They were leaving today, 1 July 1941. The French were concerned primarily with the question of whether the village would be occupied by other soldiers; because if so, they thought bitterly, well, it wasn't worth going to the trouble of changing them. They were used to this lot. Maybe the new ones would be worse…
Lucile slipped into Madame Angellier's room to tell her that it was definite, they'd received their orders, the Germans were leaving that very night. They could reasonably hope for at least a few hours' grace before any new soldiers arrived and they should take advantage of this to help Benoît escape. It was impossible to hide him until the end of the war, equally impossible to send him home as long as the area remained occupied. There was only one hope: to get him across the demarcation line. However, the line was closely guarded and would be even more so during the evacuation of the troops.
"It's dangerous," said Lucile, "very dangerous." She looked pale and tired: for several nights she had hardly slept. She looked at Benoît, standing opposite her. Her feelings towards him were an odd combination of fear, incomprehension and envy: his calm, severe, almost brutal expression intimidated her. He was a big, muscular man, with a ruddy complexion; beneath thick eyebrows, his pale eyes were sometimes unbearable to look at. His tanned, lined hands were the hands of a labourer and a soldier, thought Lucile: earth or blood, it was the same to him. Neither remorse nor sorrow troubled his sleep, of that she was sure; everything was simple to this man.
"I've thought about it a lot, Madame Lucile," he said quietly.
Despite the fortress-like walls and closed doors, whenever all three of them were together, they felt they were being watched and said what they needed to very quickly and almost in a whisper.
"No one will be able to get me across the line. It's too risky. I know I have to leave, but I want to go to Paris."
"To Paris?"
"While I was with the regiment I had some friends…"
He hesitated.
"We were taken prisoner together. We escaped together. They work in Paris. If I can find them they'll help me. One of them wouldn't be alive now if…"
He looked at his hands and fell silent.
"What I need is to get to Paris without getting arrested on the way and to find someone I can trust to put me up for a day or two until I find my friends."
"I don't know anyone in Paris," murmured Lucile. "But in any case, you'll need identity papers."
"As soon as I find my friends, Madame Lucile, I'll be able to get hold of some papers."
"But how? What do your friends do?"
"They're in politics," Benoît said curtly.
"Communists…" murmured Lucile, recalling certain rumours she'd heard about Benoît's ideas and activities. "The Communists will be hunted down now. You're risking your life."
"It won't be the first time, Madame Lucile, or the last," said Benoît. "You get used to it."
"And how will you get to Paris? You can't take the train; your description is posted everywhere."
"On foot. By bicycle. When I escaped I was on foot. It don't scare me."
"But the police…"
"The people who put me up two years ago will remember me and won't shop me to the police. It's safer than here where plenty of people hate me. It'll be easier."
"Such a long journey, on foot, alone…"
Madame Angellier, who hadn't said a word until now, was standing next to the window, her pale eyes watching the Germans come and go across the village square; she raised her hand to warn them. "Someone's coming."
All three of them fell silent. Lucile's heart was pounding so violently, so quickly that she was ashamed; the others could surely hear it, she thought. The old woman and the farmer remained impassive. They could hear Bruno's voice downstairs; he was looking for Lucile; he opened several doors.
"Do you know where Madame Lucile is?" he asked the cook.
"She's gone out," Marthe replied.
Lucile sighed with relief. "I'd better go down," she said. "He's looking for me to say goodbye."
"Take advantage of it," Madame Angellier suddenly said, "to ask him for a petrol coupon and a travel pass. You can take the old car: the one that wasn't requisitioned. You can tell the German you have to drive one of our tenant farmers to town because he's ill. With a pass from German Headquarters you won't be stopped and you could make it safely to Paris."
"But to lie like that…" said Lucile in disgust.
"What else have you been doing for the past ten days?"
"And once we get to Paris? Where will he hide until he finds his friends? Where will we find anyone courageous enough, committed enough, unless…"
She was remembering something.
"Yes," she said suddenly. "It's possible… Anyway, it's a chance we'll have to take. Do you remember the refugees from Paris we helped in June 1940? They worked in a bank, quite an old couple, but full of spirit and courage. They wrote to me recently: I have their address. They're called Michaud. Yes, that's it, Jeanne and Maurice Michaud. They might do it… Of course they'll do it… but we'd have to write and ask and wait for their reply, or just take our chances and hope for the best. I don't know…"
"Ask for the pass in any case," said Madame Angellier. "It shouldn't be difficult," she added with a faint, bitter smile.
"I'll try," said Lucile.
She was dreading the moment she would be alone with Bruno. Nevertheless, she hurried down the stairs. Best to get it over with. What if he suspects something? Oh, so what! It was war. She would submit to the rules of war. She was afraid of nothing. Her empty, weary soul was almost eager to run some great risk.
She knocked at the German's door. She went in and was surprised to find he was not alone. With him were the Commandant's new interpreter, a thin red-headed boy with a hard, angular face and blond eyelashes, and another very young officer who was short and chubby, with a rosy complexion and a childlike expression and smile. All three of them were writing letters and packing up: they were sending home all those little knick-knacks soldiers buy when they are in the same place for a while, to create the illusion they live there, but which are burdensome during a campaign: ashtrays, little clocks, prints and, especially, books. Lucile wanted to go but he asked her to stay. She sat down in an armchair Bruno brought out for her and she watched the three Germans who, after apologising, continued working. "We want to get all this in the post by five o'clock," they said.
She saw a violin, a small lamp, a French-German dictionary, books in French, German and English, and a beautiful romantic print of a sailing boat at sea.
"I found it in Autun at a bric-à-brac shop," said Bruno.
He hesitated.