The Widow (12 page)

“Why do you say
of course
?”

“Nothing … You still see Father?”

“Have people been telling you things?”

“What would they have told me? You were his pet. You could twist him around your little finger…. Has he married again?”

Now! This was more like his sister. She was looking at him with suspicious eyes, quite sure that the words hid something, and it made him smile. He preferred this to her tears.

“Listen, Jean…. ”

“What must I listen to?”

“Don't answer like that. It's so obviously not natural. It's like a grating cog.”

“I swear, Billie, I'm not grating. You've come. That means you have something to tell me. Is it so difficult?”

She dabbed at her eyes to avoid having to answer at once. Then, looking at the doors: “There's nobody here?”

“Tati's at church. I don't know where the old goat is.”

“The old goat?”

“That's what we call him. Forget it. So, you were saying that father? …”

And he went to the mantelpiece and took the old pipe of Couderc's he had cleaned with brandy the Sunday before.

“I
F YOU
think I've come as an enemy, I'd better go. It's not my fault if seeing you here…. ”

“Isn't it all right here?”

She, of course, would be living in a house in the same style as their father's. A new, modern villa, on a hillside. The builder had had it photographed from all angles, so that he could show it off, in color, in his catalogues, so closely did it correspond to people's notion of happiness.

Everything was bright. The light came in through wide bays and the windows opened by means of well-oiled cranks in a white metal as fine as silver. Clumps of flowers flanked the terrace, where coffee and liqueurs were always served.

People passing by on the road would glance over the gate. They glimpsed the three-car garage, the chauffeur forever busy polishing his cars, the lawns, a revolving sprinkler, the gardener stooping over his flower beds.

And beyond, under the huge red overhanging roof, on the shady terrace, brightly clad people sitting around and sipping pleasant drinks.

A squeaking sound, outside. Billie cocked an ear, but Jean reassured her.

“It's nothing. Just someone working the drawbridge. Must be a motorboat, because the barges don't move on Sundays.”

“Answer me frankly, Jean. Is it because of Father you've come back in these parts? Have you seen him?”

“No.”

She still did not believe him. She was distrustful.

“And you don't know he's married a girl two years younger than I am? A little thing who served behind the counter in a cake shop.”

“It was bound to happen some time or another.”

“What do you plan to do?”

“And you?”

“What do you mean, ‘And you'? Honestly, Jean, I don't understand you. You're speaking words that have no meaning. You're paying no attention to the conversation. Are you waiting for someone?”

“No. I'm waiting for it to be half-past eleven so that I can put the potatoes on to boil.”

“Did you suffer all that much?”

“When? When I found Father with Lucette?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Just a picture that comes back to me, that has often come back to me. I think it settled a lot of things. Mother had just fallen ill…. ”

“You were barely nine years old!”

“Exactly. There was a bathroom next to her bedroom, then a huge closet where all the family's clothes were hung. The doctor hadn't been gone five minutes … he had hurt Mother and she was dozing off. I wanted to go into the closet and I caught Father there with Lucette. D'you want me to tell you what posture they were in?”

“Stop it!”

“Then, tell me why you've come.”

“Well, we don't see Father anymore! There was a scene, a few days after his marriage. When I heard you were here, I thought you would be going to Montluçon.”

“Why?”

“Don't play the fool, Jean! Father too must be expecting a visit from you. You won't get me to believe…. ”

As he put the potatoes on to boil, after fueling the stove, she got up abruptly, in the grip of extreme nervous tension.

“For heaven's sake, sit still! Stop acting this farce.”

“What farce?”

“You want me to believe you really mean to stay on in this house? In what capacity are you here anyway?”

“Farmhand!”

“Farmhand! That's it.”

“Do you want to see my chickens? In a few days, sixty chicks will hatch out in the incubator…. ”

“And you don't intend to see our father, of course. You won't go and claim your share of Mother's legacy from him, will you?”

“I hadn't thought of it.”

“Don't be clever with me, Jean. You know it won't go with me. I know you!”

“You think so?”

She stamped her foot impatiently.

“What are you doing in that cupboard?”

“I'm getting out the brandy and some glasses. I'm thirsty. Or would you prefer some black-currant juice?”

“I'm speaking seriously. If you insist on going your own way, that's your affair. But just you wait till you've seen Father— you'll tell a different story then.”

“Have you been to see him?”

“I wrote to him.”

“To claim your share of Mother's legacy?”

“We're in our rights. Philippe had to incur heavy expenses for his surgery. D'you know how Father reacted?”

“No!”

“He answered me by telephone. I knew he would take notice in the end. He swore that, so long as he lived, he wouldn't give us a penny. He claims that when he married Mother she had no money, and that everything he possesses he earned.”

“Quite true.”

“How dare you say such a thing?”

“After all, Mother was always ill. She couldn't have.”

“That's no reason for denying us our legacy. Then, I thought that, since you would be going to see him …”

“No.”

“What d'you mean, no?”

“I'm saying that I won't go.”

“Perhaps you mean to spend the rest of your life in this house?”

“Perhaps I do.”

“I think I had better go.”

She wanted to cry. Nerves, as always. The least annoyance threw her in this state.

“I shall tell Philippe…. ”

“What will you tell him?”

“You hate us, don't you?”

Why did Article 12 come back to him like the refrain of a song?

“
Every person condemned to death shall be decapitated
.”

“I'm beginning to realize that you've come back to these parts only to aggravate us. You're not even discreet. You tell everybody your name. People were beginning to forget. They'll start talking again. Admit it—that's how you plan to set about making Father give you your money! It's deliberate, your dressing like a tramp and living with God knows what sort of people.”

“With Tati.”

“What did you say?”

“I'm saying I live with Tati. She's my mistress. Besides me there's the old goat, as she calls him. He's her father-in-law. From time to time she takes him to bed with her, like giving sweets to a child to keep it quiet. It's the only way of retaining the house…. ”

“Jean!”

“What?”

“This is painful. Do you really not understand? You're doing it on purpose, I know. But I came to help you. Philippe would have found you a job.”

“Not too near here!”

“I beg you! Stop this constant joking. Do you want me to go down on my knees? I can feel that you're going to do some crazy thing again. You've started off on the wrong foot…. ”

“I always did start off on the wrong foot…. ”

“Be quiet. Listen to me. Just think that if Mother were here, she'd tell you the same.”

“She'd ask me whether I was not too unhappy.”

“And I? Isn't that just what I've been asking you for the past hour? Haven't I come to try and get you out of here? You're young. You have—”

“I have years of lost time to make up. At this moment, I ought to be dead, my head severed from my body…. ”

“Have you no pity, then, no feeling?”

“I'm tired.”

He looked around for something to do and, picking up a piece of wood, he began to whittle it, with the slow and careful movements of a peasant.

“Shall I go?” asked his sister, not knowing what to do with herself any more.

He looked at her as if he did not see her and passed his hand across his brow.

“What a bore you are …” he sighed.

At the same moment he cocked an ear, took a few steps toward the door, with his bit of wood and his knife still in his hand.

“What is it?” he asked.

Félicie was rushing up, in her blue smock, her hair disheveled, terror in her eyes.

“Come quickly. Auntie … Auntie …”

He turned toward Billie, standing there in the half light of the kitchen. He wanted to say good-bye, but did not take the time.

“Well! … What's happened?”

“She's … she's hurt…. Come on…. ”

At one stroke the sun had taken possession of him. Another world was swallowing them up—himself and Félicie running on ahead and too much shaken to be able to cry.

The anglers, along the canal bank, knew nothing. Bubbles broke the surface of the water. The pink roof, yonder … a dark doorway in a white wall …

“She doesn't stop bleeding…. I'm scared…. It was my father…. ”

The wooden-legged lock-keeper was smoking his pipe, sitting on his doorstep while one of his brood crawled on all fours in front of him.

It might have been foreseen that things would take a turn for the worse one day, but not like this, not on a Sunday morning, in bright sunshine.

Tati, in her best black dress, had been on her way back along the canal, a little out of breath as she always was when walking. In one hand she was carrying her prayer book, in the other her umbrella. She used it as a sunshade on the sunlit parts of the path, but here the shade was almost cool under the chestnut trees lining both banks of the canal. Sometimes a bicycle passed her. Boys and girls pedaled along, laughing. Tati was talking to herself. That was a habit of hers.

And then, on reaching the lock, she stopped, her eyes suddenly hard. A hundred yards off she saw the drawbridge and, on it, two cows, her own, blocking the footway, and a little boy trying to drive them back.

To others this meant nothing, no more than a speck on the landscape. But Tati knew better and, instead of continuing on her way, she crossed the lock and marched straight on toward the little house in the brickyard.

Félicie, having bicycled back from church, had already changed and was playing with her baby near the doorstep. She straightened up to see her aunt go by.

Tati, without hesitation, without a moment's pause, walked straight into the kitchen and there in front of her, just as she had expected, she found old Couderc sitting at the table with a pot of wine. He had his hat on. The table was covered with a small-checked oilcloth.

Settled close to the fire, her legs slightly apart, Françoise was peeling potatoes, which she dropped one by one into a bucket.

It was calm as a lake, calm as a pond. But Tati broke this calm, crossed the kitchen, gripped the old man by the shoulder, pulling up the sleeve of his jacket. She knew he could not hear, but that did not stop her talking.

“Get out of here, you! … I suspected as much. As soon as my back's turned, people take advantage and start their little schemes…. ”

Then Françoise, who had always been placidity and stupidity personified, dropped the potato peelings out of her apron, stood up, and planted herself in the middle of the room. Black wool stockings showed under her too short skirt.

“You're the one who'll get out of here, my girl!” she announced with an anxious glance through the window curtains.

And, turning toward the door: “Félicie! … Call your father.”

He was behind the house, digging a patch of earth which all winter long was strewn with yellowed leeks. He could be heard approaching in his sabots. He stamped them outside the door.

“What's this?” asked Tati. “What does this mean?”

“It means, my girl, that Father will stay here if he pleases and that you'll be the one to get out. Understand? Let her by, Eugène.”

“So! You'd like to keep the old man. So that's what comes of all your scheming and whisperings with Amélie. Perhaps it was the lawyer who put you up to this? We'll soon see whether Couderc—”

And she grabbed the old man's arm, pulling at it. Françoise intervened. “I'm telling you he'll stay here with us.”

“And I'm telling you, you bitch…. Let go of me, d'you hear?”

“I'll let go of you when you're out, you old bag.”

“So! You—”

Unexpectedly, Tati snatched at her sister-in-law's bun and the hair came down.

“So! You want to keep the old man. So! You—”

“Mamma!” cried Félicie, who had come to peep through the door. “Mamma!”

“So! You—”

And Tati was pulling with all her strength. Françoise banged her knee against a chair and let out a cry.

“Eugène! Well! What are you—”

Félicie was crying. The old man was hugging the wall. Eugène, frowning, still hesitated to act.

When he did decide, it was to snatch up the bottle standing on the table.

“Let go of my wife!” he shouted. “Let go of my wife or else I'll—”

Then, suddenly, the bottle cracked on Tati's head and everyone froze into stillness, all movement suspended for a long moment.

Then Eugène looked down at the bottleneck still in his hand and appeared dumbfounded.