But Madame Angellier refused to accept this argument. "They are dreadful creatures who hate us. They've said they won't be happy until they see all Frenchmen on their knees."
"It's abominable," said the Viscountess, sincerely indignant.
After all, the policy of collaboration had only been in existence for a few months, while hatred of the Germans was nearly a century old. Madame de Montmort instinctively reverted to speaking as she had in the past.
"Our poor country… laid bare, oppressed, ruined… And so many tragedies! Just look at the blacksmith's family: three sons, one killed, one a prisoner, the third missing at Mers-el-Kébir… And the Bérards from La Montagne," she said, adding the family's name to that of the farm where they lived, as was the custom in that part of the world, "since her husband was taken prisoner, the poor woman has gone mad from exhaustion and all her problems. The only people left to keep the farm going are her grandfather and a little thirteen-year-old girl. And as for the Cléments… the mother has died from overwork; her four children have been taken in by neighbours. Countless tragedies… poor France!"
Madame Angellier, her pale lips tightly closed, nodded her head in agreement and continued knitting. However, she and the Viscountess soon stopped talking about other people's disasters in order to discuss their own problems. There was a marked difference in the lively, passionate manner in which they now spoke, compared with the slow, exaggerated, polite way they had recalled their neighbours' misfortunes: it was the way a bored schoolboy would recite the death of Hippolytus seriously and respectfully, since it meant nothing at all to him, yet make his voice miraculously persuasive and impassioned when he stopped to complain to the teacher that someone had stolen his marbles.
"It's shameful, shameful," said Madame Angellier. "I pay twenty-seven francs for a pound of butter. Everything is sold through the black market. The townspeople have to get by, of course, but still…"
"Oh, don't remind me! I wonder how much food costs in Paris… It's fine for anyone with money, but," the Viscountess virtuously pointed out, "there are so many poor people, after all," and she enjoyed feeling she was a good person, demonstrating she hadn't forgotten the destitute; her pleasure was increased by knowing that thanks to her enormous fortune, she herself would never be in a position to be pitied. "People don't think about the poor enough," she said.
But all this was mere banter; it was time to come to the real point of her visit: she needed to get some grain for her chickens. Her poultry were famous in the region. In 1941 all wheat was requisitioned; it was, in theory, forbidden to give any to chickens. But "forbidden" didn't necessarily mean "impossible to get around," just "difficult to do"; it was simply a question of discretion, opportunity and money. The Viscountess had written a little article for the local newspaper, a right-thinking publication to which the local priest was a contributor. The article was called "Anything for the Maréchal!." This is how it started: "Let everyone remember! Let everyone continue to remind each other-gathered round your cottage hearths through the long evenings-any Frenchman worthy of the name will no longer give a single grain of wheat to his hens, not a single potato to his pigs; he will save his oats and rye, his barley and his rapeseed, and having gathered together all his riches, the fruits of his labour, watered with his own sweat, he will make a wreath of them, tie them up in a red, white and blue ribbon, a symbol of his patriotism, and lay them at the feet of the Venerable Elder who has restored our hope!" But of all the poultry yards where, according to the Viscountess, not a single grain of wheat should remain, her own was, naturally, the exception: it was her pride and joy, the object of her most attentive devotion; she raised rare breeds, prizewinners in the biggest agricultural competitions, both in France and abroad. The Viscountess's land was the very best in the region, but she wouldn't dream of going to her tenant farmers about such a sensitive transaction: it was unthinkable to give the working classes anything they could use against you; they would make you pay dearly for any such collusion. Madame Angellier, on the other hand… well, that was different. They could always come to some arrangement.
Madame Angellier sighed deeply. "I could perhaps… one or two bags… And you, Madame, perhaps you could arrange through the Mayor to get us a bit of coal? In theory, we shouldn't, but…"
Lucile left them and walked over to the window. The shutters were still open. The sitting room looked out on to the square. There was a bench opposite the War Memorial, in shadow. Everything seemed to be asleep. It was a wonderful spring night; silvery stars filled the sky. In the fading light you could just make out the rooftops of the neighbouring houses: the blacksmith's, where an old man was mourning his three lost sons; the small home of the shoemaker who had been killed in the war, and whose poor wife and sixteen-year-old son did their best to carry on. If you listened closely, thought Lucile, you might hear each of these low, dark, quiet houses moaning. But… what was that sound? From out of the darkness came laughter, the rustling of skirts. Then a man's voice, a foreign voice asked, "How you say that, in French? Kiss? Yes? Oh, it's nice…"
Further away, shadowy figures wandered past. You could just about make out a pale bodice, a ribbon in flowing hair, a shiny boot or belt buckle. The guard was still marching up and down in front of the Lokal, which it was forbidden to approach upon pain of death, but his comrades were enjoying their free time and the beautiful night. Two soldiers were singing amid a group of young women-
Trink'mal noch ein Tröpfchen!
Ach! Suzanna…
– and the young women softly hummed along.
During a moment of silence, Madame Angellier and the Viscountess heard the final notes of the song.
"Who could be singing at this hour?"
"They're women with German soldiers."
"How revolting!" the Viscountess exclaimed. She made a gesture of horror and disgust. "I'd really like to know who those shameless girls are. I'd make sure the priest knew their names." She leaned forward and eagerly peered out into the night.
"I can't make them out. They wouldn't dare in broad daylight. Oh, ladies, this is worse than everything! Now they're corrupting Frenchwomen! Just think of it, their brothers and husbands are prisoners and they're out having a good time with the Germans! What's come over these women?" the Viscountess cried, indignant for many reasons: wounded patriotism, a sense of propriety, doubts about her influence in society (she gave lectures every Saturday night on "How to be a true Christian woman"; she had founded a local library and she sometimes even invited the local young people to her home to watch informative, edifying films such as A Day at Solesmes Abbey, or From Caterpillar to Butterfly. And for what? So that everyone would have a horrible, debased idea of Frenchwomen?). Finally, she was angry because she had a passionate nature that was troubled by certain stirring images. Yet she knew there was no hope of the Viscount satisfying her, since he had little interest in women in general and her in particular.
"It's scandalous!" she exclaimed.
"It's sad," said Lucile, thinking of all the girls whose youth was passing them by in vain: the men were gone, prisoners or dead. The enemy took their place. It was deplorable, but no one would even know in the future. It would be one of those things posterity would never find out, or would refuse to see out of a sense of shame.
Madame Angellier rang for the cook, who came in and closed the shutters. Everything withdrew back into the night: the songs, the murmur of kisses, the soft brightness of the stars, the footsteps of the conqueror on the pavement and the sigh of the thirsty frog praying to the heavens for rain, in vain.