Jean heard a catch in his voice, which fell to a murmur. Antoine opened the door onto the landing. There was no Marie-Thérèse there listening, her ear glued to the keyhole.
‘Follow me,’ he said. ‘When there are two of us, the shadows are afraid.’
They walked on through the silent, wasted house. Parquet creaked, hinges squeaked. Everywhere the light of the moon lit up the shape of windows on the darkened walls. Antoine opened and closed the curtains and tried a tap, only to turn it off immediately. In the kitchen, at the back of a cupboard, they found some bottles without labels.
‘They must have got forgotten. Let’s have a look … oh yes, it’s calva. I’ll take them. They belong to me. Farewell, Normandy. I’m going to live in the sun. Do you know what the women of the Midi are like?’
‘No,’ Jean said. ‘Apart from the trip to London you treated me to four years ago, I haven’t budged from here.’
‘Why budge, if you already understand everything?’
‘I’d give anything to really know a big city, or to see the Mediterranean or the Pacific, the Sunda islands, or Tierra del Fuego.’
‘How boring! On this planet of ours, only women are a big enough mystery to be interesting.’
‘In Grangeville they aren’t going to come running to me, are they? I have to go to them.’
Antoine swigged from the bottle and walked into the butler’s pantry, where two stools had escaped being auctioned. He handed one to Jean and picked up the other one.
‘Let’s break them!’
The stools crashed against the wall. The leg of one flew at the window and the glass shattered. A dark head appeared, framed in the hole, and the abbé’s voice boomed into the kitchen.
‘What on earth has got into you?’
‘We’re breaking what even the rats had no use for.’
‘And have the rats drunk everything?’
‘No,’ Antoine said. ‘Come in, Father. We can’t let such an occasion go uncelebrated.’
The head withdrew. Another shattering was heard. Monsieur Le Couec, parish priest of Grangeville, was using his back to push out the last of the glass, after which he clambered into the kitchen.
‘You’re not hurt, Father?’
‘No, Jean. I too am perfectly transparent.’
He straightened up for a moment on the tiled floor, a shadow so enormous it woke up the whole house.
‘I wondered where you were.’
‘We were talking. We were bidding it all adieu.’
‘Adieu is a word I like, when it is pronounced correctly, à Dieu.’
‘Come now, Father, come now, no proselytising in an empty house. We’re all men here. I’ve no glasses. Drink from the bottle.’
Monsieur Le Couec took a swig.
‘Revolting! I suppose it was kept in the kitchen to flambé the game.’
‘Never mind the bottle —’
‘Oh ho! I’ll stop you there, if you don’t mind, Antoine du Courseau. Calvados was not invented for idiots …’
Jean giggled.
‘No, Father, it was invented for you.’
‘My dear boy, belt up. Sport is a very fine thing, but don’t go round trying to convert everybody.’
‘Jean doesn’t drink,’ Antoine said. ‘He’s getting ready for the future, for that uncertain planet on which I have no desire whatsoever to land. I’ve never led you into temptation, have I, Jean?’
‘Yes, you have, Monsieur, but without knowing you were.’
‘From today, you’re to call me Antoine. It will annoy my wife intensely. I ought to have thought of it earlier.’
‘Thank you, Antoine.’
‘Can I point out,’ the abbé said, ‘that we’ve nothing left to sit on? My feet are aching. This whole place looks like a rout.’
They sat on the floor, on tiles strewn with sawdust by the removers. The abbé was on form.
‘Well, this is a moment to take stock. A unique occasion. Not a terribly solemn location. Thanks to the moon we can see a little of each other. Not too much. Besides, we all know each other’s faces: my ugly mug, Antoine’s, which has collected a certain ruddiness of its own, with age and training, Jean’s handsome countenance. Let me take this opportunity, dear boy, to point out to you that in this life a handsome face is a handicap to be overcome. You are going to arouse some serious resentment. By way of compensation, girls will fall into your arms like manna upon the poor and needy. Mind how you go. That is what an elderly priest advises. Now, where were we? Who has bought this house?’
‘The Longuets,’ Antoine said.
The abbé tipped up the bottle and swallowed another mouthful. He did not like embarrassing situations. This one deeply offended his sense of tradition, and he hesitated over the standpoint he should take. Madame Longuet was perhaps not such a saintly woman as he liked to tell himself, but, at least towards him, she behaved with uncommon generosity. He even believed that deep down she was sincere in her faith, trying to leave her past behind and working with all her being towards redemption, of her soul and others’. Of course Monsieur Longuet did not inspire much confidence, and as for young Gontran, he had the makings of an out-and-out miscreant, despite his mother’s good example.
‘Well, Father, what do you think?’ Jean asked, delighted to see the priest on the defensive.
‘Nothing, my child. I think absolutely nothing. People do what they wish with their money. The Longuets have money. It is no more a crime to have money than not have any. I believe they will respect La Sauveté.’
‘What about my parents?’
‘Your father has had words with both Monsieur Longuet and the son. He should have shown more patience—’
‘I wonder if they’ve emptied the cellar,’ said Antoine, who could not care less about the Longuets. ‘Actually there wasn’t much left. A cellar is the work of a lifetime. I drank my father’s and I’m not leaving one for my son. I was right about that, at least. He only drinks water.’
‘Antoinette would definitely have appreciated it!’ Jean ventured to say.
‘Antoinette? Do you think so?’
‘Let’s go and see,’ said the abbé, rather interested in the idea.
When dawn broke they were to be found outside, on a bench, with two empty bottles at their feet. Jean slept. Grangeville’s parish priest was a little pale, but his speech was clear. Antoine felt tiredness overwhelming him and calculated that caution dictated a departure later in the day. A silhouette roused them from their lethargy. Albert was watering the flowerbeds. Antoine called to him.
‘Who are you watering for?’
‘For the honour of it, Captain.’
‘There’s no honour left.’
‘You’ll never make me believe that. And Jean would be better off in his bed. I hope he hasn’t been drinking.’
‘Don’t worry. He’s a man now, and a responsible one.’
Jean opened his eyes onto a new world. La Sauveté, emptied of its furniture, no longer symbolised anything for him, and despite his persistence he had been unable to extract any information about his birth from either the abbé or Monsieur du Courseau. He felt weary and stiff, the opposite of how he wanted to feel for Sunday’s challenges.
‘Well, dear boy, we slept!’ the abbé said, retying his bootlaces before he set out for the rectory.
‘Nowhere near enough. I don’t feel at all well.’
‘You sporty types! What weeds you are! Now at your age—’
‘At my age, Father, you definitely weren’t rowing.’
‘Not rowing! What’s punting, then?’
‘We’re not talking about the same thing.’
Jean was feeling increasingly resentful towards the abbé. He was an excellent man, but he knew … Was he still supposed to feel bound by the seal of the confessional in a case like this?
‘Go to bed!’ Albert said in a tone that he intended to sound peremptory.