The Penguin Book of First World War Stories (12 page)

A visiting card was enclosed:
M. Paul Boiffard
.

Boiffard – of course that was the name.
Ma tante Julie et mon oncle Paul
– suddenly they were there with me, more real, more solid than any relations I had ever known. I saw Tante Julie bridling, with the soup-tureen in her hands, and Oncle Paul sitting at the table with a red and white napkin tied round his neck. Boiffard – Boiffard – I must remember the name. Supposing the Commissaire Militaire should ask me who the relations were I was going to and I muddled the name – Oh, how fatal! Buffard – no, Boiffard. And then for the first time, folding Aunt Julie's letter, I saw scrawled in a corner of the empty back page:
Venez vite, vite
.
⁸
Strange impulsive woman! My heart began to beat…

‘Ah, we are not far off now,' said the lady opposite. ‘You are going to X, Mademoiselle?'

‘
Oui, Madame
.'

‘I also… You have been there before?'

‘No, Madame. This is the first time.'

‘Really, it is a strange time for a visit.'

I smiled faintly, and tried to keep my eyes off her hat. She was quite an ordinary little woman, but she wore a black velvet toque, with an incredibly surprised-looking sea-gull camped on the very top of it. Its round eyes, fixed on me so inquiringly, were almost too much to bear. I had a dreadful
impulse to shoo it away, or to lean forward and inform her of its presence…

‘
Excusez-moi, Madame
, but perhaps you have not remarked there is an
espèce de
sea-gull
coucheê sur votre chapeau
.'
⁹

Could the bird be there on purpose? I must not laugh… I must not laugh. Had she ever looked at herself in a glass with that bird on her head?

‘It is very difficult to get into X at present, to pass the station,' she said, and she shook her head with the sea-gull at me. ‘Ah, such an affair. One must sign one's name and state one's business.'

‘Really, is it as bad as all that?'

‘But naturally. You see, the whole place is in the hands of the military, and'– she shrugged –‘they have to be strict. Many people do not get beyond the station at all. They arrive. They are put in the waiting-room, and there they remain.'

Did I or did I not detect in her voice a strange, insulting relish?

‘I suppose such strictness is absolutely necessary,' I said coldly, stroking my muff.

‘Necessary,' she cried. ‘I should think so. Why, Mademoiselle, you cannot imagine what it would be like otherwise! You know what women are like about soldiers'–she raised a final hand –‘mad, completely mad. But–'and she gave a little laugh of triumph –‘they could not get into X.
Mon Dieu
, no! There is no question about that.'

‘I don't suppose they even try,' said I.

‘Don't you?' said the sea-gull.

Madame said nothing for a moment. ‘Of course the authorities are very hard on the men. It means instant imprisonment, and then – off to the firing-line without a word.'

‘What are
you
going to X for?' said the sea-gull. ‘What on earth are
you
doing here?'

‘Are you making a long stay in X, Mademoiselle?'

She had won, she had won. I was terrified. A lamp-post swam past the train with the fatal name upon it. I could hardly breathe – the train had stopped. I smiled gaily at Madame and danced down the steps to the platform…

It was a hot little room, completely furnished, with two colonels seated at two tables. They were large, grey-whiskered men with a touch of burned red on their cheeks. Sumptuous and omnipotent they looked. One smoked what ladies love to call a heavy Egyptian cigarette, with a long creamy ash, the other toyed with a gilded pen. Their heads rolled on their tight collars, like big over-ripe fruits. I had a terrible feeling, as I handed my passport and ticket, that a soldier would step forward and tell me to kneel. I would have knelt without question.

‘What's this?' said God I, querulously. He did not like my passport at all. The very sight of it seemed to annoy him. He waved a dissenting hand at it, with a ‘
Non, je ne peux pas manger ça
'
¹⁰
air.

‘But it won't do. It won't do at all, you know. Look – read for yourself,' and he glanced with extreme distaste at my photograph, and then with even greater distaste his pebble eyes looked at me.

‘Of course the photograph is deplorable,' I said, scarcely breathing with terror, ‘but it has been visêd and visêd.'

He raised his big bulk and went over to God II.

‘Courage!' I said to my muff and held it firmly, ‘Courage!'

God II held up a finger to me, and I produced Aunt Julie's letter and her card. But he did not seem to feel the slightest interest in her. He stamped my passport idly, scribbled a word on my ticket and I was on the platform again.

‘That way – you pass out that way.'

‘And then follow me as though you do not see me,' I heard him half whisper, half sing.

How fast he went, through the slippery mud towards a bridge. He had a postman's bag on his back, a paper parcel and the
Matin
¹¹
in his hand. We seemed to dodge through a maze of policemen, and I could not keep up at all with the little corporal who began to whistle. From the toll-house ‘our good friend, Madame Grinçon', her hands wrapped in a shawl,
watched our coming, and against the toll-house there leaned a tiny faded cab.
Montez vite, vite!
¹²
said the little corporal, hurling my suit-case, the postman's bag, the paper parcel and the
Matin
on to the floor.

‘A-ie! A-ie! Do not be so mad. Do not ride yourself. You will be seen,' wailed ‘our good friend, Madame Grinçon'.

‘
Ah, je m'en f
…'
¹³
said the little corporal.

The driver jerked into activity. He lashed the bony horse and away we flew, both doors, which were the complete sides of the cab, flapping and banging.

‘
Bon jour, mon amie
.'

‘
Bon jour, mon ami
.'

And then we swooped down and clutched at the banging doors. They would not keep shut. They were fools of doors.

‘Lean back, let me do it!' I cried. ‘Policemen are as thick as violets everywhere.'

At the barracks the horse reared up and stopped. A crowd of laughing faces blotted the window.

‘
Prends ça, mon vieux
,'
¹⁴
said the little corporal, handing the paper parcel.

‘It's all right,' called someone.

We waved, we were off again. By a river, down a strange white street, with little houses on either side, gay in the late sunlight.

‘Jump out as soon as he stops again. The door will be open. Run straight inside. I will follow. The man is already paid. I know you will like the house. It is quite white. And the room is white too, and the people are –'

‘White as snow.'

We looked at each other. We began to laugh. ‘Now,' said the little corporal.

Out I flew and in at the door. There stood, presumably, my aunt Julie. There in the background hovered, I supposed, my uncle Paul.

‘
Bon jour, Madame!
'

‘
Bon jour, Monsieur!
'

‘It is all right, you are safe,' said my aunt Julie. Heavens, how I loved her! And she opened the door of the white room and
shut it upon us. Down went the suit-case, the postman's bag, the
Matin
. I threw my passport up into the air, and the little corporal caught it.

‘It must have been one of these houses. I remember it stood far back from the road – and there were no steps, not even a porch – one seemed to walk right through the window.' And then quite suddenly the waiting-boy came out of just such a place. He saw me and grinned cheerfully, and began to whistle through his teeth.

‘
Bon soir, mon petit
.'

‘
Bon soir, Madame
.' And he followed me up the cafê to our special table, right at the far end by the window, and marked by a bunch of violets that I had left in a glass there yesterday.

‘You are two?' asked the waiting-boy, flicking the table with a red and white cloth. His long swinging steps echoed over the bare floor. He disappeared into the kitchen and came back to light the lamp that hung from the ceiling under a spreading
shade, like a haymaker's hat. Warm light shone on the empty place that was really a barn, set out with dilapidated tables and chairs. Into the middle of the room a black stove jutted. At one side of it there was a table with a row of bottles on it, behind which Madame sat and took the money and made entries in a red book. Opposite her desk a door led into the kitchen. The walls were covered with a creamy paper patterned all over with green and swollen trees – hundreds and hundreds of trees reared their mushroom heads to the ceiling. I began to wonder who had chosen the paper and why. Did Madame think it was beautiful, or that it was a gay and lovely thing to eat one's dinner at all seasons in the middle of a forest… On either side of the clock there hung a picture: one, a young gentleman in black tights wooing a pear-shaped lady in yellow over the back of a garden seat,
Premier Rencontre
;
¹⁶
two, the black and yellow in amorous confusion,
Triomphe d'Amour
.
¹⁷

The clock ticked to a soothing lilt,
C'est çac'est ça
. In the kitchen the waiting-boy was washing up. I heard the ghostly chatter of the dishes.

And years passed. Perhaps the war is long since over – there is no village outside at all – the streets are quiet under the grass. I have an idea this is the sort of thing one will do on the very last day of all – sit in an empty cafê and listen to a clock ticking until –

Madame came through the kitchen door, nodded to me and took her seat behind the table, her plump hands folded on the red book.
Ping
went the door. A handful of soldiers came in, took off their coats and began to play cards, chaffing and poking fun at the pretty waiting-boy, who threw up his little round head, rubbed his thick fringe out of his eyes and cheeked them back in his broken voice. Sometimes his voice boomed up from his throat, deep and harsh, and then in the middle of a sentence it broke and scattered in a funny squeaking. He seemed to enjoy it himself. You would not have been surprised if he had walked into the kitchen on his hands and brought back your dinner turning a catherine-wheel.

Ping
went the door again. Two more men came in. They sat at the table nearest Madame, and she leaned to them with a birdlike movement, her head on one side. Oh, they had a grievance!
The Lieutenant was a fool – nosing about – springing out at them – and they'd only been sewing on buttons. Yes, that was all – sewing on buttons, and up comes this young spark. ‘Now then, what you up to?' They mimicked the idiotic voice. Madame drew down her mouth, nodding sympathy. The waiting-boy served them with glasses. He took a bottle of some orange-coloured stuff and put it on the table edge. A shout from the card-players made him turn sharply, and crash! over went the bottle, spilling on the table, the floor – smash! to tinkling atoms. An amazed silence. Through it the drip-drip of the wine from the table on to the floor. It looked very strange dropping so slowly, as though the table were crying. Then there came a roar from the card-players. ‘You'll catch it, my lad! That's the style! Now you've done it!…
Sept, huit, neuf
.' They started playing again. The waiting-boy never said a word. He stood, his head bent, his hands spread out, and then he knelt and gathered up the glass, piece by piece and soaked the wine up with a cloth. Only when Madame cried cheerfully, ‘You wait till
he
finds out,' did he raise his head.

‘He can't say anything, if I pay for it,' he muttered, his face jerking, and he marched off into the kitchen with the soaking cloth.

‘
Il pleure de colère
,'
¹⁸
said Madame delightedly, patting her hair with her plump hands.

The cafê slowly filled. It grew very warm. Blue smoke mounted from the tables and hung about the haymaker's hat in misty wreaths. There was a suffocating smell of onion soup and boots and damp cloth. In the din the door sounded again. It opened to let in a weed of a fellow, who stood with his back against it, one hand shading his eyes.

‘Hullo! you've got the bandage off?'

‘How does it feel,
mon vieux
?'

‘Let's have a look at them.'

But he made no reply. He shrugged and walked unsteadily to a table, sat down and leaned against the wall. Slowly his hand fell. In his white face his eyes showed, pink as a rabbit's. They brimmed and spilled, brimmed and spilled. He dragged a white cloth out of his pocket and wiped them.

‘It's the smoke,' said someone. ‘It's the smoke tickles them up for you.'

His comrades watched him a bit, watched his eyes fill again, again brim over. The water ran down his face, off his chin on to the table. He rubbed the place with his coat-sleeve, and then, as though forgetful, went on rubbing, rubbing with his hand across the table, staring in front of him. And then he started shaking his head to the movement of his hand. He gave a loud strange groan and dragged out the cloth again.

‘
Huit
,
neuf
,
dix
,' said the card-players.

‘
P'tit
, some more bread.'

‘Two coffees.'

‘
Un Picon
!'
¹⁹

The waiting-boy, quite recovered, but with scarlet cheeks, ran to and fro. A tremendous quarrel flared up among the card-players, raged for two minutes, and died in flickering laughter. ‘Ooof!' groaned the man with the eyes, rocking and mopping. But nobody paid any attention to him except Madame. She made a little grimace at her two soldiers.

‘
Mais vous savez c'est un peu dêgouˆtant, ça
,'
²⁰
she said severely.

‘
Ah, oui, Madame
,' answered the soldiers, watching her bent head and pretty hands, as she arranged for the hundredth time a frill of lace on her lifted bosom.

‘
V'lá, Monsieur!
' cawed the waiting-boy over his shoulder to me. For some silly reason I pretended not to hear, and I leaned over the table smelling the violets, until the little corporal's hand closed over mine.

‘Shall we have
un peu de charcuterie
to begin with?' he asked tenderly.