‘You ought to rest,’ Marie-Dévote said, unsettled by this obsession with travelling.
‘Later! I’ll rest later.’
‘“Later” never comes. Life’s for living now.’
Madame Michette disagreed. Our lives did not belong to us. Superior forces allowed us a few years, provided that we returned them one day, in good condition and with the interest due. The tone of the discussion rose. Madame Michette believed in destiny. Marie-Dévote did not know what it was.
Théo drove her back to Saint-Raphaël where she caught the evening train. Jean felt sorry for her and found himself thinking: why did Palfy play his pranks? So that the august figure of Madame Michette, who had lived behind closed shutters for so long, discovered a meaning to life? But Palfy was right: he had to get back to Paris. He’d had more than one reminder that his too-happy existence rested on fragile foundations. That night he found his grandfather in the Bugatti. They had run out of grappa, so they drank champagne.
‘Not marvellous!’ Antoine said at the first mouthful. ‘I’ve never quite managed to educate Marie-Dévote on the subject of champagne. She used to order hers from passing salesmen who’d palm her off with the vintages they couldn’t sell to anyone else. They’re back now, but they’re not selling any more; they want to buy up our reserve instead. I soon put a stop to that!’
‘I’m not as fussy as you. Anyway, being here’s what counts.’
They had left the door of the shed open, and through the windscreen they could make out the sea and its swell silvered by the moonlight.
‘Let’s give ourselves a treat,’ Antoine said. ‘I’ll turn the headlights on, and we’ll hope the gendarmes don’t jump out of the bushes and nab us.’
He started the engine and switched on the headlights, which lit up the bushes, the beach and the mother-of-pearl surface of the water. After a moment he switched the engine off again.
‘So you’re off?’
‘Yes. I think it’s the right thing to do.’
‘No change?’
‘No.’
‘It’s the first time I’ve ever met a woman I didn’t understand. Until now their intentions have seemed so obvious to me that I had a tendency to simplify them, to reduce them to their appearances. Is it really possible there are complicated ones too? I’ll have to revise all my theories! But I’m too old to backtrack now. I’d rather go fishing.’
They finished their two bottles of champagne and went their separate ways before daybreak. The decision was made. In any case, Jean’s money was running out. Every week he gave Marie-Dévote a small amount to cover their board and lodging. But the biggest reason was that he could not go on. He had become obsessed by his desire. Whether Claude covered herself up or walked around their bedroom naked, she had everything he wanted — except openness. He could only look, and see the grace in her movements, her voice and her words. He had begun to slip into bad moods with her. She had accepted them resignedly. The person we love must sometimes suffer, for obscure reasons that are also the mark of a passion grown too intense. Wounded by her distance, Jean could not forgive himself for causing her pain.
One afternoon, when Toinette had taken Cyrille for a walk, he found himself alone with Claude as she undressed in their bedroom. As she took off her shirt, he felt a hunger so violent he thought he was going mad. Did she see the look in his eyes? She stood rooted to the spot with fear, naked to the waist, exposing her lovely breasts, almost untouched by motherhood, pale, soft, trembling fruits that made him want to throw himself to his knees each time she uncovered them.
He grabbed her by the shoulders, ready to hit her, stun her in order to satisfy his desire for a body that would at last be defenceless. She stiffened.
‘I’ll never forgive you.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He let go of her naked shoulders, which a moment before he had wanted to bite until they bled. His fingers had left white imprints on her tanned skin. Tears were rolling down her cheeks.
‘You’re the only one I love!’ she said.
‘I’m truly sorry.’
‘We’ll never part, and I’ll never forget these two months.’
‘I want to know.’
‘It’s impossible.’
‘Is it always going to be impossible?’
‘No.’
‘When, then? When?’
She threw herself into his arms, pushing her head into his chest, and he smelt the fragrance of her hair and caressed her bare neck.
‘I promised Georges that I’d wait till he came back before I decided.’
‘Where did you promise that?’
‘I can’t tell you that.’
He could not persuade her to say any more. She had gone as far as she could. So Antoine’s conclusion had been correct. Jean would ask no more questions. Claude slid to her knees, still holding him. She pressed her cheek against his legs with such unselfconsciousness that he felt hope, for a moment, that one day they would throw aside their clothes and come together. He let himself slide down beside her onto the tiled floor, and they became like two children, kissing each other’s lips and face with as much wonderment as fear.
On the wall of Palfy’s office a map of Europe bristled with red and black flags.
‘You’ll get the idea straight away,’ he said.
He picked up a ruler and drew a line in the air between the black flags in the west and the red in the east.
‘The war has entered its final phase. Leaving the fools aside, who thankfully are legion, for the rest of us the outcome is clear. The Wehrmacht is on the brink of taking Odessa, Kiev and Smolensk, and is approaching Leningrad. Its advance is irresistible. The Baltic is already under Axis control. By the end of October we can look forward to a German Ukraine and Moscow encircled. There are three million Soviet prisoners that no one knows what to do with, dying of starvation and wretchedness. The USSR is losing its bread basket. Its lines of communication are cut, its high command in chaos, Stalin no longer trusts anyone. So what does he do? He purges, purges and purges again to forget his own blindness. You have no idea of the panic in the Kremlin. Neutral representatives are sending back reports that leave no room for doubt. They have understood Hitler’s plan: to establish a line from Arkhangelsk to Astrakhan beyond which, from his armchair, he will use his air force to annihilate the Siberian industrial complexes, leaving Chiang Kai-shek a free hand in Mongolia and eastern Siberia. It’s as clear as day, as elementary as two and two make four.’
‘What about England?’
‘She’ll win the last battle, as she always does. It’s the one thing we can really be certain about.’
Palfy’s assurance beguiled and deceived. Jean felt baffled.
‘So who will win?’
‘Stalin, of course.’
‘You seem to be saying the opposite.’
‘You’re not listening to me.’
‘You said the outcome was clear.’
Palfy shrugged his shoulders. His office windows overlooked the Champs-Élysées, where the Sunday crowds were queuing outside the cinemas. Jean could see the enormous letters on an advertisement for one of the cinemas on the far side of the avenue: ‘Nelly Tristan in The Girl and the She-wolf’. Palfy followed his friend’s gaze.
‘Remember her?’
‘Yes, at dinner at Madeleine’s. Absolutely legless.’
‘Highly successful at the moment. We’ll be having dinner with her shortly. Your handsome Midi tan is bound to please her.’
‘We’re changing the subject … You were saying that the Germans have won the war …’
Palfy raised his arms heavenwards.
‘You haven’t been listening. I said, “clear outcome”.’
‘Excuse me, I haven’t read Clausewitz or Liddell Hart.’
‘Stop trying to be clever. I’m not talking about Clausewitz or Hart, I’m talking about Napoleon. I hope that name means something to you!’