"My fiancée has a big travelling coat."

"It's so nice on the grass. If I didn't have to worry about my rheumatism… Oh, you're so lucky to be a young man of twenty!"

The fiancé corrected him: "Twenty-two."

"You will see better times, you will always find a way out, you will, while a poor old gentleman like me…" He lowered his eyes, like a cat when it purrs. Then he stretched out his hand towards a moonlit clearing just visible between the trees. "It must be so nice over there… you could forget everything." He waited, then whispered in a falsely nonchalant tone of voice, "Can you hear that nightingale?"

The bird had been singing for some time, perched high on a branch, indifferent to the noise, the refugees complaining, the large fires they had lit on the grass to chase away the damp. The bird sang and other nightingales in the countryside answered his song. The young man listened to the bird, tilting his head, and he put his arm round his sleeping fiancée. A few moments later he whispered something in her ear. She opened her eyes. He whispered to her again, closer, urging her. Charlie turned away. Nevertheless, he could hear certain words: "Since this gentleman said he'd watch the car…" And: "You don't love me, Solange, no, you don't… And yet you…"

Charlie yawned loudly, obviously, and, addressing no one in particular with the exaggerated ease of a bad actor, said, "I think I'll go to sleep now…"

Solange stopped hesitating. She giggled nervously, pushing her fiancé away only to give in and kiss him, saying, "If Mummy could see us now! Oh, Bob, you're terrible… you won't hold it against me afterwards, will you, Bob?"

She walked away with her fiancé's arm around her. Charlie saw them beneath the trees, holding each other and exchanging little kisses. Then they disappeared from sight.

He waited. The half-hour that followed seemed the longest of his life. But he was determined. He felt both anguish and extraordinary pleasure at the same time. His heart beat so violently, so painfully that he muttered, "This heart of mine… can't take it!"

But he knew he had never felt such exquisite pleasure. A cat who sleeps on velvet cushions and is fed on chicken breasts and suddenly finds himself in the middle of the countryside, on the dry branch of a tree wet with dew, sinking his teeth into a trembling, bleeding bird, must feel the same terror, the same cruel joy, he thought, for he was too intelligent not to understand what was happening to him. Quietly, ever so quietly, taking great care not to make any noise with the doors, he climbed into the car next to his, untied the petrol cans (he also took some oil), cut his hands getting the cap off his tank, poured in the petrol and, taking advantage of a moment when several other cars started their motors, drove off.

Once out of the forest, he turned round, smiled up at the trees, silvery green beneath the moon, and thought, "They will indeed have been married on 14 June after all…"

23

The uproar in the streets woke the elder Monsieur Péricand. He opened one pale eye, just one, in confusion and reproach. "What on earth are they shouting about?" he thought. He had forgotten the journey, the Germans, the war. He thought he was at his son's home in Boulevard Delessert, even though he was staring at a strange room; he didn't understand a thing. He was at an age when the past was more real than the present; he pictured the green cover on his bed in Paris. He stretched his shaking fingers towards the bedside table where, every morning, some attentive person would put out a tray with porridge and his special biscuits. There was no tray, no bowl, not even a table. It was then that he heard the fire roaring in the neighbouring houses, smelled the smoke and guessed what was happening. He opened his mouth, gasped silently, like a fish out of water, and fainted.

Yet the house hadn't burned to the ground. Only a part of the roof had been destroyed. After a great deal of panic and chaos, the flames died down. Amid the wreckage, the fire smouldered and sizzled quietly, but the house was intact and towards evening they discovered the elder Monsieur Péricand, alone in his bed. He was muttering, confused. He calmly let them take him to the nursing home.

"He'll be better off there. I've got no time to take care of him. Imagine the idea," said the owner, "what with the refugees, the Germans about to march in and the fire and all…"

But she said nothing about what was worrying her most: her husband and two sons, gone, all three called up and missing… All three away in that vaguely defined, ever-changing, terrifyingly imminent place called "the war"…

The nursing home was very clean, very well looked after by the Sisters of the Sacred Sacrament. They put Monsieur Péricand in a bed next to a window; he would be able to see the tall green June trees outside and the fifteen old people around him, silent and calm in their white sheets. But he saw nothing. He thought he was still at home. Now and again he seemed to talk to his weak purplish hands, folded on top of the grey blanket. He would utter a few harsh, broken words to them, then slowly shake his head and, out of breath, close his eyes. The flames hadn't touched him, he hadn't been wounded, but he had a very high fever. The doctor was in the next village, tending to the victims of the bombing. Late that evening he was finally able to examine Monsieur Péricand. He didn't say much: he was staggering with exhaustion, he had cared for sixty wounded and hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. He gave him an injection and promised to come back the next day. To the Sisters there was no question: they had enough experience with the dying to recognise death by a sigh, a whimper, drops of cold sweat, motionless fingers. They sent someone to get the priest who had been with the doctor in town and hadn't slept either. He gave Monsieur Péricand the last rites and the old man seemed to come round. As he left, the priest told the Sisters that the poor old gentleman had made his peace with God and would die a very Christian death.

One of the Sisters was small and thin, with deep blue mischievous eyes that sparkled with courage from beneath her white wimple; the other was sweet and shy, with red cheeks and a terrible toothache, which caused her to bring her hand to her painful gums now and again, in the middle of saying her rosary, smiling humbly as if she were ashamed that the cross she had to bear was so light during these terrible times. It was to her that Monsieur Péricand suddenly said (it was just after midnight and the commotion of the day had died down; now all you could hear were the cats howling in the convent garden), "Daughter, I'm not well… Go and get the notary."

He thought she was his daughter-in-law. In his delirium, he was very surprised that she had put on a wimple to nurse him, but nevertheless it could only be her. He repeated quietly, patiently, "Monsieur Nogaret… notary… last Will…"

"What should we do?" said Sister Marie of the Sacred Sacrament to Sister Marie of the Chérubins.

The two white wimples tilted towards each other, almost meeting above Monsieur Péricand in his bed.

"The notary won't come out at this hour, my poor dear… Go to sleep… There'll be time enough tomorrow."

"No… no time…" the quiet voice said. "Monsieur Nogaret will come… telephone him, please."

Once again the nuns conferred and one of them disappeared, then came back carrying some hot herbal tea. He tried to take a few sips but spat it out immediately; it ran down his white beard. Suddenly he became extremely agitated; he was groaning, shouting orders: "Tell him to hurry… he promised… as soon as I called… please… hurry, Jeanne!" (He no longer thought he was talking to his daughter-in-law but to his wife, who had been dead for forty years.)