Anais moved in the direction of the window and said in a hesitating voice:
“Instead of asking for so much all at once, don’t you think it might be better to wait until they’re married?” Noel, his razor in the air, turned and looked at his sister with a sardonic grin:
“Married! That’ll be the year the pigs sprout wings!” Zephe gazed at him frowning. He knew as well as Noel what Valtier’s interest in Marguerite amounted to, but he did not like to hear it put into words. He was at all times a believer in strict verbal discretion, knowing by experience that even the most dubious circumstances can remain unembarrassing if they are referred to with circumspection. He knew the value of politeness, and would have been capable of passing his life in pretended ignorance of the fact that his neighbour was a criminal. It was customary in his presence to refer to Valtier as Marguerite’s fiance. The pious fiction deceived no one except Anai's, and even she did not believe in any serious engagement, but thought rather of a romantic attachment, advantageous for her daughter, which owing to social differences could not be officially ratified.
The two men put on their clean shirts and sat down on either side of the window to wait for Juliette’s arrival, both a little uncomfortable at finding themselves so spick and span on a week-day.
“You’d think they were going to have their photographs taken!” said Marguerite.
Anais, who had never been photographed, and who since the previous day had thought much about the Hau-douins’ album, asked again to be told about it.
“Is there a picture of Alexis in it?” asked Tintin.
“Of course there is,” said his sister. “They’re all in it, even the old ones who are dead.”
“I’d so much like to see it,” said Anais.
Zephe was also curious. He questioned his daughter, trying to picture the family groups from his own recollections.
“Jules Haudouin was a sly, tough old devil,” he said. “Honore isn’t much like him.”
“There are quite a lot of pictures of Honore in the album. There’s one where he’s dressed as a sharpshooter.”
Zephe stood up to banish a troublesome thought.
“You weren’t a sharpshooter,” said Tintin, with a hint of reproach.
“Me?” said Zephe, with a short laugh. “I should think not! A gang of roughs who went round drinking and looting, that’s all they were! They got themselves such a bad name that people were glad when the Prussians arrived. I heard that they had a party in the church at Chassenay that went on for three days, with whores from Saint-' Margelon. Puffed up like turkeys just because they were armed! That just about suited Honore, being with that lot! If he didn’t get shot, it’s not because he didn’t deserve it a dozen times over!”
“Come now,” said Anais. “There’s no harm in Honore.”
“A dozen times over he deserved it — and worse! — and he still does, and what’s more he’ll get it!. Zephe laughed silently and added, lowering his voice. “Yes, he’ll get it, all right. . We might have a word with his Juliette about that, eh?”
He was looking at his son. The little laugh was repeated, half-threatening, half a question. Marguerite’s cheeks grew hot. She, too, laughed, and said as she looked at him:
“A lot of talk!. . But that’s all it’ll come to. .
Noel got up abruptly and took a step towards his father. He seemed about to say something, but then turned and sat down again without having spoken a word. For a moment silence reigned in the kitchen, and all the Malorets were hot-cheeked, their hearts beating. Zephe turned to Tintin and said tersely:
“Clear out! You’ve no business in here.”
Tintin reluctantly obeyed. His mother followed a minute later with a basket on her arm. Marguerite sat on the corner of the table listening to the sound of her footsteps dying away; then she murmured with her arms crossed on her bosom:
“She’s grown up to be such a fine, pretty girl — so pretty!. .”
Leaving the lane lined with apple-trees, Anals went along the road, Juliette, coming level with the Messelons’ house, called to her at a distance. Anai's flushed and hurried on. When Juliette called again she looked round but did not stop.
“I’ve got to run out!” she cried, waving her basket. “Where’s Marguerite?”
“She’s waiting for you in the house.”
Entering the Malorets’ yard. Juliette saw that the kitchen shutters were drawn to. She crossed the yard and pulled them open with a sudden movement, disclosing the two men seated on either side of the window with their backs to her. They stood up together, embarrassed at having been caught in this attitude of waiting.
“I see you’ve made yourselves beautiful!” said Juliette, laughing.
She gazed at them, affecting an air of amused interest. Zephe, appearing to be unconscious of it, said amiably:
“Come in. Marguerite hasn’t quite finished dressing. You don’t want to wait out there in the sun.”
Noel nodded agreement.
“I don’t mind the sun,” said Juliette, “but seeing you’ve cleaned yourselves up to receive me I won’t stay outside.”
Leaving the window, she made for the door, pushing it open with a nonchalant gesture. She found, as she entered the kitchen, that the shutters had been drawn to again, and her heart beat a little faster.
“One has to try and keep the place cool in this heat,” said Zephe.
The two men were standing together near the window, scarcely visible in the half-darkness except for the white splashes of their shirts.
“Sit down,” said Noel, pushing a chair towards her. “No need to go on standing.”
Juliette refused, but amicably. She had been surprised by an unexpected note of gentleness in Noel’s voice, matching the mystery of the half-darkness; and she was suddenly troubled by the presence of the two slow-moving men, and the calm, like the stillness of deep water, prevailing in the shadowy, cool kitchen. The assurance born of the bright sunshine was leaving her, a sudden weakness was entering her bones and her flesh. Noel was talking in the same slow and gentle voice of heat and of drought. The two white shirts were motionless, but they seemed to have drawn a little closer together, and it was as though a separate conversation were going on between them, between Noel and his father. And Juliette grew apprehensive not only of what might happen but of what might not happen because of the passing of time, the shyness of Noel, the uncertainty of both men. She dared not speak, lest with her own words she should break the spell that had overtaken her. As Noel fell silent Zephe talked in his turn of the harvest and of threshing. She listened to the alternating murmur of their voices filling the kitchen with a monotonous soft echo, and she listened to the voiceless conversation, question and answer, in which all three were now joined. Still silent she moved three paces towards the other end of the room, where she could see the white coverlet of the bed. She stopped. The men stayed where they were. She took three more paces, reaching the end of the long table, and murmured: