In the village, he not only posted his letter but bought the newspapers which had just arrived. How strange everything was! He was like a castaway who had made it back to his homeland, civilisation, society. In the little village square, people were reading letters from the evening delivery. Some of the women were crying; many prisoners had sent their news, but had also given the names of friends who'd been killed. At the farm, they'd asked him to find out if anyone knew where Benoît was.

"Oh, so you're the soldier living there, are you?" the women asked. "Well, we have no idea, but now the letters are coming, we'll soon find out where our men are!"

One of them, an older woman who'd put on a little pointed black hat with a rose at the front to come down to the village, was crying as she spoke. "Some of us will find out too soon. I wish I'd never got this damned piece of paper. My boy was a sailor on the Bretagne and they say he went missing when the English torpedoed the ship. It's just too much!"

"Don't you give up hope. Missing doesn't mean dead. Maybe he's a prisoner in England!"

But to all these attempts at consoling her, she just shook her head and the artificial flower on its brass stem quivered as she trembled. "No, no, it's all over, my poor boy! It's just too much…"

Jean-Marie headed back to the hamlet. At the side of the road he found Cécile and Madeleine who'd come to meet him; they both asked at the same time: "You hear anything about my brother?," "You hear anything about Benoît?"

"No, but that doesn't mean anything. Can you imagine how many letters must be backed up waiting to be delivered?"

As for their mother, she said nothing. She just shielded her eyes with her yellowish, dry hand and looked at him; he shook his head. The soup was on the table, the men were coming home, they ate. After dinner, when the dishes were dried and the kitchen swept, Madeleine went into the garden to pick some peas. Jean-Marie followed her. He knew he would soon be leaving the farm and everything seemed even more beautiful and peaceful to him.

It had been stiflingly hot for several days; you could hardly breathe until the sun began to set. But this was the time when the garden was at its most beautiful. The heat had withered the daisies and the white carnations bordering the kitchen garden, but around the well the rose bushes were in full bloom; a scent of sugar, musk and honey wafted up from the clusters of small red roses next to the beehives. The full moon was the colour of amber, shining so brightly that the sky was bathed in a soft green light, as far as the eye could see.

"What a beautiful summer we've had," said Madeleine. She'd taken her basket and was walking towards the stakes of green peas. "Only a week of bad weather at the beginning of the month and since then, not a drop of rain, not even a cloud, though if it carries on like this we won't have any more vegetables… and it's hard to work in this heat; but I don't care, it's still nice-as if the heavens have taken pity on us poor people. You can help if you want to, but you don't have to," she added.

"What's Cécile doing?"

"Cécile, she's sewing. She's making herself a pretty dress to wear to Mass on Sunday."

Her skilful, strong fingers reached between the cool green leaves of the peas, broke the stems in half, threw the peas into her basket; she looked down as she worked. "So you're going to leave us, then?"

"I have to. I'll be glad to see my parents again and I've got to find some work, but…"

They both went quiet.

"Of course, you couldn't stay here your whole life," she said, looking down even more. "Everybody knows that's how it is, you meet people, you say goodbye…"

"You say goodbye," he repeated quietly.

"Well, you're much better now. You've got a bit of colour…"

"Thanks to how well you took care of me."

Her hand stopped still under a leaf. "Have you been happy with us?"

"You know I have."

"Well, then you better make sure you keep in touch. You should write…" she said, and he saw her eyes full of tears, close to him. She quickly turned away.

"Of course, I'll write to you, I promise," said Jean-Marie and gently touched the young girl's hand.

"Everybody says that… After you've gone, we'll have time to think about you here, my God… Now it's still the busy season, we're working all day long… but when autumn comes, and winter, we'll have nothing to do but look after the animals, and the rest of the time we'll just stay indoors and watch the rain fall, then the snow. Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn't look for work in town…"

"No, Madeleine, don't do that, promise me. You'll be much happier here."

"You think so?" she murmured, her voice low and strange.

And suddenly picking up the basket, she moved slightly away from him so he couldn't see her through the leaves. He picked some peas, lost in thought.

"Do you really think I could ever forget you?" he said finally. "Do you think I have so many happy memories that I could forget this? Just imagine! The war, the horror, the war."

"But what about before that? You weren't in the war for ever, were you? So before, were there…"

"What?"

She didn't reply.

"You mean were there women, girls?"

"Of course that's what I mean!"

"Nothing very interesting, my dear Madeleine."

"But you're going away," she said and finally, without the strength to hold back her tears, she let them fall down her full cheeks and said in a voice choking with emotion, "I can't stand the thought of you leaving, I can't. I know I shouldn't say it, you'll make fun of me and Cécile will even more… but I don't care… I can't bear it…"

"Madeleine…"

She stood up straight, their eyes met. He walked towards her and, gently putting his arm round her waist, drew her close; when he started to kiss her, she sighed and pushed him away. "No, that's not what I want… that would be too easy…"

"What do you want, then, Madeleine?" he said. "That I promise never to forget you? Whether you believe me or not, that's the truth. I will never forget you," and he took her hand and kissed it; she blushed with happiness.

"Madeleine, is it true you want to become a nun?"

"It's true. Well, I wanted to before, but now… it's not that I don't love our Good Lord any more, I just think it's not for me."

"Of course it's not! You're meant to love and be happy."

"Happy? I don't know, but I think I'm meant to have a husband and children, and if Benoît hasn't been killed, then…"

"Benoît? I didn't know…"

"Yes, we talked about it… I didn't want to. I had this idea of becoming a nun. But if he comes back… he's a good man…"

"I didn't know…" he said again.

How secretive these country people were! Discreet, wary, everything securely locked up… like their big wardrobes. He'd lived with them for two months and had never even suspected there was anything between Madeleine and the son of the house, and now that he thought about it, he realised they hardly ever talked about this Benoît… They never talked about anything. But that didn't mean they weren't thinking about it.

The farmer's wife called Madeleine. They went back.

Several days passed; there was no news of Benoît but Jean-Marie soon got a letter and some money from his parents. He was never alone with Madeleine again. He realised they were being watched. He said goodbye to the whole family at the door. It was raining that morning, the first rain in many long weeks; a chilly wind blew in from the hills. When he was out of sight, the farmer's wife went back inside. The two young girls lingered at the door, listening to the sound of the cart on the road.

"Well, it's not such a bad thing," exclaimed Cécile, as if she had made an effort not to say anything for a long time and now let a rush of words tumble out. "Maybe we'll get a little work out of you now… You've had your head in the clouds recently; I've had to do everything…"