Madame Péricand took the children by the hand, gently pulled them from their chairs and walked them over to the sideboard. "Just look at your two big brothers, my darlings! Ask the Good Lord to bless you so you might be like them. Try to be as good, as studious and obedient as they were. They were such good sons," said Madame Péricand, her voice choking with pain, "and I wouldn't be at all surprised if God has rewarded them by recognising them as martyrs. You mustn't cry. They are with the Good Lord; they are looking down on us, protecting us. They will be waiting for us in heaven, and in the meantime, here on earth, we must be proud of them, both as Christians and as citizens of France."
Everyone was crying now; even Madame Craquant had stopped drinking her hot chocolate and was looking for her handkerchief, her hands trembling. The photograph of Philippe was amazingly lifelike. It really captured his pure, intense expression, and he seemed to contemplate his family with that smile of his that was sweet, kind and loving.
"And when you say your prayers, you mustn't forget," Madame Péricand concluded, "those unfortunate children who died with him."
"But maybe they aren't all dead?"
"It's possible," Madame Péricand said vaguely, "very possible. Those poor children… On the other hand," she added, "that charitable institution really is a great responsibility," and her thoughts ran back to her father-in-law's Will.
Madame Craquant dried her eyes. "Little Hubert… he was so sweet, so funny. I remember one day when you were visiting, I'd fallen asleep in the sitting room after lunch, and that naughty boy goes and takes down the flypaper from the chandelier and quietly lowers it on to my head. I woke up and screamed… You certainly punished him that day, Charlotte."
"I don't remember," said Charlotte drily. "Now, come on, Mother, finish your hot chocolate; we have to hurry. The carriage is downstairs. It's nearly ten o'clock."
They went into the street, the grandmother first, puffing and leaning on her cane, then Madame Péricand, swathed in black crêpe, followed by her two children in black, Emmanuel in white, and a few of the servants, all in full mourning attire. The carriage was waiting. The driver was getting down from his seat to open the door when, suddenly, Emmanuel pointed a little finger towards the crowd. "Hubert! Look, it's Hubert!"
Turning automatically to look, Nanny blanched and let out a strangled cry: "Jesus, Blessed Virgin Mary!"
A sort of hoarse howl came from the mouth of Madame Péricand; she threw back her black veil, took a few steps towards Hubert, then slipped on the pavement and collapsed into the arms of the driver, who had rushed forward just in time to catch her.
It really was Hubert, a lock of hair in his eyes, skin as pink and golden as a nectarine, with no bags, no bicycle, no wounds, walking towards them with a huge grin on his face. "Hello, Mother, hello, Grandmother. How is everyone?"
"Is it you? Is it you? You're alive!" said Madame Craquant, laughing and crying at the same time. "Oh, my darling Hubert, I knew you couldn't really be dead! Dear God, you're too mischievous for that!"
Madame Péricand came round. "Hubert? Is it really you?" she stammered weakly.
Hubert was both pleased and embarrassed by this welcome. He took a few steps towards his mother and leaned over so she could kiss his cheeks (which she did, not knowing exactly what she was doing). Then he stood in front of her, shifting from one foot to the other just as he did when he failed Latin translation at school.
"Hubert," she sighed, and threw her arms round his neck, hanging on to him, showering him with kisses and tears. An emotional little crowd had gathered around them.
Hubert, who had no idea what to do, patted Madame Péricand's back, as if something had gone down the wrong way. "Weren't you expecting me?"
She shook her head.
"Were you going out?"
"My poor boy! We were going to the cathedral to say a Mass for your soul!"
Hubert was taken aback. "You're joking!"
"But where have you been? What have you been doing these past two months? We were told you'd been killed in Moulins."
"Well, you can see that wasn't true since I'm right here."
"But you did go and fight? Hubert, don't lie to me! Did you really have to go and do that, you little idiot. And what about your bicycle? Where's your bicycle?"
"Lost."
"Of course! This boy will be the death of me! Well, come on, speak, tell us, where were you?"
"I was trying to find you."
"You would have been better off not leaving us in the first place," said Madame Péricand harshly. Then, her voice breaking with emotion: "Your father will be so happy when he hears."
She burst into tears and started kissing him again. It was getting late now. But, even though she wiped her eyes, the tears kept falling. "Go on, then, go inside and get washed! Are you hungry?"
"No, I had a good lunch, thanks."
"Get a clean handkerchief, change your tie, wash your hands, make yourself decent, for goodness sake! Hurry up, and meet us at the cathedral."
"What? You're still going? Since I'm alive, wouldn't it be better to go and stuff ourselves at a restaurant instead?"
"Hubert!"
"What? Is it because I said 'stuff ourselves'?"
"No, but…"
It would be terrible to tell him, like this, in the middle of the street, she thought. She took his hand and pulled him inside the carriage. "My darling, there have been two great tragedies. First Grandpa, poor Grandpa died, and Philippe…"
He took the shock in an odd way. Two months earlier he would have burst into tears, big fat salty tears rolling down his pink cheeks. Now he went very pale and his face took on an expression she had never seen before: manly, almost harsh. "I don't much mind about Grandpa," he said after a long silence. "As for Philippe…"
"Hubert, are you mad?"
"No, I don't much mind and neither do you. He was old and ill. What would he have done in all this chaos?"
"Well, really!" Madame Craquant protested.
But he ignored her and continued talking to his mother. "As for Philippe… But first, are you really sure? It couldn't be like what happened with me?"
"We are sure, I'm afraid.
"Philippe…" His voice trembled and broke. "He wasn't of this world. Other people talk about heaven all the time but they only think about this world… Philippe, he came from God and he must be very happy now." He hid his face in his hands and remained motionless for a long time. Then they heard the cathedral bells ringing.
Madame Péricand touched her son's arm. "Shall we go?"
He nodded. They all got into the carriage, the servants following in another, and made their way to the cathedral. Hubert walked between his mother and grandmother. They remained on either side of him as he knelt on his prayer cushion. He had been recognised; he could hear whispering, muffled cries. Madame Craquant had not been wrong: the whole town was there. Everyone had a good view of the survivor who had come to give thanks to God for his deliverance on the very day his family had gathered to pray for their dead. On the whole, everyone was happy: the fact that a good lad like Hubert had managed to avoid German bullets flattered their sense of justice and their craving for miracles. All the mothers who had had no news since May (and there were so many of them!) felt hope beat within their breast. And it was impossible to feel resentful about it, as they might have been tempted to do-"Some people have all the luck"-when, sadly, poor Philippe (an excellent priest, absolutely everyone said so) had died.