"But to lie like that…" said Lucile in disgust.

"What else have you been doing for the past ten days?"

"And once we get to Paris? Where will he hide until he finds his friends? Where will we find anyone courageous enough, committed enough, unless…"

She was remembering something.

"Yes," she said suddenly. "It's possible… Anyway, it's a chance we'll have to take. Do you remember the refugees from Paris we helped in June 1940? They worked in a bank, quite an old couple, but full of spirit and courage. They wrote to me recently: I have their address. They're called Michaud. Yes, that's it, Jeanne and Maurice Michaud. They might do it… Of course they'll do it… but we'd have to write and ask and wait for their reply, or just take our chances and hope for the best. I don't know…"

"Ask for the pass in any case," said Madame Angellier. "It shouldn't be difficult," she added with a faint, bitter smile.

"I'll try," said Lucile.

She was dreading the moment she would be alone with Bruno. Nevertheless, she hurried down the stairs. Best to get it over with. What if he suspects something? Oh, so what! It was war. She would submit to the rules of war. She was afraid of nothing. Her empty, weary soul was almost eager to run some great risk.

She knocked at the German's door. She went in and was surprised to find he was not alone. With him were the Commandant's new interpreter, a thin red-headed boy with a hard, angular face and blond eyelashes, and another very young officer who was short and chubby, with a rosy complexion and a childlike expression and smile. All three of them were writing letters and packing up: they were sending home all those little knick-knacks soldiers buy when they are in the same place for a while, to create the illusion they live there, but which are burdensome during a campaign: ashtrays, little clocks, prints and, especially, books. Lucile wanted to go but he asked her to stay. She sat down in an armchair Bruno brought out for her and she watched the three Germans who, after apologising, continued working. "We want to get all this in the post by five o'clock," they said.

She saw a violin, a small lamp, a French-German dictionary, books in French, German and English, and a beautiful romantic print of a sailing boat at sea.

"I found it in Autun at a bric-à-brac shop," said Bruno.

He hesitated.

"Actually, better not… I won't post it… I don't have the right box for it. It will get damaged. It would make me so very happy, Madame, if you would keep it. It will brighten up this rather dark room. The subject is appropriate. Look. Dark, threatening skies, a ship setting sail… and far in the distance, a hint of brightness on the horizon… a vague, very faint glimmer of hope. Do accept it as a memento of a soldier who is leaving and who will never see you again."

"I will, mein Herr, " Lucile said quietly, "because of this hint of brightness on the horizon."

He bowed and continued packing. A candle was lit on the table; he held the sealing wax over its flame, placed a seal on the finished package, took his ring off his hand and pressed it into the hot wax. Lucile watched him, remembering the day he had played the piano for her and how she had held the ring, still warm from his hand.

"Yes," he said, suddenly looking up at her. "The happy times are over."

"Do you think this new war will last long?" she said, immediately regretting having asked. It was like asking someone if he thought he would live long. What did this new war mean? What was going to happen? A series of thundering victories or defeat, a long struggle? Who could really know? Who dared predict the future? Although that's all people did… and always in vain…

He seemed to read her thoughts. "In any case," he said, "there will surely be much suffering, much heartache and much bloodshed."

He and his two comrades were getting everything organised. The short officer was carefully wrapping up a tennis racket and the interpreter some large, beautiful books bound in tan leather. "Gardening books," he explained to Lucile, "because in civilian life," he added in a slightly pompous tone of voice, "I design gardens in the Classical style of Louis XIV."

How many Germans in the village-in cafés, in the comfortable houses they had occupied-were now writing to their wives, their fiancées, leaving behind their worldly possessions, as if they were about to die? Lucile felt deeply sorry for them. Outside in the street there were horses coming back from the blacksmith and saddle maker, all ready to leave, no doubt. It seemed strange to think about these horses pulled away from their work in France to be sent to the other end of the world. The interpreter, who had been watching them go by, said seriously, "Where we're going is a really wonderful place for horses…"

The short lieutenant made a face. "Not so wonderful for men…"

The idea of this new war seemed to fill them with sadness, Lucile thought, but she didn't allow herself to dwell too deeply on their feelings: she feared to find, in the place of emotion, some spark of their so-called "warrior mentality." It was almost like spying; she would have been ashamed to do it. And anyway, she knew them well enough by now to know they would put up a good fight. What's more, she said to herself, there's a world of difference between the young man I'm looking at now and the warrior of tomorrow. It's a truism that people are complicated, multifaceted, contradictory, surprising, but it takes the advent of war or other momentous events to be able to see it. It is the most fascinating and the most dreadful of spectacles, she continued thinking, the most dreadful because it's so real; you can never pride yourself on truly knowing the sea unless you've seen it both calm and in a storm. Only the person who has observed men and women at times like this, she thought, can be said to know them. And to know themselves. She would never have believed herself capable of saying to Bruno in such ingenuous and sincere tones, I've come to ask you a great favour.

"Tell me, Madame, how can I be of service to you?"

"Could you recommend me to someone at Headquarters who could get me a travel pass and petrol coupon as a matter of urgency? I have to drive to Paris…"

As she was speaking she was thinking, "If I tell him about some sick tenant farmer he'll be suspicious: there are good hospitals in the area, in Creusot, Paray, or Autun…"

"I have to drive one of my farmers to Paris. His daughter works there; she's seriously ill and is asking for him. The poor man would lose too much time if he went by train. You know it's the harvest. If you could grant me permission, we could do the entire journey there and back in a day."

"You don't need to go to Headquarters, Madame Angellier," the short officer said quickly; he'd been shyly glancing at her from a distance, lost in admiration. "I have full powers to grant you your request. When would you like to go?"

"Tomorrow."

"Oh, good," murmured Bruno. "Tomorrow… so you'll be here when we leave."

"When are you leaving?"

"At eleven o'clock tonight. We're travelling at night because of the air raids. It seems a bit ridiculous since the moon is so bright it's almost like daytime. But the army works on tradition."

"I'll be going now," said Lucile, after taking the two pieces of paper the short officer had written out: two pieces of paper that symbolised a man's life and liberty. She calmly folded them up and slipped them under her waistband without allowing the slightest sense of urgency to betray her nervousness.

"I'll be here when you go."

Bruno looked at her and she understood his silent plea.

"Will you come and say goodbye to me, Herr Lieutenant? I'm going out, but I'll be back at six o'clock."

The three young men stood up and clicked their heels. In the past, she had found this display of courtesy by the soldiers of the Reich old-fashioned and rather affected. Now, she thought how much she would miss this light jingling of spurs, the kiss on the hand, the admiration these soldiers showed her almost in spite of themselves, soldiers who were without family, without female companionship (except for the lowest type of woman). There was in their respect for her a hint of tender melancholy: it was as if, thanks to her, they could recapture some remnant of their former lives where kindness, a good education, politeness towards women had far more value than getting drunk or taking an enemy position. There was gratitude and nostalgia in their attitude towards her; she could sense it and was touched by it. She waited for it to be eight o'clock in a state of deep anxiety. What would she say to him? How would they part? There was between them an entire world of confused, unexpressed thoughts, like a precious crystal so fragile that a single word could shatter it. He felt it too, no doubt, for he spent only a brief moment alone with her. He took off his hat (perhaps his last civilian gesture, thought Lucile, feeling tender and sad), took her hands in his. Before kissing them, he pressed his cheek against hers, softly and urgently both at the same time. Was he claiming her as his own? Attempting to brand her with his seal, so she wouldn't forget?