Madame de Montmort spoke these words out loud and they echoed in the silent grounds. When inspiration took hold of her, she lost all control. She strode back and forth, then collapsed on to the damp moss and sat in meditation for a long time, her fur wrap pulled tight round her thin shoulders. Whenever she reflected in this way her thoughts quickly led to passionate resentment. Why, when she was so gifted, wasn't she surrounded by love or even the warmth of admiration? Why had her husband married her for her money? Why wasn't she popular? When she walked through the village the children would hide or laugh behind her back. She knew they called her "the madwoman." It was very hard being hated, yet look at how much she'd done for the local people! The library (how lovingly she had chosen the books, good books to elevate the soul but which left them cold; the girls wanted her to get novels by Maurice Dekobra, these young people…), educational films (just as unpopular as the books), a village fête every year in the grounds, with a show put on by the schoolchildren. Yet she had not been oblivious to the harsh criticisms bandied about. They held it against her that the chairs had been set up in the garage because the bad weather had made it impossible to enjoy being outside. What did these people want? Did they expect her to invite them into the château? They'd be the ones who felt embarrassed if she did. Ah, this deplorable new way of thinking that was sweeping through France! She alone could recognise it and give it a name. The people were becoming Bolsheviks. She had thought the defeat would be a lesson to them, that they would see the errors of their ways and be forced to show respect for their leaders. But no: they were worse than ever.
Sometimes she-a passionate patriot, yes she-was actually glad the enemy was there, she thought, listening to the German guards keeping watch on the road alongside the grounds. They patrolled the village and the surrounding countryside all night long, in groups of four; you could hear the sound of church bells ringing, a sweet, familiar sound that gently lulled people as they slept, and at the same time the hammering of boots, the rattling of weapons, as in a prison courtyard. Yes, the Viscountess de Montmort had reached the point where she wondered if she shouldn't thank the Good Lord for the German occupation of France. Not that she actually liked them, Lord no! She couldn't stand them, but without them… who knew? It was all very well for Amaury to say "Communists? The people around here? But they're richer than you are…" It wasn't simply a question of money or land, it was also, especially, a question of zeal. She vaguely sensed this without being able to explain it. Perhaps they didn't really understand the idea of Communism, but it appealed to their desire for equality, a desire so powerful that even having money and land became frustrating rather than satisfying. It was an insult, as they put it, to own livestock worth a fortune, to be able to send their sons to private school, buy silk stockings for their daughters, and in spite of all that, still feel inferior to the Montmorts.
The farmers felt they were never given enough respect, especially since the Viscount was made Mayor… The old farmer who had been Mayor before him had been warm and friendly to everyone; he might have been greedy, vulgar, harsh and insulting to his constituents… he got away with it! Yet they reproached the Viscount de Montmort for being haughty. What did they expect? For him to stand up when they came into the Mayor's office? To see them to the door or something? They couldn't bear any hint of superiority, anyone wealthier or anyone who came from a better family. No matter what people said, the Germans had good qualities. They were a disciplined race, docile, thought Madame de Montmort as she listened, almost with pleasure, to the rhythmical footsteps fading away, the harsh voices shouting Achtung in the distance. It must be very nice to own a lot of property in Germany, whereas here…
She was consumed by anxiety. It was getting darker and she was about to go back into the house when she saw-or thought she saw-a shadowy figure moving along the wall. Head down, it disappeared into the vegetable garden. Finally, she was going to catch one of these thieves. She quivered with pleasure. It was typical of her not to be afraid. Amaury was always worried about confrontations, but not she. Danger aroused the huntress in her. She hid behind some trees and followed the shadowy figure, holding the pair of shoes she had found hidden in the moss at the foot of the wall (the thief was walking in his socks to make less noise). She worked her way round so that he ran straight into her as he was coming out of the vegetable garden. He jumped back and tried to run away, but she shouted at him contemptuously, "I've got your shoes, my friend. The police will soon find out whose they are."
The man stopped and started walking towards her; it was Benoît Sabarie. They stood staring at each other without saying a word.
"Well, that's a fine thing to do," the Viscountess said finally, her voice trembling with hatred.
She despised him. Of all the farmers, he was the most insolent, the most stubborn; whether it was about the hay, the livestock, the fences, everything and nothing, the château and the farm waged silent, interminable guerrilla warfare against each other.
"Well!" she said indignantly. "Now I know who the thief is and I'm going to tell the Mayor immediately. You'll live to regret this!"
"Tell me, do I talk to you like that, do I? Take your plants," said Benoît, throwing them down on the ground where they lay scattered in the moonlight. "Didn't we offer to pay for them? Do you think we don't have enough money to buy them? But every time we ask you for a favour-not that it would cost you anything-no! You'd rather see us starve to death!"
"Thief, thief, thief!" the Viscountess kept shrieking as he talked. "The Mayor…"
"I don't give a damn about the Mayor! Go and get him then. I'll say it to his face."
"How dare you speak to me like that!"
"Because we've all had enough around here, if you want to know the truth! You have everything and you keep everything! Your wood, your fruit, your fish, your game, your hens, you wouldn't sell any of it, you wouldn't give any of it away for all the money in the world. Your husband the Mayor makes fancy speeches about helping one another and the rest of it. You must be bloody joking! Your château's crammed full of stuff, from the cellar to the attic, everyone knows that, they've seen. Are we asking for charity? No! But that's exactly what bothers you, isn't it? You'd be happy to do it as charity because you like humiliating poor people, but when it comes to doing a favour, as equals-'I'm paying for what I take '-you're off like a shot. Why wouldn't you sell me your plants?"
"That's my business and this is my house, I believe, you insolent…"
"That corn wasn't even for me, I swear! I'd rather die than ask people like you for anything. It was for Louise, 'cause her husband's a prisoner and I wanted to help her out. I help people!"
"By stealing?"
"Well, what else are we supposed to do? You're heartless and stingy with it! What else are we supposed to do?" he repeated furiously. "And I'm not the only one to help myself here. Everything you refuse to give away without a good reason, everything you keep out of pure spite, we're going to take. And it's not over yet. Just wait until autumn! Your husband the Mayor will be hunting with the Germans…"
"That's not true! That's a lie! He's never gone hunting with the Germans."
She stamped her foot angrily, wild with rage. Again that stupid slander! The Germans did invite them both to one of their hunts last winter, it was true. They had declined, but they couldn't refuse to attend the dinner in the evening. Whether they liked it or not, they had to follow the government's orders. And besides, these German officers were cultured men, after all! What separates or unites people is not their language, their laws, their customs, their principles, but the way they hold their knife and fork.