She stopped and sighed.

"I love him," she said finally.

"But his regiment will be leaving."

"I know that, but Willy said he'd send for me after the war."

"And you believe him?"

"Yes, I believe him," she said defiantly.

"You're mad," said Lucile. "He'll forget you the moment he's gone. You have brothers who are prisoners. When they come home… Believe me, be careful. What you're doing is very dangerous. Dangerous and wrong," she added.

"When they come home…"

They looked at each other in silence. There was a rich, secret scent in this stuffy room, cluttered with heavy rustic furniture, that troubled Lucile and made her feel strangely uneasy.

As she was leaving, Lucile ran into some children with dirty faces on the staircase; they were running down the steps four at a time.

"Where are you rushing like that?" Lucile asked.

"We're going to play in the Perrins' garden."

The Perrins were a rich local family who had fled in June 1940. They had been so panic-stricken when they fled that they'd left their house unlocked, all the doors wide open, silver in the drawers, dresses in the wardrobes. The Germans had pillaged it: even the large abandoned garden had been sacked, trampled, and looked like a jungle.

"Do the Germans let you in there?"

They didn't reply and ran off, laughing.

Lucile went home in the rain. She could see the Perrins' garden. Despite the freezing rain, the village children darted back and forth between the trees in their blue and pink smocks. Every so often she glimpsed a shiny, dirty cheek gleaming in the rain like a peach. The children picked lilacs and cherry blossom and chased each other across the lawns. Perched high on top of a cedar tree, one little boy in red trousers whistled like a blackbird.

They were managing to destroy what remained of a garden that had been so well-tended in the past, so loved-a garden where the Perrins no longer came together as a family at dusk to sit in cast-iron chairs (the men in black jackets, the women in long rustling dresses) and watch the melons and strawberries ripen. A small boy in a pink smock was walking along the iron gate, holding on to the spikes to keep his balance.

"You'll fall, you little devil," said Lucile.

He stared at her without replying. Suddenly, she envied these children who could enjoy themselves without worrying about the time, the war, misfortune. It seemed to her that among a race of slaves, they alone were free, "truly free," she thought to herself.

Reluctantly, she walked back to the silent, morose house, whipped by the rain.

12

Lucile was surprised to see the postman coming from her house: she didn't receive many letters. On the hall table lay a card addressed to her.

12 rue de la Source, Paris (XVI) Madame,

Do you remember the old couple you took in last June? We have thought of you often since then, Madame, and your kind welcome when we stopped at your home during that terrible journey. We would be so pleased to hear your news. Did your husband come home from the war safe and sound? As for us, we had the great joy of being reunited with our son. We send you our best wishes, Jeanne and Maurice Michaud

Lucile was glad for them. Such nice people… They were happier than she was… They loved each other. They had faced such danger together, and come through it together…

She hid the card in her desk and went into the dining room. It was a nice day, in spite of the persistent rain. There was only one place set at the table and she felt happy again that Madame Angellier wasn't home: she could read while eating. She ate lunch very quickly, then went over to the window and watched the rain falling. It was the back end of the storm, as the cook put it. The weather had changed over the last forty-eight hours, transforming a radiant spring into a cruel, vague sort of season, where the last snow merged with the first flowers. The apple trees had lost all their blossom overnight; the rose bushes were dark and frozen; the wind had smashed flowerpots full of geraniums and sweet peas.

"Everything will be ruined! There'll be no fruit," Marthe groaned as she cleared the table. "I'll make a fire in here," she added. "It's so cold it's unbearable. The German asked me to make a fire in his room, but the chimney hasn't been swept and he'll just be breathing in smoke. Too bad for him. I told him, but he didn't want to listen. He thinks it's because I don't want to do it. As if we wouldn't give them a couple of logs after everything else they've taken from us… Listen, he's coughing! Good Lord! What a pain to have to wait on these Boches. All right, I'm coming, I'm coming!" she said in annoyance.

Lucile heard her open the door and reply to the irritated German, "Well, I tried to tell you! With this wind blowing, a chimney that hasn't been swept just pushes the smoke back inside."

"Well why hasn't it been swept, mein Gott?" shouted the frustrated German.

"Why? Why? I don't know anything about it. I'm not the owner. You think with your war going on we can do what we like?"

"My good woman, if you really think I'm going to let myself be smoked out like a rabbit, you're very mistaken! Where are the ladies? If they can't provide a habitable bedroom, then they can let me move into the sitting room. Make a fire in there."

"I'm sorry, Monsieur. That's not possible," said Lucile, walking towards him. "In our provincial houses the sitting room is a formal room where no one sleeps. The fireplace isn't real, as you can see."

"What? That white marble monument with the carved cupids warming their hands?"

"Has never had a fire in it," Lucile continued, smiling. "But do come into the dining room, if you'd like; the stove is lit. It's true that your room is in a sad state," she added, looking at the waves of smoke pouring out of it.

"Oh, Madame, I nearly choked to death… Being a military man is clearly fraught with danger! But I wouldn't want to impose on you for anything in the world. There are some dusty cafés in the village where they play billiards amid clouds of chalk… And your mother-in-law…"

"She's away for the day."

"Ah! Very well then, thank you, Madame. I won't disturb you. I have important work to finish," he said, holding up some maps.

He sat down at the table and Lucile sat in an armchair by the fire; she stretched her hands out towards the warmth, occasionally rubbing them together absent-mindedly. "I have the mannerisms of an old woman," she thought sadly, "the mannerisms and the life of an old woman."

She let her hands settle back on to her lap. When she looked up, she saw that the officer had abandoned his maps and pushed back the curtain to look at the grey sky and the crucified pear trees.

"What a sad place," he murmured.

"Why should that matter to you?" Lucile replied. "You're leaving tomorrow."

"No," he said, "I'm not leaving."

"Oh! But I thought…"

"All leave has been cancelled."

"Really? But why?"

He shrugged his shoulders slightly. "No one knows. Cancelled, that's all. That's life in the army."

She felt sorry for him: he'd been looking forward to his leave so much.

"That's very annoying," she said compassionately, "but it's just been postponed…"

"For three months, six months, for ever… I'm most upset for my mother. She's elderly and frail. A little old lady with white hair and a straw hat; a gust of wind could knock her over… She's expecting me tomorrow night and all she'll get is a telegram."

"Are you an only child?"

"I had three brothers. One was killed in Poland, another died when we invaded France a year ago. The third one is in Africa."

"That's very sad, for your wife as well…"

"Oh, my wife… My wife will soon get over it. We got married very young; we were practically children. What's your opinion of people getting married after a two-week acquaintance on a trip round the lakes?"