Anna (31 page)

M. Duvivier brushed away the suggestion.

“I want no one but ourselves,” he said. “That is the trouble
with my life. I am so seldom alone. Even one customer who is slow over his coffee means that I can have no private life.”

He went over to the cupboard and removed the bottle that he had already opened. Holding the bottle to the light, he seemed surprised to notice how low the level had become. It shocked him. But he poured himself a glass, a full glass, and sat down. Anna joined him obediently. It was the hour when all husbands and wives in the trade sit down and dine together.

M. Duvivier opened his napkin and stuffed it into his collar underneath his chin.

“We must be prepared for bad times,” he said.

Anna raised her eyebrows, and M. Duvivier continued.

“I heard to-day,” he went on, “that it is considered probable that we shall ask for an armistice quite shortly. Then the Germans will enter Paris and occupy it.”

He paused to see the effect on her, and resumed.

“When they arrive, we shall leave,” he said.

“I shall close the restaurant and go to Marseilles. I have no wish to serve Germans in this salon.”

He began drinking the soup that he had prepared himself. Sitting there, a far-away look in his eyes, he spooned up the thin broth of vegetables that was before him. Then the thought of Marseilles, of the Canebière without a German anywhere along its whole length, was too much for him. He began stretching out his great red hands towards the future.

“We shall be very happy there,” he said. “It is the weather, you know. And the people. Everyone so friendly. And such high spirits. Here in Paris they have grown stale. You see the worst side of them.”

He put down his spoon and sat for a space, considering.

“Perhaps I shall open another restaurant,” he said. “Perhaps not. If I do, it will be something good class, down by the waterfront—no sailors. Or we may find a little house somewhere, and enjoy ourselves. I have many relatives there. There is a whole village of them. You would not be lonely.”

But Anna scarcely heard the words that M. Duvivier was saying to her.

“He is going away. He is going away,” she kept repeating.

“You like the thought of Marseilles?” M. Duvivier asked.

She recovered herself.

“Of course,” she said. “It sounds beautiful.”

But inside her mind she was filled with the same haunting thought.

“Why is he going away?” she demanded. “Why should it be
now
that he has decided.”

M. Duvivier bent forward and, taking her hand in his, completely enfolded it.

“It will be beautiful,” he said. “Just the two of us. It is the place where anyone would choose to live. I never had any wish to bring up a family in Paris. But in Marseilles——” He spread out his hands and indicated in a gesture the longed-for fullness of things.

He filled his glass again, and then refilled it. By the time the level in the bottle had sunk another six inches, M. Duvivier was a man at peace in a world that was at war. The rattle of the nightly bombardment seemed no more frightening than summer thunder.

When Anna rose at last and told him that she had a headache, M. Duvivier, a trifle clumsily perhaps, got up and came over to open the door for her.

“Bathe your forehead with eau-de-cologne, my love,” he said, “so that the headache is better by the time that I come up.”

He returned unsteadily to his place, and topped his glass once more.

“This marriage is going just the way I intended it,” he told himself. “She is settling down. I never knew a woman yet who could not be won over by kindness.…”

Upstairs in the bedroom Anna threw herself down without undressing. The fact that the Captain was going away, that by to morrow he would not be there, filled her mind entirely and extinguished everything.

For a moment she forgot everything but herself and the Captain and the single fact that he was leaving; forgot the war and that she was in Paris and a prisoner. Forgot Charles even. For the first time since his death, Charles was really dead.

Then she sat up and listened. In the room above, the Captain's room, she heard footsteps. They were the footsteps of a man pacing backwards and forwards without ceasing, pacing from the door over to the window and back again. Endlessly pacing. Pacing.

M. Duvivier fell asleep almost as soon as he had reached the bedroom. After groping his way past furniture which seemed somehow to be set in his path, he found the route to the bed and began undressing. There was one button on his trousers that he could not manage, and in the end he gave it up. With his trousers still on him,
he climbed into bed—and closed his eyes. All thoughts of being a husband had departed.

And Anna, lying beside him, was aware of two sensations. There was disgust at his drunkenness—she knew very well the meaning of that heavy breathing and those clumsy blunderings in the dark—and relief that he was asleep. As soon as his heavy body was on the bed, he had fallen off.

She lay there, listening. And, above the sound of M. Duvivier's breathing, she could still hear that other sound, the sound of those footsteps from the room above; that pacing which seemed as if it would never stop. A clock outside struck and she knew that it was one o'clock. It was now nearly three hours since the Captain had gone up to his room, and apparently he was still as far from that decision which he had told her he must make.

Then quite suddenly the footsteps ceased. The house seemed quiet without them. She held her breath and waited. But there was nothing.

“He's tired himself out,” she told herself. “He's going to sleep now. And in the morning he'll see how foolish he was. Perhaps he will stay here after all. Perhaps I can persuade him to stay.”

It was as she was reassuring herself that she heard another sound, a different one. It was low and broken. And, in a strange way, terrifying. She sat up on one elbow, trembling. The sound continued. And as she listened she recognised it as the sound of a man's crying.

Her heart began racing, and she caught her breath.

“I must go to him.”

The words formed themselves in her mind almost before she was aware of them. She did not pause to consider, but slid on to the floor and stood there for a moment, still listening. It was only now that she felt any misgivings, any alarm about what she was about to do.

“If I go up to the Captain's room,” she thought, “and
he
finds me”—she turned and looked at the heavy form sprawling on the bed—”he will probably kill me. He may kill both of us.”

She went over and stood for a moment looking down at him. But M. Duvivier showed no sign of waking. He was lying on his back, his mouth open, and all the fine gold dental work revealed. She drew the quilt around him and picked up her wrap that was lying on the chair. Then, before she had time to hesitate again, she opened the door and stepped out into the empty corridor. Behind her, M. Duvivier's snorings continued as unbroken as before.

She had climbed the two flights of stairs before her courage left
her. And then she stood where she was, too frightened to go on, not daring to return. She was cold, and drew her wrap about her more closely. Her whole body was shivering.

But the sound that she had heard, the sound that had startled and terrified her, continued. Only it was much clearer now. The room from which it was coming was in front of her. She could hear it all with a painful, sickening distinctness.

She went forward on tiptoe now. The door itself was only partly closed, and through the crack that was left open she could see the Captain. His arms were clasped, resting on the table; and his head was resting on them. As Anna stood there she felt her fear retreating. She knew that she must go inside to him.

She edged forward, and as she did so she saw that beside his hand there were two letters. They were propped up against the unstoppered bottle of ink that was on the table. The Captain still had not moved.

But, as she moved, the door creaked upon its hinges and the Captain started up. He swung round and faced her. And, seeing her, he shot out his hand to conceal something that was lying in front of him. But he was not quick enough. Anna had seen it already. It was his revolver.

For a moment neither of them spoke. Then the Captain recovered himself. Recovered himself partially, that is. He got up. His eyes had red, unreal rims to them and his hair had fallen forward over his forehead.

“Why have you come to me?” he asked.

“I couldn't sleep,” she answered.

She knew as she said it that it was no answer; but it seemed to her in that moment that it was all the explanation that she need give.

The Captain stood regarding her.

“Have you thought what would happen if M. Duvivier found you here?” he asked.

His voice was flat and cold, and it was only a slight tremor in it that betrayed him.

“It doesn't matter,” she said. “I had to come.”

He came forward a step and put his hands on her shoulders and looked down at her.

“You must go back,” he told her. “You must go back at once. Now. Before any one knows that you have been here.”

The lines of his face were set hard: there was no gentleness in it. It was evident that he expected her to obey him.

But she did not go. She saw the revolver still lying there on the
table, saw the propped-up letters left there for someone else to find, and she understood everything.

“I am not going,” she said. “I won't leave you.”

She clung to him so that he couldn't remove her arms; tried to imprison his hands so that he could not reach out to the table behind him.

“You mustn't do it,” she said. “You've got to live.”

But the officer made no sign that he had heard her.

“It's no use,” he replied, as though he were repeating a lesson that he had taught himself. “It's no use. I told you that last night.”

She threw back her head and looked up into his eyes.

“Do you still believe it?” she asked.

But the Captain only continued to stare down at her. His face was still white, so white that she was frightened for him. His eyes seemed darker than ever, and more staring.

“Go back,” he said hoarsely. “Go back.”

He took hold of her by the hand as he spoke, and as their fingers met she found that he was trembling, trembling as she was. He began leading her towards the door.

Then on the threshold he pulled her to him.

“Kiss me,” he said. “Kiss me this once. And then leave me.”

His arm went round her, and she felt her body being pressed close to his.

“I love you,” he was saying.

She was lying there up against him. His arm was still under her. She felt happy. Then she realised with a start that she must have been sleeping, and she was frightened. How long had she been there? Was it nearly morning already?

The same clock that had struck while she had lain listening in her own room chimed again. It chimed three times, and she realised that she had been away for two hours. She grew terrified and began to tremble. Very gently, so as not to wake him, she moved away.

When she got back M. Duvivier was still sleeping. He had rolled over on to his back, and his hands were clasped beneath his chin. She drew the coverlet around him, and went over to the window.

There was nothing outside but the summer-lightning flashes of the guns and the rumble of their thunder.

At five o'clock next morning M. Duvivier went as usual to the Halles. And he did not like what he saw.

It was not merely that, as usual, the halls themselves were nearly empty. But around the booths at the end, where a little horseflesh and a handful of green vegetables had been displayed, rioting had broken out. There was still the body of one of the rioters lying on the ground as a token.

The agent who had fired the shot was standing over the body, inspecting it: there was a look of both official and personal loathing on his face. He seemed surprised that any man can be killed so easily.

M. Duvivier nosed his way into the group and looked, too. The victim was a man of about M. Duvivier's own age. His clothes were ragged and, through a slit in one of his trouser legs, his knee protruded. The bullet that had destroyed him had entered his chest somewhere, and the clothes there were stained and unpretty.

“He was hungry,” someone said.

And the agent turned round and glared at the man who had spoken.

M. Duvivier edged away again. He bought the half-pound of horseflesh which was all that the wholesaler would sell him, and returned to the restaurant as quickly as he could.

On his way back he paused long enough to buy a morning paper. It was a wretched affair of one sheet, printed in slovenly fashion on a surface that blotted up the ink. But it told M. Duvivier all that he needed to know. There had been disturbances in other parts of the capital as well; and the police had been no less prompt in suppressing them. Two dead and one wounded in Montparnasse. Three people wounded outside the Palais-Royal. Shooting in the Batignolles. So the story went on.

There was one item in particular that attracted M. Duvivier's attention. A restaurant somewhere in Clichy had been raided by a gang of hooligans, and its larder stripped.

“Irritated at finding only a basketful of pigeon feathers and the hind-legs of a few dogs,” the account ran, “these Apaches proceeded to dismantle the main salon. The marble tops of the tables, like the chairs, the mirrors and the crockery, all suffered. The police arrived in time only to inspect the ruin.…”

On his way back to the bus—” the very horses that are pulling me
will soon be eaten!” he told himself—he recognised this as one of those moments when a man of business must make a decision. And by the time he reached the restaurant he had decided. The first thing that he did when he got there was to put up the shutters.