"Sometimes it can be useful," he replied with excessive politeness. "You never know… If something bad happened to you, for example (not that I'd want it to). Around here, we lay out our dead on beds like this."
Bonnet looked at him, amused, with the same scornful pity you feel when a wild animal grinds its teeth behind the bars of its cage. "Fortunately," he thought, "this man will be busy working and won't be around too often… and the women are more approachable." He smiled. "In wartime, none of us wants to die in a bed."
Madeleine, meanwhile, had gone out into the garden; she came back with some flowers to decorate the mantelpiece. They were the first lilacs of the season, as white as snow, with greenish tips. At the top of each stem the clusters of flowers were still in bud, but further down they opened out into perfumed blooms.
Bonnet lowered his pale face deep inside the bouquet. "How divine… and how well you know how to arrange flowers."
For a second they stood silently, side by side. Benoît thought that she (his wife, his Madeleine) always seemed comfortable when it came to doing lady's work-when she chose flowers, polished her nails, wore her hair differently from the other women in the area, when she spoke to strangers, held a book… "People shouldn't take in foster-children, you never know where they come from," he said to himself. Once more that painful thought… When he said, "You don't know where they come from," what he imagined, what he was afraid of, wasn't that Madeleine might come from a family of alcoholics or thieves, but from the middle classes; perhaps it was that which made her sigh and say, "Oh, it's so boring in the countryside," or "I want to have pretty things, I do," and it was that which made her feel some vague bond with strangers, with the enemy, so long as he happened to be a gentleman with fine clothes and clean hands.
He pushed his chair back angrily and went outside. It was time to get the animals in. He stayed in the warm darkness of the stables for a long time. A cow had given birth the day before. She tenderly licked her little calf with its big head, its thin trembling legs. Another cow was breathing quietly in the corner. He listened to her calm, deep breaths. From where he was, he could see the open door of the house; a shape appeared on the doorstep. Someone was worried because he hadn't come back, they were looking for him. His mother or Madeleine? His mother, no doubt… Just his mother, sadly… He wouldn't move from here until the German had gone upstairs. He'd see his light go on. Sure, electricity didn't cost him anything. He was right; after a few moments a light shone through the window. At the same time the shadowy figure who'd been looking for him left the doorstep and ran lightly towards him. He felt his heart soften, as if some invisible hand had suddenly lifted the burden that had weighed so heavily on his chest for so long that he felt crushed by it.
"That you, Benoît?"
"Yes, I'm over here."
"What are you doing? I was scared."
"Scared? Of what? You're crazy."
"I don't know. Come in."
"Wait. Wait a little."
He pulled her towards him. She struggled and pretended to laugh, but he could sense, by a kind of stiffening throughout her body, that she didn't really want to laugh, that she didn't find it funny, that she didn't like being thrown down in the hay and cool straw, she didn't like it… No! She didn't like him… She got no pleasure from him.
He said very quietly, in a low voice, "Is there nothing you like?"
"There is… But not here, not like this, Benoît. I'm embarrassed."
"Why? You think the cows might see you?" he said harshly. "Fine, go on, get out."
She let out the despondent little moan that made him want to cry and kill her at the same time.
"The way you talk to me! Sometimes, I think you're cross with me. For what? It's Cécile who's…"
He put his hand over her mouth; she quickly pulled away and continued, "She's the one who's getting you all worked up."
"No one's getting me worked up. I don't need other people's eyes to see, do I? All I know is whenever I come near you it's always 'Wait. Not now. Not tonight, the baby's worn me out.' Who are you waiting for?" he roared suddenly. "Who are you saving yourself for? Well? Well?"
"Let go of me!" she cried as he grabbed hold of her. "Let go of me! You're hurting me."
He pushed her away so violently that she hit her head on the low door frame. They looked at each other for a moment in silence. He picked up a rake and angrily stabbed at the hay.
"You're wrong," Madeleine said finally, then whispered tenderly, "Benoît… Poor dear Benoît… You're wrong to think such things. Come on, I'm your wife; if I seem cold, sometimes, it's because the baby wears me out. That's all."
"Let's get out of here," he said suddenly. "Let's go up to bed."
They went into the dark empty house. There was a little light left in the sky and at the tops of the trees. Everything else-the earth, the house, the meadows-was plunged into cool darkness. They undressed and got into bed. That night he didn't try to take her. They lay awake, motionless, listening to the German's breathing above their heads, the creaking of his bed. In the darkness, Madeleine reached for her husband's hand and squeezed it tightly. "Benoît!"
"What?"
"Benoît, I just remembered. You have to hide your shotgun. Did you read the posters in town?"
"Yes," he said sarcastically. "Verboten. Verboten. Death. That's all they know how to say, the bastards."
"Where are you going to hide it?"
"Forget it. It's fine where it is."
"Benoît, don't be stubborn! It's serious. You know how many people have been shot for not turning in their weapons."
"You want me to give them my gun? Only chickens do that! I'm not scared of them. You want to know how I got away last summer? I killed two of them. They didn't know what hit them! And I'll kill some more," he said furiously, shaking his fist in the dark at the German upstairs.
"I'm not saying you should hand it in, just hide it, bury it… There are plenty of good hiding places."
"Can't."
"Why not?"
"I've got to have it to hand. You think I'm going to let the foxes near us-or all the other stinking beasts? The château grounds are crawling with them. The Viscount, he's a real coward. He's shaking in his boots. He couldn't kill a thing. Now there's one who's handed in his gun to the Commandant, and with a nice little salute to boot: 'You're very welcome, Messieurs, I'm truly honoured…' It's lucky me and my friends go up to his grounds at night. Otherwise the whole area would be overrun."
"Don't they hear the gunshots?"
"Of course not! It's enormous, almost a forest."
"Do you go there often?" said Madeleine, curious. "I didn't know."
"There's lots of things you don't know, my girl. We go looking for his young tomato plants and beetroot, fruit, anything he's not taking to market. The Viscount…" He paused for a moment, plunged in thought, then added, "The Viscount, he's one of the worst…"
For generations the Sabaries had been tenants of the Montmorts. For generations they had hated one another. The Sabaries said the Montmorts were mean to the poor, haughty, shifty; the Montmorts accused their tenants of having a "bad attitude." They whispered these words as they shrugged their shoulders and raised their eyes to heaven; it was an expression that meant far more than even the Montmorts thought. The Sabaries' way of perceiving poverty, wealth, peace, war, freedom, property, was not in itself less logical than the Montmorts', but it was as contrary to theirs as fire is to water. Now there was even more to complain about. The way the Viscount saw it, Benoît had been a soldier in 1940 and, in the end, it was the soldiers' lack of discipline, their lack of patriotism, their "bad attitude" that had been responsible for the defeat. Benoît, on the other hand, saw in Montmort one of those dashing officers in their tan boots who during those June days had headed towards the Spanish border in their expensive cars, with their wives and suitcases. Then had come "Collaboration"…