Suite Francaise Part 8

Monsieur Pericand made a feeble attempt at saying his name louder, to emphasise its importance, but had to pause for breath, making it impossible for him to enunciate the prestigious syllables individually. His purple hands fluttered for a moment over the sheets, like puppets: he thought he was writing thick black marks on white paper, as he had in the past, when he signed cards, bonds, sales doc.u.ments, contracts: Pericand . . . Pe-ri-cand, Louis-Auguste.

"Residing at?"

"18 Boulevard Delessert, Paris."

"In ill health, but sound of mind, he comes before the notary and witnesses," said Charboeuf, glancing up at the sick man and looking doubtful.

He was overwhelmed by this dying man. He was fairly experienced; his clients were mainly local farmers, but all rich men make their wills the same way. This was a rich man, there was no doubt about it. Even though he was wearing one of the nursing home's coa.r.s.e nightshirts, it was clear he was someone important. To be of service like this to him on his deathbed-Maitre Charboeuf felt honoured. "Do you wish, Monsieur, to name your son as sole beneficiary?"

"Yes, I bequeath all my worldly goods and possessions to Adrien Pericand, with instructions for him to deposit immediately and without delay five million to the charitable inst.i.tution I founded, known as the Penitent Children of the 16th Arrondiss.e.m.e.nt. This inst.i.tution is instructed to commission an excellent artist to paint a life-size portrait of me on my deathbed, or to sculpt a bust that is a good likeness of me, and to place it in the entrance hall of the aforementioned establishment. To my dearly beloved sister Adele-Emilienne-Louise, to compensate her for the feud caused by the inheritance left me by our venerable mother, Henriette Maltete, I do bequeath as hers and hers alone the property I own in Dunkerque bought in 1912 with all its existing buildings and that portion of the docks which also belongs to me. I entrust my son with the responsibility of carrying out this wish. I desire that my chateau in Bleoville, in the Vorhange region in Calvados, be turned into a home for former soldiers severely wounded in the war, preferably for those who have been paralysed or have suffered mental breakdowns. I desire that a simple plaque be displayed on the wall inscribed with the words 'Pericand-Maltete Charitable Inst.i.tution, in memory of his two sons killed in Champagne.' When the war is over . . ."

"I think . . . I think it is is over," Maitre Charboeuf shyly interjected. over," Maitre Charboeuf shyly interjected.

But he didn't realise that Monsieur Pericand was thinking about the last war, the one that had taken two sons from him and tripled his fortune. He was back in September 1918, just after their victory, when he had nearly died of a bout of pneumonia and when, in the presence of his family gathered at his bedside (all the relatives from the north and south had rushed to be there when they heard the news), he had performed what turned out to be a rehearsal of his death: he had dictated his last wishes then and they had remained intact within him until now, when he could give them life.

"When the war is over, I wish a monument to be built to honour the dead for which I bequeath the sum of three thousand francs to be taken from my estate and to be erected on the town square in Bleoville. At the top, in large gold letters, the names of my two oldest sons, then a s.p.a.ce, then . . ." he closed his eyes, exhausted, ". . . then all the other names in small letters . . ."

He was silent for such a long time that the notary looked anxiously at the Sisters. Was he . . . ? Was it all over already? But Sister Marie of the Cherubins calmly shook her head. He wasn't dead yet. He was thinking. In his motionless body, his memory was travelling through immense spans of time and s.p.a.ce: "Almost all of my fortune is tied up in American stocks and bonds, which I was advised would be a good investment. I don't believe it any more." He shook his beard mournfully. "I don't believe it any more. I wish my son to convert them immediately into French francs. There is also some gold, but it's not worth keeping. It should be sold. A copy of my portrait should also be placed in the chateau in Bleoville in the downstairs ballroom. I bequeath to my faithful valet an annual income of one thousand francs for the rest of his life. As for my future great-grandchildren, I wish their parents to name the boys Louis-Auguste and the girls Louise-Augustine after me."

"Is that everything?" Maitre Charboeuf asked.

He bowed his long beard, indicating yes, that was everything. For a few moments that seemed brief to the notary, the witnesses and the Sisters, but to him were as long as a century, as long as delirium, as long as a dream, Monsieur Pericand-Maltete moved back in time to recall the life he had been given on this earth: the family dinners, the Boulevard Delessert, naps in the drawing room, Albert the cat on his lap; the last time he saw his older brother when they had parted vowing never to have anything more to do with each other (and he had secretly bought back the shares in that deal). Jeanne, his wife in Bleoville, hunched up with rheumatism, lying on a cane chaise longue in the garden, holding a paper fan (she died a week later), and Jeanne, in Bleoville, thirty-five years earlier, just after their wedding, when some bees had come in through the open window and were gathering pollen from the lilies in her bridal bouquet and the garland of orange blossom thrown at the foot of the bed. Jeanne had rushed into his arms, laughing, so he could protect her . . .

Then he was certain he could feel death approaching. He made a startled little gesture (as if he was trying to get through a door that was too narrow for him, saying, "No, please, after you") and a look of surprise appeared on his face. "Is this what it is?" he seemed to say. "So this is death, then?" The surprise on his face faded and he looked stern, solemn.

Maitre Charboeuf wrote very quickly, ". . . When the Testator was handed the pen to affix his signature to this Last Will and Testament, he tried to lift his head, but could not, and immediately breathed his last, in the presence of the notary and the witnesses, who nevertheless, after reading the doc.u.ment, signed their names to render the doc.u.ment legal."

24.

Jean-Marie, meanwhile, was starting to come round. He had drifted in and out of sleep for four days, semi-conscious and feverish. It was only today he felt a bit stronger. A doctor had been able to come the night before to change the dressing; his temperature had dropped. From where he was lying on the bed, he could see a large, dark kitchen, the white hat on an old woman who was sitting in the corner, beautifully shiny pots on the wall and a calendar depicting a chubby-cheeked French soldier hugging two young women from Alsace, a souvenir of the previous war. It was strange to see how the memories of the last war were still so alive in this house. Four pictures of men in uniform had pride of place: a small tricolour ribbon and a crepe rosetta were pinned up in a corner; and next to him, to keep him from getting bored during the long hours of his convalescence, was a collection of the 191418 editions of L'Ill.u.s.tration L'Ill.u.s.tration bound in green and black. bound in green and black.

He kept overhearing the same phrases in the conversations around him: "Verdun, Charleroi, the Marne . . . ," "During the other war . . . ," "When I was part of the occupying forces in Mulhouse . . ." They hardly spoke about the present war, their defeat. It was something they couldn't quite believe yet. Something that would only become a living, horrible reality a few months later, perhaps a few years later, perhaps not until these little boys with dirty faces that Jean-Marie could see peering over the wooden gate in front of the door grew into men. Wearing torn straw hats, their cheeks rosy or dark-skinned, holding long green sticks, frightened, curious, they stood on tip-toes to make themselves tall enough to see the wounded soldier inside, and when Jean-Marie moved they disappeared, like frogs jumping into the water. Sometimes the open gate let in a chicken, a ferocious old dog, an enormous turkey. Jean-Marie only saw his hosts at mealtimes. During the day, the old woman in the white hat tended to him. In the evening, two young women would sit with him. One was called Cecile, the other Madeleine. For a long time he thought they were sisters. But no. Cecile was the farmer's daughter and Madeleine was a foster-child. Both of them were attractive, not beautiful but fresh-faced. Cecile had a round red face and lively brown eyes; Madeleine was more delicate, a blonde with bright cheeks, smooth as satin and pink as apple blossom.

From the young women he learned what had happened that week. As they spoke about it, in their slightly harsh accent, all those terribly serious events lost their tragic element. "It's really sad," they would say and, "It's not very nice to see things like that" . . . "Oh, Monsieur! It's really upsetting!" He wondered if all the people here spoke like them, or whether it was something much deeper, rooted in the very souls of these girls, in their youth, some instinct that told them that wars end and invaders leave, that even when distorted, even when mutilated, life goes on. His own mother, knitting while the soup was cooking, would sigh and say, "Nineteen-fourteen? That's the year your father and I got married. We were miserable by the end of it, but very happy at the beginning." Even that bleak year was sweetened, bathed in the reflection of their love.

In the same way, he thought, the summer of 1940 would remain in the memories of these young women as the summer they were twenty, in spite of everything. He didn't want to think; thinking was worse than physical pain, but everything flooded back, everything went round and round in his head endlessly: being called back from leave on 15 May, those four days in Angers, no trains running any more, soldiers lying on wooden boards, being bitten by insects, then the air raids, the bombings, the battle of Rethel, the retreat, the battle of the Somme, another retreat, days when they had fled from city to city, without officers, without orders, without weapons, and finally the train compartment in flames. He tossed and turned, groaning. He didn't know if the fighting was real, or if it was all a confusing dream born of his thirst and high fever. Come on, it wasn't possible . . . There are some things that just aren't possible . . . Hadn't someone said something about Sedan? That was in 1870. He could picture it still: it was at the top of the page, in the history book with the reddish cloth cover. It was . . . He quietly p.r.o.nounced the words: "Sedan, the defeat at Sedan . . . the disastrous battle of Sedan decided the outcome of the war . . ." On the wall above him the image on the calender, the smiling rosy-cheeked soldier with the two women from Alsace who were showing off their white stockings . . . Yes, all that was a dream, the past and he . . . he started trembling and said, "Thank you, it's nothing, thank you, please don't trouble yourself . . ." while they slipped a hot-water bottle under his heavy, stiff legs.

"You seem better tonight."

"I feel better," he replied.

He asked for a mirror and smiled when he saw the black beard on his chin.

"I'll have to shave tomorrow . . ."

"If you're strong enough. Who do you want to look handsome for?"

"For you."

They laughed and moved closer. They were curious to know where he came from, where he'd been wounded. Now and again, feeling guilty, they would stop talking. "Oh, but you mustn't let us chatter on . . . you'll get tired . . . then we'll start arguing, we will . . . It's Michaud, your name? . . . Jean-Marie?"

"Yes."

"Are you from Paris? What do you do? Are you a worker? Of course not! I can tell by your hands. You work in business or maybe in the government?"

"Just a student."

"Oh! You study? Why?"

"My goodness," he said after thinking a moment, "I wonder why myself sometimes!"

It was funny . . . he and his friends had worked, sat and pa.s.sed exams, earned diplomas, all the time knowing it was pointless, it wouldn't do them any good because there would be a war . . . Their future had been mapped out in advance, their careers were made in heaven, just like they used to say that "marriages were made in heaven." He had been conceived while his father was home on leave in 1915. He was born out of the war and (he had always known it) war would be his fate. There was nothing morbid in this idea; he shared it with many boys his age; it was simply logical and reasonable. But, he said to himself, the worst is over now, and that changes everything. Once again there is a future. The war is over-terrible, shameful, but over. And . . . there is hope . . .

"I wanted to write books," he said shyly, expressing to these country girls, these strangers, a wish buried deep in his heart that had barely taken shape in his mind.

Then he wanted to know the name of the place, the farm where he was.

"It's far from everywhere," said Cecile, "the middle of nowhere. Oh, it's not usually much fun, I can tell you. The more we look after the animals, the more like them we become, right, Madeleine?"

"Have you been here a long time, Mademoiselle Madeleine?"

"I was three weeks old. Cecile's mother brought the two of us up together. We're sisters, 'cause we nursed from the same mother."

"I can see you get along well together."

"We don't always think alike," said Cecile. "She'd like to become a nun!"

"Sometimes . . ." said Madeleine, smiling.

She had a pretty smile, unhurried and a little shy.

I wonder where she came from, Jean-Marie thought. Her hands were red but they were graceful, like her ankles and legs. A foster-child . . . He felt a little curious and a bit sorry for her. He was grateful to her for the hazy daydreams she inspired in him. They were a diversion, they prevented him from thinking about himself, about the war. It was just a shame he felt so weak. It was difficult to laugh, to joke with them . . . and that must be what they were hoping for. In the countryside, it was commonplace for young girls and boys to tease one another . . . It was their custom, it was what they did. They would be disappointed and upset if he didn't laugh with them.

He made an effort to smile.

"A boy will come along who will make you change your mind, Mademoiselle Madeleine. Then you won't want to be a nun any more!"

"It's true, it comes over me sometimes, it does . . ."

"When?"

"Oh, I don't know . . . on sad days . . ."

"As for boys, well, there aren't many around here," said Cecile. "I told you we're in the middle of nowhere. The few there are get taken by the war. So then what? Oh, it's really bad luck being a girl!"

"Everyone," said Madeleine, "has some bad luck." She had sat down next to the wounded young man, but suddenly she got up. "Cecile, did you forget! The floor's not been washed."

"It's your turn."

"Oh, really! You've got some nerve! It's your your turn!" turn!"

They argued for a few minutes, then did the job together. They were amazingly skilful and lively. Soon the cool water made the red flagstones shine. The smell of gra.s.s, milk and wild mint drifted in from the doorway. Jean-Marie rested his cheek on his hand. It was strange, the contrast between this absolute serenity and the turmoil within him, for the unbearable din of the last six days had remained in his ears and it only took a moment of silence for it all to rise up again: the sound of twisting metal, the dull, slow beating of an iron hammer on an enormous anvil . . . He winced and started sweating all over . . . train compartments being machine-gunned, the crash of collapsing beams drowning out people's screams.

"Even so," he said out loud, "I just have to put that out of my mind, don't I?"

"What's that? Do you need something?"

He didn't reply. Suddenly he didn't recognise Cecile and Madeleine. They shook their heads, dismayed.

"It's his fever getting worse."

"And you made him talk too much!"

"Are you having me on! He didn't say a word. We were the ones talking the whole time!"

"It wore him out."

Madeleine leaned down over him. He saw her pink cheek right next to his, caught its scent of strawberries and kissed it. She stood back blushing and laughing, fixing some locks of hair that had fallen down.

"All right, all right now, you scared me . . . You're not as sick as all that!"

"Who on earth is this girl?" he thought. He had kissed her as if he were bringing a gla.s.s of cool water to his lips. He was on fire. His throat, the inside of his mouth seemed to crack from the heat, dried out by the intensity of the flames. This bright, soft skin quenched his thirst. At the same time he felt totally lucid, with the kind of lucidity that comes from sleeplessness and fever. He had forgotten the names of these young girls and his own. The mental effort it took to understand his present condition, in this place he didn't recognise, was too difficult for him. He wore himself out trying, but in the meantime his soul drifted light and serene, like a fish in the water, like a bird blown along by the wind. He didn't see himself, Jean-Marie, but someone else, a nameless soldier, defeated, but refusing to give up hope, a wounded young man who did not want to die, a desperate man who refused to despair. "Even so, we have to make it through . . . we have to get away, from this blood, from this mud dragging us down . . . We're not just going to lie down and die . . . Are we, well, are we? That would be too ridiculous. We have to hang on . . . hang on . . . hang on . . ." he muttered, and when he came to, eyes wide open, clinging to his bolster, sitting up in bed, he gazed at the night with its full moon, the silent, sweet-smelling night, the sparkling night, so gentle after the heat of the day and which, for once, the farmhouse welcomed through its open doors and windows so it could refresh and bring peace to the suffering man.

25.

When Father Pericand found himself forced to continue the journey on foot, the boys filing after him, each carrying a blanket and haversack and dragging their feet in the dust, he had decided to head away from the Loire, an area fraught with danger, towards the woods; but soldiers had already set up camp there and, since planes were bound to spot them from the air, the danger seemed just as great amid the trees as on the river banks. And so, leaving the main road, he took a path covered with stones, virtually a footpath, trusting his instinct to lead him to some isolated house, just as when, in the mountains, he led his group of skiers towards a refuge hidden by the fog or snowstorm. It was a beautiful June day, so brilliant and hot that the boys felt intoxicated. Silent until now and well-behaved, too well-behaved, they began jostling each other, shouting, and Father Pericand could hear laughter and s.n.a.t.c.hes of whispered songs. He listened more closely and, hearing an obscene refrain mumbled behind him, as if through half-closed lips, he suggested they all sing a song together. He struck up, energetically enunciating the words, but only a few voices joined in. After some moments everyone fell silent. He too walked on without speaking, wondering what this sudden freedom might awaken within these poor children, what disturbing desires? What dreams? One of the younger ones stopped suddenly and cried, "A lizard, oh! A lizard! Look!" In the sunshine, between two rocks, agile tails appeared, disappeared; they could see their delicate flat heads; their throats pulsating in and out to a rapid, frightened beat. The boys watched, entranced. Some of them even knelt down on the path. The priest waited a few moments, then waved to them to move on. The children meekly got up, but at that very moment pebbles flew out of their hands with such dexterity, such surprising speed, that two of the lizards-the most beautiful, the biggest, their skin a delicate blue-grey colour-were killed on the spot.

"Why did you do that?" the priest exclaimed, upset.

No one replied.

"Well, why? What a spineless act!"

"But they're like snakes, they bite," said a boy with a long pointed nose and a pale, dazed expression.

"Don't be ridiculous! Lizards are harmless."

"Oh! We didn't know, Father," he replied in a sly voice, with a feigned innocence that didn't fool the priest.

But he knew it was neither the time nor the place to insist; he just nodded briefly as if he were satisfied with the answer and added, "Well, now you know."

He organised them into lines to follow him. Until now he had let them walk as they liked, but he suddenly thought that some of them might try to run away. They obeyed him so perfectly, so mechanically-no doubt used to hearing the whistle blow, to standing in line, to being docile, to enforced silence-that it broke his heart. He glanced at their faces, which had suddenly became glum and lifeless-as closed as a house when the door is locked, the life within withdrawn, absent or dead.

"We'd better hurry up if we want to find shelter tonight," he said. "As soon as I know where we'll be sleeping and after we eat (you'll be getting hungry soon!) we can make a campfire and you can stay outdoors as long as you like."

He walked among them, talked to them about his young boys from the Auvergne, about skiing, mountain climbing, trying to interest them, to get closer to them. All in vain. They didn't even seem to be listening; he realised that anything he said to them-encouragement, reprimands, information-would never sink in, for their souls were shut off, walled up, secret and silent.

"If only I could look after them for longer," he thought to himself. But in his heart he knew he didn't really want to. He only wanted one thing: to be rid of them as soon as possible, to be relieved of his responsibility and this feeling of unease he felt weighing down on him. The duty of love which, until now, he had felt was almost simple, so great was the Grace of G.o.d within him, now seemed almost impossible to feel. "Even though," he thought humbly, "it would mean that, for the first time perhaps, I would really have to try, it would be a true sacrifice. How weak I am!"

He called over one of the younger boys who was always lagging behind. "Are you tired? Do your shoes hurt?"

Yes, he had guessed correctly: the lad's shoes were too tight and hurting him. He took his hand to help him, talking to him quietly and, since the boy was slouching-his shoulders stooped, his back round-the priest gently placed two fingers round his neck and pulled him up straight. The young boy didn't resist. In fact, with a distant, indifferent look on his face, he leaned his neck against the hand that held it, and this light, insistent pressure, this strange, ambiguous caress (or rather this expectation of a caress) made the priest blush. He took the child by the chin and tried to look into his eyes, but his eyelids were lowered and he couldn't see into them.

He walked faster, trying to collect himself with an internal dialogue, as he always did at sad moments. It wasn't exactly what you'd call a prayer. Often it wasn't even a collection of words recognisable ashuman speech. It was a kind of intangible meditation from which heemerged bathed in joy and peace. But both abandoned him today. Thepity he felt was corrupted by a stirring of anxiety and bitterness. It wasonly too clear that these poor wretches were lacking Grace: His Grace.He wanted to be able to shower them with Grace, inundate their barrenhearts with love and faith. It would take but a sigh from our CrucifiedLord, the flutter of a wing from one of His angels to bring about themiracle, but nevertheless he, Philippe Pericand, had been chosen by G.o.dto soften them, to unlock their souls, to prepare them to receive G.o.d. Hesuffered because he was incapable of bringing it about. He had beenspared the moments of doubt and the sudden hardening of the soul thattake hold of some believers, abandoning them, not in the hands of theprinces of this world, but in a terrible darkness halfway between Satanand G.o.d.

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 G.o.d, 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 h.o.a.rds 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 G.o.d 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 b.u.mblebees 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 gra.s.s 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 chateau, 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 gra.s.s was so high it came up to their knees and they crushed flowers underfoot. Philippe showed them the flowers a.s.sociated 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 those must have taken a lot of time and effort," he said, pointing to the flower beds planted all around the chateau. must have taken a lot of time and effort," he said, pointing to the flower beds planted all around the chateau.