, a long stripe of sky between the foliage of the two ranks of trees. And there was not a soul in sight, apart from the little girl and the donkey.

“Why did you run?” asked Félicie, without turning her head, as he fell into step with her, his breath coming noisily.

“I didn't run.”

He had nothing to say to her. He craved to be near her, but he had never thought of saying this or that. As he walked, he observed her profile and noted that her lower lip was full, almost swollen, which gave her a reflective, even a pouting, look. She also had a very white, very fine skin, like all red-haired women, and very tiny ears.

It did not embarrass her to be thus inspected in detail. She walked at her own pace and they had covered a good two hundred yards in silence when she asked, as if summing up her thoughts:

“What makes you stay on at my aunt's?”

He did not pause to think even for a second. Indeed he was as much surprised at the promptness of his answer, for he had never asked himself outright.

“I think it's the house.”

And she, after another silence: “I wonder what there is so special about that house. Everybody's after it. My mother. My aunt Amélie.”

“What about you?”

“Me? It's all one to me.”

And, as they approached the lock, she observed, “Why! There's someone at my aunt's.”

“How can you tell?”

“You can see the shadow of a car in the path. You'd better hurry.”