But she wasn't wrong. It was indeed his car that had crashed near the lake. In the farmhouse, stretched out on a large bed near the fire, we found François, with a broken leg and burning with fever. When we came in he let out a weak cry of joy. “Oh, Hélène … Why? You shouldn't have come … We were going to wait for a horse and cart to take me back home. It was very silly of you to come,” he said again.
But as she uncovered his leg and began to dress it with her skilful, gentle touch (she 'd been a nurse during the war), I saw him take her hand. “I knew you'd come,” he whispered. “I was in pain and I was calling out your name.”
FRANÇOIS HAD TO STAY IN BED all winter; his leg was broken in two places. There were complications, I'm not sure of the details … He 's only been up and about for a week now.
W E'VE HAD A VERY COLD summer and not much fruit. Nothing new has happened locally. My cousin Colette Dorin gave birth on 20 September. A boy. I'd only been to the Moulin-Neuf once since their wedding. I went again when the child was born. Hélène was with her daughter. Now it's winter again—a monotonous time of year. The Oriental proverb that says “the days drag on while the years fly by” is truer here than anywhere else. Once again, darkness falls at three o'clock, the crows circle the skies, there 's snow on the roads and, in each isolated house, life closes in on itself even more, or so it seems—the space it offers to the outside world grows even smaller: long hours spent sitting by the fire doing nothing, not reading, not drinking, not even dreaming.
YESTERDAY, ON 1 MARCH, a day of sun and high wind, I left my house early to go to Coudray. Old Declos has purchased one of my fields and owes me eight thousand francs. I got held up in the village, where someone bought me a bottle of wine. When I got to Coudray it was dusk. I crossed a small wood. You could see its young, delicate trees from the road; they separate Coudray from the Moulin-Neuf. The sun was setting. As I walked through the wood, the trees were casting shadows on the ground, and it already felt like night. I love our silent woods. You never meet a soul ordinarily. So I was surprised to hear, all of a sudden, a woman's voice calling out, quite close to me. A high-pitched call, on two notes. Someone whistled in reply. The voice fell silent. I was near the small lake by then. The woods in these parts have many little lakes; you can't see them because they're surrounded by trees and hidden by rows of rushes. But I know them all. During the hunting season I spend all day on their banks.
I moved softly. The water shimmered, giving off a pale light, like a mirror in a dark room. I saw a man and a woman walk towards each other along a path between the rushes. I couldn't see their faces, only the shapes of their bodies (they were both tall and well built); the woman was wearing a red jacket. I continued on my way; they didn't see me; they were kissing.
When I arrived at Declos's house he was alone, dozing in a large armchair beside the open window. He opened his eyes, let out a deep, furious sigh and stared at me for a long time without recognising me.
I asked him if he was ill. But he 's a true farmer: illness is shameful and must be concealed until the last possible moment, until death is seeping from your pores. He replied he was in excellent health, but the yellowish colour of his skin, the purple circles around his eyes, the folds in his clothing that hung loose from his body, his shortness of breath, his weakness, all betrayed him. I've heard people say he 's got “a bad tumour.” It must be true. Brigitte will soon find herself a rich widow.
“Where 's your wife?” I asked.
“My wife, you say?”
He has the old habit of a horse trader (which he was when he was younger) of pretending to be deaf. He ended up mumbling something about his wife being at the Moulin-Neuf, at Colette Dorin's place. “She 's got nothing to do, that one, except stroll about and go to see people all day long,” he concluded bitterly.
That was how I learned that the two women were friends, something that Hélène certainly didn't know, for she had assured me a few days before that Colette lived only for her husband, her child, her home and refused any invitations to go out.
Old Declos gestured to me to have a seat. He 's so stingy that it pains him to have to offer anyone something to drink and I took malicious pleasure in asking him for a glass of wine so I could drink to his health.
“Can't hear you,” he muttered. “I have a terrible buzzing in my ear: it's from the wind.”
I mentioned the money he owes me. He sighed, pulled a big key out of his pocket and pushed his chair over to the cupboard. But the drawer he wanted to open was much too high; he made several vain attempts to reach it, refused to give me the key when I asked for it and finally said that his wife would surely be home soon and would pay me.
“You have a beautiful young wife, Declos.”
“Too young for my old carcass, is that what you think, Monsieur Sylvestre? Well, if she finds the nights long, at least the days pass quickly.”
At that moment Brigitte came in. She was wearing a black skirt and a red jacket, and there was a young man with her: the same one who had danced with her at Colette 's wedding. In my mind I finished the old man's sentence: “Quicker than you might think, Declos.”
But the old man didn't seem like a fool. He looked at his wife, and his half-dead face lit up with passion and anger. “Well, finally! I've been waiting for you since midday.”
She shook my hand and introduced the young man who was with her. He 's called Marc Ohnet; he lives on his father's land. He has a reputation for getting into fights and for being a womaniser. He 's very handsome. I hadn't realised that Brigitte Declos and Marc Ohnet “stepped out together,” as the locals say. But around here, malicious gossip stops at the edge of town; in the countryside, in these isolated houses separated by fields and deep woods, many things happen that no one knows about. As for me, well, even if I hadn't seen that red jacket near the lake an hour before, I would have guessed that these young people were in love: their calm, arrogant demeanour, and a kind of stifled passion concealed in their movements, in their smiles, gave them away. Especially her. She was burning. “She finds the nights long,” old Declos had said. I could picture those nights, nights in her old husband 's bed, dreaming of her lover, counting her husband's sighs, wondering, “When will he finally stop breathing?”
She opened the cupboard, which I imagined to be stuffed full of money beneath piles of sheets; this isn't the kind of place where we make bankers even richer; everyone keeps his possessions close, like a cherished child. I glanced at Marc Ohnet to see if I could catch a glimmer of envy on his face, for no one 's rich in his family: his father was the eldest of fourteen children and his share of the property is small. But no. As soon as he saw the money he quickly turned away. He went over to the window and stared out of it for a long time: you could see the valley and the woods in the clear night. It was the kind of March weather when the wind seems to chase every single speck of cloud and fog from the sky; the stars sparkled brightly above.
“How's Colette?” I asked. “Did you see her today?”
“She 's fine.”
“And her husband?”
“Her husband's away. He 's in Nevers and won't get back until tomorrow.”
She answered my questions but never took her eyes off the tall, dark young man's face. His whole being looks supple and strong, not exactly brutal, but a bit wild; his hair is black, his forehead narrow, his teeth white, close together and rather sharp. He brought to this dismal room the smell of the woods in spring, a sharp, invigorating smell that brings life to my old bones. I could have gone on walking all night. When I left Coudray the idea of going home was unbearable, so I headed towards the Moulin-Neuf where I would ask to have supper. I crossed the wood; it was totally deserted this time, mysterious in the whistling wind.
I walked towards the river; I had only ever been to the mill in daylight before, when it was working. The noise of the wheel turning—powerful but gentle at the same time— soothes the heart. Now, the silence felt strange to me. It made me almost uncomfortable. You strained
to hear each sound, in spite of yourself; but there was nothing except the rush of water. I went over the footbridge; here you are hit by a cold smell: the water, the darkness, the damp reeds. The night was so clear that you could see the white foam on the fast-flowing stream. There was a light on upstairs: Colette waiting for her husband. The wooden boards creaked beneath my feet; she heard me coming. The door opened and I could see Colette running towards me, but when she was a few steps away from me she stopped.
“Who's there?” she asked, her voice faltering.
I said my name. “You were expecting Jean, I suppose?” I continued.
She didn't reply. She walked slowly towards me so I could kiss her forehead. She wasn't wearing a hat and was dressed in a light dressing gown, as if she had just got out of bed. Her forehead was burning hot; her entire manner seemed so peculiar that I suddenly wondered what was going on.
“Am I disturbing you? I thought I would ask for some supper.”
“Well … I'd be very happy to,” she murmured, “but, it's just that I wasn't expecting you, and … I'm not feeling well … Jean's away … I sent the maid home and had some milk for my supper, in bed.”
The longer she spoke, the more confident she became. She ended up telling me a very plausible little story: she had a touch of flu … if I touched her hands and cheeks, I'd see she had a fever; the maid was in the village, at her daughter's house, and wouldn't be back until the next day. She was very sorry not to be able to offer me a proper supper, but if I would be happy with some fried eggs and fruit … Nevertheless, she made no move to invite me inside. Quite the opposite. She blocked the door and, when I got closer to her, I could sense she was shaking all over. I felt sorry for her.
“Fried eggs won't do,” I said, “I'm hungry. And besides, I don't want to keep you out on this footbridge; the wind is freezing cold. Go back to bed, my girl. I'll come some other time.”
What else could I do? I'm neither her father nor her husband. Besides, to tell the truth, I don't have the right to criticise, having committed enough folly in my own youth. And aren't the most beautiful follies the ones linked to love? Quite apart from the fact that we usually pay so dearly for our follies, we should be generous about them, to ourselves and others. Yes, we always pay for them, and sometimes the smallest indiscretions cost as much as the largest. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. Of course, it was madness to have another man in your husband 's house, but on the other hand what pleasure, on a night like this, to walk arm in arm with your lover while the water flows by and the fear of being caught clutches at your heart. Who was the man she was expecting?
“At Coudray, old Declos will gladly give me a glass of wine and a piece of cheese,” I thought to myself. “And if that young man isn't there any more, there 's a good chance that he 's the lover in both places. He 's a handsome fellow. Declos is old and as for Jean, poor Jean, even on his wedding day he looked like a man who could easily be deceived. Some people are born like that; no way around it.”
Colette wanted to walk me to the wood. Every now and again she stumbled on a stone and held my arm tighter. I touched her hand; it was frozen.
“Go back home,” I said. “Go on, you'll make yourself worse.”
“You're not angry?” she asked.
She didn't wait for me to answer. “When you see Mama,” she said quietly, “I beg you, please don't say anything to her. She 'll think I'm seriously ill and she 'll worry.”
“I won't even mention I've seen you.”
She threw herself into my arms. “I love you so much, Uncle Silvio! You understand everything.”
It was almost a confession and I felt it was my duty to warn her about the dangers. But as soon as I said the words “your husband, your child, your home,” she leapt back.
“I know! Don't you think I know?” she cried, and you could hear the suffering and hatred in her voice. “But I don't love my husband. I love someone else. Leave us in peace! It's nobody else's business,” she said with difficulty, and she ran away so quickly that I didn't have time to finish what I'd started to say. Such madness! When you're twenty, love is like a fever, it makes you almost delirious. When it's over you can hardly remember how it happened … Fire in the blood, how quickly it burns itself out. Faced with this blaze of dreams and desires, I felt so old, so cold, so wise …
At Coudray I knocked on the dining-room window and said I'd got lost. The old man couldn't refuse me a room for the night, even though he knows I've wandered around these woods since I was a child. As for dinner, I didn't stand on ceremony. I went into the kitchen and asked the maid for a bowl of soup. She gave me a large hunk of cheese and some crusty bread to go with it. I took it back to the fire to eat. There was no light in the room apart from the flames in the hearth to save on electricity.
I asked where Marc Ohnet was.
“Gone.”
“Did he have supper with you?”
“Yes,” the old man grumbled.
“Do you see him often?”
He pretended not to hear. His wife was holding some embroidery, but she wasn't working on it. He barked at her, “Don't tire yourself out, now.”
“I can't sew when there 's no light,” she replied, her voice quiet and distracted.
“Was anyone home at the Moulin-Neuf?” she asked, turning towards me.
“I don't know. I didn't go there. It was so dark in the woods that I never made it out. I was afraid of falling into the lake.”
“Is there a lake in the woods?” she murmured and, as I was looking at her, a smile played on her lips, a mocking smile of secret joy. Then she threw her embroidery down on the table and sat very still, her hands crossed over her knees, her head lowered.
The maid came in. “I've made up Monsieur's bed,” she said to me.
It seemed old Declos had fallen asleep; for a long time he sat without speaking, without moving, his mouth hanging open; his hollow cheeks and pallid skin made him look like a corpse.
“I've lit a fire in your room,” the maid continued. “The nights are cold.”
She broke off: Brigitte had leapt up and seemed extraordinarily perturbed. We looked at her, confused.
“Didn't you hear that?” she asked after a moment.
“No. What's wrong?”
“I don't know … I just … I must have been wrong … I thought I heard someone cry out.”
I listened, but there was nothing, nothing but the almost oppressive silence of our countryside at night; even the wind had died down.
“I can't hear a thing,” I said.
The maid went out. I didn't go up to bed; I was watching Brigitte. She was trembling and had gone over to the fire.
She noticed I was staring at her. “Yes,” she said blankly, “the nights are very cold.” She stretched out her hands as if she wanted to warm them at the fire; then, clearly forgetting I was there, she buried her face in her hands.
At that moment the garden gate creaked; someone came up to the door and rang the bell. I went to answer it; I saw one of the young farmhands standing there. It's always boys like this who bring bad news in these parts; only the wealthier people have telephones. If someone 's ill, or there 's been an accident or somebody's died, the farmers send one of their workers, a young lad with rosy cheeks who calmly breaks the news.
This one politely took off his cap and turned towards Brigitte. “Beg your pardon, Madame, the owner of the Moulin-Neuf fell into the river.”
He answered our questions: Jean Dorin had come home from Nevers sooner than expected; he 'd left his car away from the house, in the meadow; maybe he didn't want the noise from the car to disturb his wife because she was ill? While crossing the footbridge he must have felt faint; the footbridge is wide and solid, but it only has a protective handrail on one side; he 'd fallen into the water. His wife hadn't heard him come home; she was asleep, but had been woken by his cry. She 'd got up straight away, rushed outside and looked for him in the deep water, but without success; he must have been p
ulled under in a flash. She 'd recognised the car standing in the meadow and was certain that her husband had just died. She was beside herself, so she 'd run over to the next farm and asked for help. The men were looking for the body now, “but the farmer's mother thought that the poor lady could use some company and that Madame Declos, being her friend, would want to come,” the lad concluded.
“I'll go,” said Brigitte.
She seemed dumbstruck; her voice was cold and solemn. Gently, she touched her husband's shoulder, for the sound of our voices hadn't awakened him. When he opened his eyes she explained what had happened. He listened in silence. Perhaps he only half understood, perhaps he cared little about the death of a young man, or even the death of anyone except himself. Perhaps he just didn't want to say what he thought. He stood up. “All this … all this …” he finally said, heaving a sigh. He didn't finish. “Well, I'm going to bed.”
As he was leaving the room he said it again, to his wife, but in a way that struck me as significant and almost threatening: “All this is your business. Don't you get me involved, you hear?”
I walked Brigitte to the Moulin-Neuf. Flashlights shone in the dark and on the water, coming and going, criss-crossing each other as men looked for the body. At the house, all the doors were open. Some of the neighbours were tending to Colette, who'd fainted, and the baby, who was crying; others were rummaging through the cupboards, pulling out sheets they could use to wrap up the body when it was found. The farmhands were in the kitchen having a bite to eat while waiting for daylight, when they could search the reed beds further down the river; they thought the drowned man must have floated downstream and got trapped there.
I saw Colette only briefly: she was surrounded by women who evidently weren't going to leave soon. Countrywomen are never ones to miss a free show, the kind you get with a birth or sudden death. They were buzzing about, giving their advice and opinions, taking drinks to the men who were waist-high in water. I wandered around the mill, through the living quarters, so spacious and comfortable, with their large fireplaces, their pretty antique furniture, lovingly chosen by Hélène, their deep alcoves, their flowers, their floral curtains of heavy cotton; the mill itself was to the left, the domain of the absent young man. I imagined his body imprisoned in the water. But if even a small part of his soul returned to earth, it would surely come back to this humble setting, this machinery, these sacks of grain, these weighing scales. He 'd been so very proud when he 'd showed me this wing of the mill, restored by his father. I almost thought I could see him standing next to me. I knocked into a piece of machinery as I passed by and suddenly it creaked, in a way that sounded so plaintive, so unexpected, so strange, that I couldn't help but whisper, “Are you here, my poor boy?”
Fire in the Blood Page 3
