Their conversation was pessimistic, almost despairing, but their voices light-hearted. Some of them had done very well for themselves; they were at that age when one looks at young people and thinks, "Let them make their own way!" Others were compiling a hasty mental inventory of all the pages they'd written, all the speeches they'd given, which might help them win favour with the new government (and since they had all more or less lamented the fact that France had lost her greatness, lost her daring and was no longer producing children, none of them was very worried). The politicians were rather more anxious, for some of them were in a difficult position and were pondering a change of alliance. The playwright and Corte discussed their own work, without a thought for the rest of the world.
28
The Michauds never made it to Tours. A bomb destroyed the railway line, the train stopped and the refugees found themselves once more on the road, mingling with the German troops. They were ordered to go back the way they had come.
The Michauds found Paris half empty. They had been away for two weeks and expected to find it different, as one does after a long trip. Instead, they walked home through the untouched streets and couldn't believe their eyes: everything was in its place. The blazing sun shone down on the houses, all with their shutters closed, exactly as on the day they had left; a sudden heatwave had shrivelled all the leaves on the plane trees, but no one had swept them up and the refugees waded through them with weary legs. There didn't seem to be a food shop open. Now and again, this barren landscape threw up a surprise: it looked like a city wiped out by the plague, but just as you were about to scream, "Everybody's either dead or gone," you'd find yourself face to face with a nicely dressed lady wearing make-up or, in the Michauds' case, a woman getting a perm at a hairdresser's nestled between a boarded-up butcher's shop and bakery. It was Madame Michaud's hairdresser. She called to him. He, his assistant, his wife and the client all ran to the door and exclaimed, "Were you on the roads?"
Madame Michaud pointed to her bare legs, her torn dress, her face covered with sweat and dust. "As you can see! What's happened to our apartment?"
"Well, everything is fine. I was walking past your windows just today," said the hairdresser's wife. "Nothing's been touched."
"What about my son? Jean-Marie? Has anyone seen him?"
"How could you expect anyone to have seen him, my poor darling?" said Maurice who had joined her. "You're not being logical."
"And what about you, always so calm? You'll be the death of me," she replied angrily. "Maybe the concierge…" and she turned to go.
"Don't get upset, Madame Michaud. There's nothing for you. I asked as I was passing. There's no post any more."
Jeanne tried to hide her cruel disappointment with a smile. "All right, all we can do is wait," she said, but her lips were trembling. She sat down without thinking and murmured, "What should we do now?"
"If I were you," said the hairdresser, a fat little man with a round, sweet face, "I'd start by having your hair washed; it will clear your mind; we could also freshen Monsieur Michaud up a bit, and while I'm doing that my wife can make you something to eat."
So it was agreed. He was massaging Jeanne's head with lavender oil when his son ran in to announce that the armistice had been signed. She was too exhausted and downcast to take in the importance of the news-just as a person who has shed so many tears at the bedside of someone who is dying has none left for the actual moment of death. But Maurice, remembering 1914, the battles, his wounds, his suffering, felt a wave of bitterness wash over his heart. But there was nothing more to say, so he remained silent.
They were in Madame Josse's salon for more than an hour, then left to go home. People were saying that there were relatively few casualties among French soldiers, but that the prisoners numbered nearly two million. Could Jean-Marie perhaps be a prisoner? They daren't hope for anything more. They reached their house. Despite all Madame Josse's assurances, they couldn't really believe that it was still standing and not reduced to ashes like the burning buildings they had walked past last week in the Place du Martroi, in Orléans. But they could see the door, the concierge's lodge, the letter box (empty!), the key waiting for them and the concierge herself. The risen Lazarus must have experienced the same feeling of astonishment and quiet pride on seeing his sisters and the soup cooking on the fire: "In spite of everything, we've come back, we're home," they thought.
"But what's the point if my son…" was Jeanne's second thought.
She looked at Maurice who smiled weakly at her, then said out loud to the concierge, "Hello, Madame Nonnain."
The concierge was elderly and half deaf. The Michauds cut short their stories of the exodus as much as possible. Madame Nonnain had gone as far as the Porte d'Italie with her daughter, who was a laundress. She had then had an argument with her son-in-law and come back home. "They have no idea what's happened to me; they probably think I'm dead," she said with some satisfaction. "They probably think they're going to get hold of my savings now. Not that she's a bad sort," she added, referring to her daughter, "she's just a bit too clever for her own good."
The Michauds said they were tired and went up to their apartment. The lift was broken. "Well, that's the last straw," Jeanne moaned, laughing in spite of herself.
While her husband slowly climbed the stairs, she rushed on ahead, recovering the speed and stamina she'd had as a young girl. My God, to think she had sometimes cursed this dark staircase, their basic apartment with no cupboards, no bathroom (they'd had to get a bathtub put in the kitchen) and radiators that regularly broke down in dead of winter! The cosy world in which she had lived for fifteen years and whose walls contained such sweet, such warm memories, had been returned to her. Peering over the banister, she saw Maurice much further down. She was alone. She leaned forward to kiss the door, then got out her key and opened it. It was her apartment, her refuge. Here were Jean-Marie's room, the kitchen, the sitting room and the sofa on which, after getting home from the bank in the evening, she would stretch out her tired legs.
Remembering the bank suddenly made her shudder. She hadn't thought about it in a week. When Maurice came in, he saw she was worried and that her joy at being home had vanished. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Is it Jean-Marie?"
"No, the bank."
"My God, we did everything humanly possible and more to get to Tours. They couldn't possibly hold it against us."
"They won't hold it against us," she said, "if they want to keep us. But I've only worked there on an interim basis since the war, and as for you, my poor darling, you've never been able to get along with them, so if they want to get rid of us, now's the time."
"The thought had crossed my mind."
As always, when he agreed wholeheartedly and didn't argue with her, she suddenly changed her mind. "Nevertheless, they'd have to be the worst bastards…"
"They are the worst bastards," Maurice said gently, "you know that, don't you? We've had our share of worries. We're together, we're at home. Let's not think about anything else…"
They didn't mention Jean-Marie. They couldn't even say his name without crying, and they didn't want to cry. They had always had a burning desire to be happy. Perhaps because they loved each other so much, they had learned to live one day at a time, deliberately not thinking about tomorrow.
They weren't hungry. They opened a jar of jam, a box of biscuits and, with infinite care, Jeanne made them some coffee: there was only a quarter of a pound left of the pure mocha coffee they usually saved for special occasions.
"But what more special occasion could there be?" said Maurice.