Outside, her carriage, drawn by two old horses and driven by a coachman almost as fat as Madame Craquant herself, waited, flies buzzing around in the heat.
This year, everything was at sixes and sevens. The Péricands, who had fled to Nîmes after the events of June, had just learned of the deaths of the old Monsieur Péricand-Maltête and Philippe. News of the first had been conveyed by the Sisters in the nursing home where the old gentleman had had, according to Sister Marie of the Sacred Sacrament's letter, "a good death, very comforting, very Christian." She had even been so kind as to describe in the most minute detail the contents of his Last Will and Testament, which would be written up as soon as possible.
Madame Péricand read and reread the final sentence of the letter and sighed, a look of anxiety spreading across her face, only to be replaced, a moment later, with the expression of contrition a good Christian feels when she learns that someone she loves has gone to find peace with the Good Lord. "Your grandfather is with Jesus, children," she said.
Two hours later, the second blow to strike the family was revealed, but in less detail. The mayor of a little village in the Loiret informed them that Father Philippe Péricand had been killed in an accident and sent them papers that confirmed his identity beyond a doubt. As for the thirty wards in his care, they had disappeared. Since half of France was looking for the other half, this surprised no one. There was mention of a truck which had fallen in the river, not far from where Philippe had met his death, and his relations remained convinced that this had something to do with him and his unfortunate orphans. To cap it all, Madame Péricand was told that Hubert had been killed at the Battle of Moulins. This time the catastrophe was complete. The intensity of her sorrow caused her to cry out in proud despair.
"I gave birth to a saint and a hero," she said. "Our sons are making sacrifices for other people's sons." And she looked darkly at her cousin Craquant whose only child had managed to get a peaceful little post in the home guard in Toulouse. "Dear Odette, my heart is breaking. You know that I lived only for my children, that I was a mother, nothing but a mother" (Madame Craquant, who had been a trifle frivolous in her youth, lowered her head), "but I swear to you, the pride I feel makes me forget my bereavement."
She drew herself up and, already imagining the black veil fluttering around her, showed her cousin to the door with pride and dignity.
"You are a true Catholic." Odette sighed humbly.
"Just a good Frenchwoman," Madame Péricand replied drily, turning her back.
This conversation had lessened her sorrow slightly. She had always respected Philippe and in some way understood he was not of this world. She knew that, if he had renounced his dream of being a missionary, it was out of humility and that he had chosen to serve God in the way that was the most difficult for him: by subjecting himself to the most commonplace duties. She was certain her son was with Jesus. (When she said the same thing about her father-in-law, it was with a secret doubt for which she reproached herself, but there it was…) But Philippe… "I can see him as if I were there," she thought. Yes, she could be proud of Philippe and the radiance of his soul reflected back on to her.
Whereas when she thought of Hubert she felt a strange turmoil. Hubert, who failed miserably at school, who bit his nails, Hubert with his ink-stained fingers, his lovely chubby face, his wide young mouth, for Hubert to die a hero was… inconceivable… When she talked to her sympathetic friends about how Hubert had left ("I tried to stop him, but I saw how impossible it was. He was a child, but a courageous child, and he has given his life for the honour of France. As Rostand said, 'It is even more beautiful because it is pointless.'"), she found that she was rewriting the past. She actually believed she had said all these proud words, that she had sent her son off to war.
Nîmes, which had looked upon her until now rather bitterly, felt a respect for this sorrowful mother that was almost affectionate.
"The whole town will be there today," old Madame Craquant sighed with melancholy satisfaction.
It was 31 July. Their Mass for the Dead was due to be celebrated at ten o'clock, with three names tragically added.
"Oh, Mother, what does it matter?" replied Madame Péricand, and it was impossible to tell if she was referring to the uselessness of such consolation or to the very poor opinion she had of her fellow citizens.
The town gleamed beneath the blazing sun. In the poor districts, a dry and insidious wind rattled the bead curtains in doorways. The flies bit; you could smell a storm coming. Nîmes, normally sleepy at this time of year, was crowded with people. The refugees who had poured in were still there, unable to leave because of petrol shortages and the temporary closure of the border along the Loire. The streets and town squares had been transformed into parking lots. There was not a spare room anywhere.
People had been sleeping in the streets; the ultimate luxury was a bale of hay to use as a bed. The citizens of Nîmes were proud of themselves for having done their duty, and more, towards the refugees. They had welcomed them with open arms, pressed them against their bosoms. There was not a single family who had not offered hospitality to these poor people. It was just a shame that this state of affairs was dragging on so unreasonably long. There was also the matter of provisions, and you can't forget either, said the townspeople, that all these poor refugees, exhausted by their journey, would be susceptible to the most terrible epidemics. There were veiled hints in the press and more open, brutal demands from some quarters, urging the refugees to leave as soon as possible. But as yet, circumstances had prevented anyone from going anywhere.
Madame Craquant, who had her entire family living with her and was therefore able, head held high, to refuse to donate even a pair of sheets, rather enjoyed all this hustle and bustle, which she witnessed through her half-closed Venetian blinds. She was having her breakfast, along with the Péricand children, before going to church. Madame Péricand watched them eat. She did not touch her own food even though, thanks to the stock of supplies accumulated in her mother's enormous cupboards since war had been declared, it was more appetising than the usual rations.
Madame Craquant was troubled by her daughter's cold stare. A snow-white napkin covering her vast chest, she was polishing off her third piece of buttered toast when she felt a touch of indigestion. She put the toast down and looked at her daughter timidly. "I don't know why I'm eating, Charlotte," she said, "it's not going down well."
"You'll have to force yourself, Mother," replied Madame Péricand ironically, her voice as cold as ice. And she pushed the full jug of hot chocolate towards the old lady.
"All right then. Pour me another half-cup, Charlotte, but not more than half a cup now!"
"You know it's your third?"
But Madame Craquant seemed suddenly struck deaf. "Yes, yes," she said vaguely, nodding her head. "You're right, Charlotte, we must fortify ourselves before the sad ceremony." And she drank up the frothy chocolate with a sigh.
Meanwhile, the doorbell rang and one of the servants brought in a package for Madame Péricand. It contained photographs of Philippe and Hubert: she had sent them to be framed. She looked at them for a long time, then got up, put them down on the sideboard, stood back to see how they looked, went into her bedroom, and came back carrying two black rosettas and two red, white and blue ribbons. As she draped them over the picture frames, they heard Nanny sobbing in the doorway, Emmanuel in her arms. Jacqueline and Bernard also started crying.