Suite Francaise Part 5

"Did you remember to get your raincoat from the car?"

"No, Mother."

"You never remember anything!"

"But I won't need it. It's nice out."

"It could rain tomorrow."

She took her knitting out of her bag. Her needles clicked. When Hubert was little, she would sit near him knitting during his piano lessons. He closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. A while later she nodded off. He jumped out of the open window, ran to the shed where his bicycle had been put away and, silently opening the gate, slipped away. Everyone was asleep now. The gunfire had stopped. Cats wailed from the rooftops. A splendid church, with sky-blue windows, rose up in the middle of a dusty old avenue where refugees had parked. The people who hadn't been able to find accommodation were sleeping inside their cars or on the gra.s.s. Anguish oozed from their pale faces, tense and fearful, even in their sleep. They slept so soundly, though, nothing would wake them before daybreak. That was obvious. They could pa.s.s from sleep to death without even realising it.

Hubert walked among them feeling shock and pity. He wasn't tired. His overexcited state of mind gave him strength and kept him going. He thought with sadness and remorse of the family he had abandoned. But this very sadness and remorse increased his elation. He wasn't going into it with his eyes closed; he was sacrificing not just his own life, but the life of everyone in his family to his country. He marched towards his destiny like a young G.o.d bearing offerings. At least, that was how he saw himself. He left the village, got to the cherry tree and threw himself to the ground beneath its branches. A lovely sweet feeling suddenly made his heart beat faster: he thought of the new friend who would share his dangerous exploits and glory. He barely knew him, the boy with the blond hair, but he felt bound to him with extraordinary violence and tenderness. He had heard that, while crossing a bridge in the north, a German regiment had had to walk over the bodies of their dead comrades and that they had started singing: "Once I had a comrade . . ." He understood that feeling of pure, almost savage love. Unconsciously, he was trying to replace Philippe, whom he loved so much and who had separated himself from his younger brother with such implacable gentleness; Philippe was too strict, too saintly, Hubert thought, and with no feelings, no pa.s.sion for anyone but Christ.

For the past two years Hubert had felt very lonely and, at school, had almost made a point of befriending only bullies or sn.o.bs. Also, he was attracted, almost without realising it, to physical beauty-and Rene had the face of an angel. He waited for him, starting at every sound. It was nearly midnight. A horse went by without a rider. Strange sights like this occasionally reminded him of the war, but otherwise everything was quiet. He pulled a long weed out of the ground and chewed it, then examined the contents of one of his pockets: a bit of bread, an apple, some nuts, gingerbread crumbs, a pocket knife, a ball of string, his little red notebook. On the first page he wrote: "If I am killed, could you please notify my father, Monsieur Pericand, 18 Boulevard Delessert in Paris, or my mother . . ." He added the address in Nimes. He remembered he hadn't said his prayers that night. He knelt down in the gra.s.s and prayed, adding a special Creed for his family. He felt at peace with man and G.o.d. While he was praying, the bells sounded midnight. Now he had to be ready to go.

The moon lit up the road. It was empty. He waited patiently for half an hour, then became overwhelmed with anxiety. Hiding his bicycle in the ditch, he walked towards the village hoping to meet Rene, but there was no sign of him. Back under the cherry tree, he waited some more, examining the contents of his other pocket: some crumpled-up cigarettes, a bit of money. He smoked a cigarette without pleasure. He still wasn't used to the taste of tobacco. His hands were shaking nervously. He pulled flowers out of the ground and flicked them away. It was past one o'clock. Was it possible that Rene . . . ? No, no . . . you don't break a promise like that . . . He'd been prevented from coming, locked in by his aunts perhaps, but he, Hubert, hadn't let his mother's precautions prevent him from getting away. Mother. She would soon wake up and then what would she do? They would look everywhere for him. He couldn't stay here, so close to the village But what if Rene came? . . . He would wait for him until daybreak, then leave.

The first rays of sun were beginning to light up the road when Hubert finally set off. Pushing his bicycle, he cautiously climbed the hill to the Sainte woods, preparing what he would say to the soldiers. He heard voices, laughter, a horse neighing. Someone shouted. Hubert stopped, out of breath: they were speaking German. He jumped behind a tree, saw a greenish uniform a few feet away and, abandoning his bicycle, shot off like a hare. At the bottom of the hill he took the wrong path, kept on running and reached the village, but didn't recognise it. Then he went down to the main road and ended up in the middle of all the refugees' cars. They were driving insanely fast, insanely. He saw one (a big grey open touring car) that had just knocked a small van into the ditch and driven off without slowing down even for a moment. The further he walked, the faster the flood of cars was moving, like in some mad film, he thought. He saw a truck full of soldiers. He waved at them desperately. Without stopping, someone stretched out his hand and hoisted him up amid the camouflaged guns and boxes of tarpaulins.

"I wanted to warn you," said Hubert, panting. "I saw Germans in the woods nearby."

"They're everywhere, my boy," the soldier replied.

"Can I go with you?" Hubert asked shyly. "I want . . ." (his voice breaking with emotion), "I want to fight."

The soldier looked at him and remained silent. Nothing these men heard or saw seemed to be able to surprise or move them any more. Hubert learned that they had picked up a pregnant woman along the way, as well as a child wounded in the bombing who'd been either abandoned or lost and a dog with a broken leg. He also learned they intended to hold the enemy back and prevent them, if possible, from crossing the bridge.

"I'm with them," Hubert thought. "That's it, I'm in it now."

The surging wave of refugees surrounded the truck, preventing them from moving forward. Sometimes it was impossible for the soldiers to move at all. They would fold their arms and wait until someone let them pa.s.s. Hubert was sitting at the back of the truck, his legs dangling outside. He was filled with an extraordinary sense of turmoil, a confusion of ideas and emotions, but what he felt most was utter scorn for humanity as a whole. The feeling was almost physical. A few months earlier, his friends had given him some drink for the first time in his life. He thought of the taste now: the horrible taste of bitter ashes that bad wine leaves in your mouth. He had been such a good little boy. He had seen the world as simple and beautiful, men as worthy of respect. Men . . . a herd of cowardly wild animals. That Rene who had urged him to run off, and then stayed tucked up under his quilt, while France was dying . . . Those people who refused to give the refugees a bed, a gla.s.s of water, who charged a fortune for an egg, who stuffed their cars full of luggage, packages, food, even furniture, but who told a woman dying of exhaustion, children who had walked from Paris, "You can't come with us . . . you can see very well there's no room . . ." Leather suitcases and painted women in a truck full of officers: such egotism, cowardice, such vicious, useless cruelty made him sick.

And the most horrible thing was that he couldn't ignore the sacrifices, the heroism, the kindness of some. Philippe, for example, was a saint; these soldiers who'd had nothing to eat or drink (the supply officer had left that morning but hadn't returned in time) going to do battle for a hopeless cause, they were heroes. There was courage, self-sacrifice, love among these men, but that was frightening too: even goodness was predestined, according to Philippe. Whenever Philippe spoke, he seemed both enlightened and pa.s.sionate at the same time, as if lit up by a very pure flame. But Hubert had serious doubts about religion and Philippe was far away. The outside world was incoherent and hideous, painted in the colours of h.e.l.l, a h.e.l.l Jesus never could enter, Hubert thought, "because they would tear him to pieces."

Machine-guns fired on the convoy. Death was gliding across the sky and suddenly plunged down from the heavens, wings outstretched, steel beak firing on this long line of trembling black insects crawling along the road. Everyone threw themselves to the ground; women lay on top of their children to protect them. When the firing stopped, deep furrows were left in the crowd, like wheat after a storm when the fallen stems form close, deep trenches. Only when it had been quiet for a few moments could you hear the cries and moans: people calling to one another, moans that went ignored, cries shouted out in vain . . .

The refugees got back into the cars they'd left beside the road and started off again, but some of the cars remained abandoned, their doors open, baggage still tied to the roof, a wheel in the ditch where the driver had rushed to take shelter. He would never return. In the cars, amid the abandoned packages, there was sometimes a dog howling, pulling on his lead, or a cat miaowing frantically, locked in its basket.

17.

The instincts of a former age were still at work in Gabriel Corte: when someone hurt him, rather than defend himself, his first reaction was to complain. Dragging Florence behind him, he strode impatiently through Paray-le-Monial looking for the mayor, the police, a councillor, a deputy, any government official at all who could get him back his dinner. But it was extraordinary . . . the streets were empty, the houses silent. At a crossroads he came across a small group of women who seemed to be wandering about aimlessly.

"We have no idea, we don't come from here," they replied to his questions. "We're refugees, like you," one of them added.

They could smell smoke, very faintly, carried by the soft June wind.

After a while he began to wonder where their car was. Florence thought they'd left it near the railway station. Gabriel remembered seeing a bridge they could look for; the moon, magnificent and peaceful, lit their way, but all the streets in this small old town looked the same. Everywhere there were gables, ancient stone walls, lopsided balconies, dark cul-de-sacs.

"Like a bad opera set," Corte groaned.

It even smelled of backstage: sad and dusty, with the faint lingering odour of urine. Sweat was running down his face in the heat. He could hear Florence calling from behind, "Wait for me! Will you stop a minute, you coward, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d! Where are you, Gabriel? Where are you? Gabriel, I can't see you. You pig!" Her cries of rage rebounded off the old walls and their echo struck him like bullets: "Pig, you old b.a.s.t.a.r.d, coward!"

She finally caught up with him near the railway station. She leapt at him, hitting, scratching, spitting in his face while he shrieked and tried to fight her off. No one could ever have imagined that the low, weary voice of Gabriel Corte concealed such resonant, shrill sounds, so feminine and wild. They were both being driven mad by hunger, fear and exhaustion.

As soon as they saw that the Avenue de la Gare was deserted, they realised the order had been given to evacuate the town. Everyone else was far away, on the moonlit bridge. Only a few exhausted soldiers remained, sitting on the pavement in small groups. One of them, a very young pale boy with thick gla.s.ses, hauled himself up to separate Florence and Corte.

"Come on, Monsieur . . . Now, now, Madame, you should be ashamed of yourselves!"

"But where are the cars?" Corte shouted.

"Gone. They were ordered to leave."

"But, but . . . by whom? Why? What about our luggage? My ma.n.u.scripts! I am Gabriel Corte!"

"Good G.o.d, you'll find your ma.n.u.scripts. And I can tell you that other people have lost a lot more."

"Philistine!"

"Of course, Monsieur, but . . ."

"Who gave this stupid order?"

"Well, Monsieur . . . there have been a lot of orders which were just as stupid, I'll admit. Don't worry, you'll find your car and your papers. But in the meantime, you can't stay here. The Germans will be here any minute. We've been ordered to blow up the station."

"Where will we go?" Florence groaned.

"Go back to the town."

"But where can we stay?"

"There are plenty of rooms. Everyone's run off," said one of the soldiers who had come up to them and was standing a few steps away from Corte.

The moon gave off a soft blue light. The man had a harsh, heavy face; two vertical lines cut down his thick cheeks. He put his hand on Gabriel's shoulder and effortlessly spun him round. "Off you go. We've had enough of you, got it?"

For a second Gabriel thought he might jump at the soldier, but the pressure of that hard hand on his shoulder made him flinch and take two steps backwards. "We've been on the road since Monday . . . and we're hungry . . ."

"We're hungry," Florence echoed, sighing.

"Wait until morning. If we're still here we'll give you some soup."

The soldier with the thick gla.s.ses said again in his soft, weary voice, "You can't stay here, Monsieur . . . Go on, off you go." He took Corte by the hand and gave him a little push, just as you would send the children out of the drawing room when it was time for bed.

They went back across the town square, side by side now and dragging their weary legs; their anger had subsided and with it the nervous energy that had kept them going. They were so demoralised that they didn't have the strength to start looking for another restaurant. They knocked at doors that never opened and eventually collapsed on a bench near a church. Florence, wincing with pain, took off her shoes.

Night pa.s.sed. Nothing happened. The railway station was still standing. Now and again, they could hear soldiers walking in the streets nearby. Some men pa.s.sed by the bench once or twice without even glancing at Florence and Corte, huddled together in the silent shadows, leaning their heavy heads together. They could smell the stench of meat: a bomb had hit the abattoir on the outskirts of the town and it was on fire. They dozed off. When they woke up, they saw soldiers going by with tin dishes. Florence cried out in hunger and the soldiers gave her a bowl of soup and a bit of bread. Daylight returned and with it Gabriel recovered some dignity: he wouldn't dream of fighting with his mistress over some soup and a crust of bread!

Florence drank slowly. Then she stopped and walked towards Gabriel. "You have the rest," she said to her lover.

"No, no, there's barely enough for you," he protested. She handed him the tin bowl of warm liquid that smelled of cabbage. Trembling, he gripped it with both hands and, placing his mouth at the edge of the bowl, wolfed it down in big gulps, barely stopping to catch his breath. When he had finished, he gave a happy sigh.

"Better?" a soldier asked.

They recognised the man who'd chased them away from the railway station the night before, but the dawn light softened his fierce centurion's face. Gabriel remembered he had some cigarettes in his pocket and offered them to him. The two men smoked for a while without speaking, while Florence tried in vain to get her shoes back on.

"If I were you," the soldier finally said, "I'd hurry up and get out of here 'cause the Germans are definitely going to show up. It's a miracle they aren't here yet. Still, they don't have to hurry," he added bitterly, "they've got it sewn up from here to Bayonne . . ."

"Do you think we have any chance?" Florence asked shyly.

The soldier didn't answer and suddenly left. They left too, hobbling along, heading straight for the outskirts. Gradually, refugees began to emerge from the seemingly deserted town, weighed down with baggage. In the same way that animals separated in a storm find their herd when the storm has pa.s.sed, they came together in small groups and walked towards the bridge; it was guarded by soldiers who let them pa.s.s. Gabriel and Florence followed. Above, the sky shimmered a pure azure blue: no clouds, no planes. Below, a beautiful glistening river flowed by. In front of them, they could see the road leading south and some very young trees with new green leaves. Suddenly the trees seemed to be moving towards them. German trucks and guns, covered with camouflage, were heading straight at them. Corte saw people ahead raising their arms and running back. At that moment the French soldiers opened fire. When the German machine-guns fired back, the refugees were caught in the crossfire. They ran in all directions. Some simply whirled round on the spot as if they'd gone mad; one woman climbed over the parapet and threw herself into the river.

Florence dug her nails into Corte's arm and screamed, "Turn back, hurry!"

"But they'll blow up the bridge," Corte shouted.

Taking her hand, he propelled her forward and suddenly a thought shot through him, as strange, burning and sharp as lightning: they were running towards death. He pulled her close and, pushing her head down, covered it with his coat as you cover the eyes of a condemned man. Then, stumbling, panting, half carrying her, he ran the short distance to the other side of the river. Even though his heart was pounding in his chest, he wasn't actually afraid. He had a pa.s.sionate, urgent desire to save Florence. He had faith in something invisible, in a guiding hand reaching out to him, to him, him, weak, miserable, insignificant, so insignificant that destiny would spare him, as a wisp of straw sometimes survives a storm. They made it across the bridge, narrowly missing the advancing Germans with their machine-guns and green uniforms. The road was clear, death was behind them and suddenly they saw it-yes, they were right, they recognised it-right there, at the edge of a little country lane, their car and their loyal servants waiting for them. Florence could only groan, "Julie, thank G.o.d. Julie!" weak, miserable, insignificant, so insignificant that destiny would spare him, as a wisp of straw sometimes survives a storm. They made it across the bridge, narrowly missing the advancing Germans with their machine-guns and green uniforms. The road was clear, death was behind them and suddenly they saw it-yes, they were right, they recognised it-right there, at the edge of a little country lane, their car and their loyal servants waiting for them. Florence could only groan, "Julie, thank G.o.d. Julie!"

To Corte, the voices of the driver and maid sounded like the low, strange noises you hear through a fog just before you faint. Florence was crying. Slowly, incredulously, painfully, Corte realised that he had his car back, his ma.n.u.scripts back, his life back. He would no longer be an ordinary man, suffering, starving, both courageous and cowardly at the same time, but instead a privileged creature, protected from all evil. He would be-Gabriel Corte!

18.

At last Hubert arrived at the Allier river with the men he'd met on the road. It was noon on Monday, 17 June. Volunteers had joined the soldiers along the way. There were policemen, members of the home guard, a few Senegalese, and soldiers whose defeated companies were trying in vain to regroup and who clung on to any little island of resistance with hopeless courage. There were also young boys like Hubert Pericand who'd become separated from their fleeing families or run away in the night "to join the troops." These magical words had spread from village to village, from one farm to the next. "We're going to join the troops, dodge the Germans, regroup by the Loire," said hordes of sixteen-year-olds. These children carried sacks over their shoulders (the remainder of yesterday's afternoon tea hastily wrapped up in a shirt and jumper by a tearful mother); their faces were round and rosy, their fingers stained with ink, their voices breaking. Three of them were accompanied by their fathers, veterans of '14, whose age, former injuries and family situation had prevented them from joining up in September.

At the bottom of the steps that led down from a stone bridge sat the Commander in Chief of the battalion. Hubert counted nearly 200 men on the road and river bank. In his naivety he believed that this powerful army would now confront the enemy. He saw explosives stacked up on the stone bridge; what he didn't know was that there was no fuse to light them. Silently the soldiers went about their business or slept on the ground. They hadn't eaten anything since the day before. Towards evening, bottles of beer were handed out. Hubert wasn't hungry but the frothy, bitter beer made him feel happy. It helped him to keep up his courage. No one actually seemed to need him. He went from one person to the other, shyly offering to help; no one answered him, no one even looked at him. He saw two soldiers dragging some straw and bundles of firewood to the bridge; another was pushing a barrel of tar. Hubert grabbed an enormous bundle of wood but so clumsily that splinters ripped his hands and he let out a little cry of pain. Throwing it on to the bridge, he heaved a sigh of relief that no one appeared to have noticed, only to hear one of the men call out, "What the h.e.l.l are you doing here? Can't you see you're just in the way?"

Wounded to the core, Hubert moved aside. He stood motionless on the road to Saint-Pourcain, facing the river, and watched the incomprehensible actions of the soldiers: the straw and the wood had been doused in tar and placed on the bridge next to a fifty-litre drum of petrol; by using a seventy-five-millimetre gun to detonate the explosives, they were counting on this barricade to hold back the enemy troops.

And so the rest of the day went by, then the night and the entire next morning. The hours of boredom felt strange and incoherent, like a fever. Still nothing to eat, nothing to drink. Even the young boys from the countryside lost their fresh complexions. Pale with hunger, blackened by dust, hair dishevelled, eyes burning, a sad and stubborn expression on their faces, they seemed suddenly older.

It was two o'clock when the first Germans came into sight on the other side of the river. Their motor convoy had come through Paray-le-Monial that very morning. Dumbfounded, Hubert watched them head towards the bridge at incredible speed, like a wild, warlike streak of lightning searing through the peaceful countryside. It only lasted a second: a gunshot set off the barrels of explosive forming the barricade. Debris from the bridge, the vehicles and their drivers all fell into the river. Hubert saw soldiers running ahead.

"This is it! We're attacking," he thought. He got goose b.u.mps and his throat went dry, like when he was a child and heard the first strains of military music in the street. He hurled himself towards the straw and wood barricade just as it was being set on fire. The black smoke from the tar filled his nose and mouth. Behind this protective wall, machine-guns were holding back the German tanks. Choking, coughing, sneezing, Hubert crawled a few steps backwards. He was in despair. He had no weapon. All he could do was stand there. They were fighting and he just stood there, arms folded, inert, useless. He felt a little better when he saw that all around him they were taking the enemy's attack without fighting back. He considered this a complex tactical manoeuvre until he realised that the men had almost no ammunition. "Nevertheless," he thought, "if we've been left here it's because we're needed, we're useful, we're defending the bulk of the French army, for all we know." At every moment he expected to see more troops appearing on the road to Saint-Pourcain. "We're here, lads," they'd shout, "don't worry! We'll beat them!"-or some other warlike cry. But no one came.

Nearby he saw a man, his head covered in blood, stumble like a drunkard into a thicket; he sat there between the branches in a bizarre and uncomfortable position, his knees folded under him, his chin resting on his chest. He heard an officer shouting angrily, "No doctors, no nurses, no ambulances! What are we supposed to do?"

"There's a beat-up ambulance in the garden of the toll-house," someone replied.

"What am I supposed to do with that, for G.o.d's sake?" the officer repeated. "Forget it."

The sh.e.l.ls had set fire to a part of the town. In the splendid June light, the flames took on a transparent pink colour; a plume of smoke drifted up to the sky, flecked with gold by the sunlight, tinged with sulphur and ash.

"Well, they're off," a soldier said to Hubert, pointing to the machine-gunners who were abandoning their post on the bridge.

"But why?" Hubert shouted, dismayed. "Aren't they going to keep fighting?"

"With what?"

This is a disaster, thought Hubert with a sigh. This is defeat! I am here, watching an enormous defeat, worse than Waterloo. We are all lost. I'll never see Mother or any of my family again. I'm going to die. He felt doomed, numb to everything around him, in a terrible state of exhaustion and despair. He didn't hear the order to retreat. He saw men running through the machine-gun fire. Rushing forward, he climbed over a wall into a garden where a baby's pram still stood in the shade. The battle wasn't over. Without tanks, without weapons, without ammunition, they were still trying to defend a few square metres of ground, a bridgehead, while from all directions the German conquerors were sweeping through France.

Hubert was suddenly gripped by a feeling of hopeless courage, almost madness. He realised that he was running away when his duty was to go back towards the fighting, towards the automatic rifles he could still hear obstinately returning the German fire, to die with them. Once again, risking his life at every moment, he crossed the small garden, trampling on children's toys. Where were the people who lived in this little house? Had they fled? He climbed over the wire fence under a hail of bullets and, still alive, fell back on to the road and began crawling towards the river again, his hands and knees bleeding. He would never make it, never. He was halfway there when everything fell silent. He realised that it was night and that he must have fainted from exhaustion. The extraordinary sudden silence had brought him round. He sat up. His mind was blank and his head throbbed. A magnificent moon lit up the road, but he was sitting in a line of shade cast by a tree trunk. Villars was still burning; all the guns were silent.

Afraid he might encounter more Germans, Hubert left the road and entered a small wood. Now and again he stopped, wondering where he was. There was no doubt whatsoever that the motor convoys that had taken only five days to invade half of France would reach the borders of Italy, Switzerland, Spain by tomorrow. He wouldn't be able to escape them. He had forgotten that he wasn't wearing a uniform, that nothing showed he'd been fighting. He was sure he'd be taken prisoner. He kept running, following the same instincts that had taken him to the battleground and that now led him far from the fires, the destroyed bridges, the dreams in which, for the first time in his life, he had come face to face with death. He spent the night frantically trying to work out which route the Germans might take. He could picture the towns falling, one after the other, the defeated soldiers, the discarded weapons, the trucks abandoned on the road for lack of petrol, the tanks, the big guns (whose toy models he had so admired) and all the treasure fallen into enemy hands! He was shaking, crying as he crawled on his hands and knees through the moonlit fields, but still he wouldn't believe they'd been defeated: a healthy young boy always refuses to believe in death. The soldiers would meet up again a bit further away, they'd regroup, do battle once more and he'd be with them. And he'd be . . . with them . . .

But what have I I done? he thought all of a sudden. I haven't fired a single shot! He felt so ashamed of himself that he started crying again, bitter, painful tears. "It's not my fault, I didn't have any weapons, just my own two hands." Suddenly he pictured himself trying in vain to drag the bundle of wood to the river. No, he hadn't even been able to do that, he who'd wanted to rush the bridge, lead the soldiers, throw himself on the enemy tanks and die shouting done? he thought all of a sudden. I haven't fired a single shot! He felt so ashamed of himself that he started crying again, bitter, painful tears. "It's not my fault, I didn't have any weapons, just my own two hands." Suddenly he pictured himself trying in vain to drag the bundle of wood to the river. No, he hadn't even been able to do that, he who'd wanted to rush the bridge, lead the soldiers, throw himself on the enemy tanks and die shouting "Vive la France!" "Vive la France!" He was wild with exhaustion and despair, yet nevertheless some oddly mature ideas pa.s.sed through his mind: he thought about the disaster, what had caused it, the future, death. Then he wondered about himself, what would become of him and, little by little, he came back to reality. "Mother is going to be furious!" he muttered and his pale, tense face, which seemed to have aged and grown thin in only two days, lit up for a second as he grinned in an innocent childlike way. He was wild with exhaustion and despair, yet nevertheless some oddly mature ideas pa.s.sed through his mind: he thought about the disaster, what had caused it, the future, death. Then he wondered about himself, what would become of him and, little by little, he came back to reality. "Mother is going to be furious!" he muttered and his pale, tense face, which seemed to have aged and grown thin in only two days, lit up for a second as he grinned in an innocent childlike way.

He found a track between two fields, which led deeper into the countryside. Here there were no signs of war. Streams flowed, a nightingale sang, a bell chimed the hours, there were flowers in all the hedges, young green leaves on the trees. He washed his hands and face in a stream, drank some water from his cupped hands and felt better. He desperately tried to find some fruit on the trees. He knew very well it was the wrong time of year, but the young believe in miracles. At the end of the track he was back on the main road. There was a sign: CRESSANGE, CRESSANGE, 22 22 KILOMETRES. KILOMETRES. He stopped in confusion, then saw a farm. After hesitating for a long time, he finally brought himself to knock on the shutter. He heard footsteps inside the house. They asked who he was. When he said he was lost and hungry, they let him in. Three French soldiers were asleep inside. He recognised them. They had defended the bridge at Moulins. Now they were stretched out on benches, snoring, their filthy haggard faces thrown back as if they were dead. A woman watched over them, knitting; a cat chased her ball of wool as it rolled along the floor. The scene was at once so familiar and so strange after everything Hubert had seen during the past week that his legs gave way under him and he had to sit down. On the table he saw the soldiers' helmets; they had covered them with leaves to stop the moonlight reflecting off them. He stopped in confusion, then saw a farm. After hesitating for a long time, he finally brought himself to knock on the shutter. He heard footsteps inside the house. They asked who he was. When he said he was lost and hungry, they let him in. Three French soldiers were asleep inside. He recognised them. They had defended the bridge at Moulins. Now they were stretched out on benches, snoring, their filthy haggard faces thrown back as if they were dead. A woman watched over them, knitting; a cat chased her ball of wool as it rolled along the floor. The scene was at once so familiar and so strange after everything Hubert had seen during the past week that his legs gave way under him and he had to sit down. On the table he saw the soldiers' helmets; they had covered them with leaves to stop the moonlight reflecting off them.

One of the men woke up and pushed himself up on to his elbow. "Did you see any, lad?" he asked in a low hoa.r.s.e voice.

Hubert realised he meant the Germans. "No," he said quickly, "no, not one since Moulins."

"Seems like they don't even want prisoners any more," the soldier said. "Too many. They just take their guns and tell them to b.u.g.g.e.r off."

"Seems like it," said the woman.

They fell silent. Hubert ate what they'd given him: a bowl of soup and some cheese. "What are you going to do now?" he asked the soldier.

His friend had opened his eyes. They debated. One wanted to go to Cressange.

"What for?" the other one replied, sounding devastated. "They're everywhere, everywhere . . ." He looked around him with the sad, frightened eyes of a stunned bird.

He seemed convinced there were Germans all around, ready to capture him. Now and again he let out a sort of clipped, bitter laugh. "Good G.o.d, to have fought in '14 and then see this . . ."

The woman kept on knitting calmly. She was very old and had on a white fluted bonnet. "I saw '70. Now then . . ." she muttered. saw '70. Now then . . ." she muttered.

Hubert listened to them in horror. They hardly seemed real to him, more like groaning ghosts conjured up from the pages of his History of France History of France. My G.o.d! The present with all its tragedy was more important than the glories of the past and its stench of blood. Hubert drank a cup of hot black coffee, despite the grounds. Then, thanking the woman and saying goodbye to the soldiers, he set off, determined to make it to Cressange by morning. From there he could get in touch with his family to let them know he was all right. At eight in the morning he found himself in front of a hotel in a small village a few kilometres from Cressange; he could smell the delicious aroma of coffee and fresh bread coming from inside. Suddenly Hubert felt he couldn't go on, that his legs wouldn't carry him. He walked into the hotel where he found a large room full of refugees. No one could tell him if there were any beds. The owner had gone to see if she could find some food for this horde of hungry people; she'd be back soon. He went back out into the street.

Up on the first floor a woman sat at a window putting on make-up. Her lipstick clattered to the ground at Hubert's feet and he quickly picked it up. Leaning out to look for it, the woman saw him and smiled. "How can I get it back?" she asked. And she dangled her bare arm, her white hand, out of the window.

Hubert was dazzled by the sunlight glinting off her polished nails. Her milky-white skin, her red hair were almost painful to him, like a blinding light. "I . . . I could bring it to you, Madame," he stammered, lowering his eyes.

"Oh, yes please, if you wouldn't mind," she said and smiled again.

He went back into the building, through the breakfast room and up a small, dark staircase. Through an open door he saw a pink room. In fact, the pink was the effect of sunlight filtering through cheap red curtains and filling the room with a warm, vibrant light the colour of rose bushes.

The woman, who was polishing her nails, showed him in and took the lipstick. "Oh, he's going to faint!" she said, looking at him. Hubert felt her take his hand and help him walk a few steps to a chair; she slipped a pillow under his head. His heart was pounding, but he hadn't lost consciousness. Everything was whirling around as if he were seasick, and great waves of hot and cold ran through him, one after the other.

He felt intimidated but rather proud of himself. When she asked him, "Are you tired? Hungry? What's wrong, my poor darling?" he exaggerated the trembling in his voice: "It's nothing," he replied, "it's just . . . I walked here from Moulins where we were defending the bridge."

She looked at him, surprised. "But how old are you?"

"Eighteen," he lied.