"Everything will be ruined! There'll be no fruit," Marthe groaned as she cleared the table. "I'll make a fire in here," she added. "It's so cold it's unbearable. The German asked me to make a fire in his room, but the chimney hasn't been swept and he'll just be breathing in smoke. Too bad for him. I told him, but he didn't want to listen. He thinks it's because I don't want to do it. As if we wouldn't give them a couple of logs after everything else they've taken from us… Listen, he's coughing! Good Lord! What a pain to have to wait on these Boches. All right, I'm coming, I'm coming!" she said in annoyance.
Lucile heard her open the door and reply to the irritated German, "Well, I tried to tell you! With this wind blowing, a chimney that hasn't been swept just pushes the smoke back inside."
"Well why hasn't it been swept, mein Gott?" shouted the frustrated German.
"Why? Why? I don't know anything about it. I'm not the owner. You think with your war going on we can do what we like?"
"My good woman, if you really think I'm going to let myself be smoked out like a rabbit, you're very mistaken! Where are the ladies? If they can't provide a habitable bedroom, then they can let me move into the sitting room. Make a fire in there."
"I'm sorry, Monsieur. That's not possible," said Lucile, walking towards him. "In our provincial houses the sitting room is a formal room where no one sleeps. The fireplace isn't real, as you can see."
"What? That white marble monument with the carved cupids warming their hands?"
"Has never had a fire in it," Lucile continued, smiling. "But do come into the dining room, if you'd like; the stove is lit. It's true that your room is in a sad state," she added, looking at the waves of smoke pouring out of it.
"Oh, Madame, I nearly choked to death… Being a military man is clearly fraught with danger! But I wouldn't want to impose on you for anything in the world. There are some dusty cafés in the village where they play billiards amid clouds of chalk… And your mother-in-law…"
"She's away for the day."
"Ah! Very well then, thank you, Madame. I won't disturb you. I have important work to finish," he said, holding up some maps.
He sat down at the table and Lucile sat in an armchair by the fire; she stretched her hands out towards the warmth, occasionally rubbing them together absent-mindedly. "I have the mannerisms of an old woman," she thought sadly, "the mannerisms and the life of an old woman."
She let her hands settle back on to her lap. When she looked up, she saw that the officer had abandoned his maps and pushed back the curtain to look at the grey sky and the crucified pear trees.
"What a sad place," he murmured.
"Why should that matter to you?" Lucile replied. "You're leaving tomorrow."
"No," he said, "I'm not leaving."
"Oh! But I thought…"
"All leave has been cancelled."
"Really? But why?"
He shrugged his shoulders slightly. "No one knows. Cancelled, that's all. That's life in the army."
She felt sorry for him: he'd been looking forward to his leave so much.
"That's very annoying," she said compassionately, "but it's just been postponed…"
"For three months, six months, for ever… I'm most upset for my mother. She's elderly and frail. A little old lady with white hair and a straw hat; a gust of wind could knock her over… She's expecting me tomorrow night and all she'll get is a telegram."
"Are you an only child?"
"I had three brothers. One was killed in Poland, another died when we invaded France a year ago. The third one is in Africa."
"That's very sad, for your wife as well…"
"Oh, my wife… My wife will soon get over it. We got married very young; we were practically children. What's your opinion of people getting married after a two-week acquaintance on a trip round the lakes?"
"I have no idea! That doesn't happen in France."
"But it isn't exactly like it used to be any more, is it? When you were received twice by friends of the family and the next minute you were married, as your Balzac describes?"
"Not exactly, but it's not all that different, at least in the provinces…"
"My mother told me not to marry Edith. But I was in love. Ach, Liebe… You must be able to grow up together, grow old together… But when you're separated, when there's war, when there's suffering, and you find yourself tied to a child who is still eighteen, while you"-he raised his arms, let them drop again-"sometimes feel twelve and sometimes a hundred…"
"Surely you're exaggerating…"
"But I'm not. A soldier remains a child in certain ways and in other ways he's so old… He has no age. He is as old as the most ancient events on earth: Cain murdering Abel, cannibal rituals, the Stone Age… Let's not talk about it any more. Here I am, locked up in this tomb-like place… no… A tomb in a country cemetery, rich with flowers, birds and lovely shade, but a tomb nevertheless… How can you bear to live here all year long?"
"Before the war, we used to go out sometimes…"
"But I bet you never travelled, did you? You've never been to Italy or central Europe… only rarely to Paris… Think of everything we're missing… museums, theatres, concerts… Oh! It's really the concerts I miss most. And all I have here is a miserable instrument I dare not play because I'm afraid of offending your justifiable feelings as French people," he said resentfully.
"But you can play as much as you like, Monsieur. Look, you're feeling sad and I'm not very happy either. Sit down at the piano and play something. We'll forget about the bad weather, separations, all our problems…"
"Really, you'd really like that? But I have work to do," he said, looking at his maps. "Oh, well… You bring some embroidery or a book and sit next to me. You must listen to me play. I only play well if I have an audience. I'm truly… how do you say it in French? A 'show-off,' that's it!"
"Yes. A show-off. I compliment you on your knowledge of French."
He sat down at the piano. The stove purred softly, its heat filling the room with the sweet smell of smoke and roasted chestnuts. Great drops of rain streamed down the windows, like tears; the house was empty and silent; the cook was at Vespers.
She watched his slim white hands run across the keyboard. The wedding ring with the dark-red stone he wore made it difficult for him to play; he took it off and absent-mindedly handed it to Lucile. She held it for a moment; it was still warm from his hand. She turned it so it caught the pale-grey light filtering through the window. She could make out two Gothic letters and a date. She thought it was a love token. But no… the date was 1775 or 1795, she couldn't tell which. It was obviously a family heirloom. Gently she put it down on the table. He must play the piano like this every evening, she thought, with his wife at his side… What was her name? Edith? How well he played! She recognised certain pieces.
"Isn't that Bach? Mozart?" she asked shyly.
"Do you know music?"
"No, no! I don't know anything really. I used to play a little before I got married, but I've forgotten everything. I do love music. You're very talented, Monsieur."
He looked at her and said seriously, "Yes, I think I am talented," with a sadness that surprised her.
Then he played a series of light-hearted, humorous arpeggios.
"Listen to this now," he said.
He started playing and speaking softly: "This is the sound of peace, this is the laughter of young women, the joyful sound of spring, the first swallows coming back from the south… This is a German village, in March, when the snow first starts to melt. Here's the sound of the stream the snow makes as it flows through the ancient streets. And now there is no more peace… Drums, trucks, soldiers marching… can you hear them? Can you? Their slow, faint, relentless footsteps… An entire population on the move… The soldiers are lost among them… Now there should be a choir, a kind of religious chant, unfinished. Now, listen! It's the battle…" The music was solemn, intense, terrifying.