‘You’re going to spend the rest of your life in this house?’
‘I might do.’
‘I think I’d better leave.’
She wanted to cry. It was a nervous reaction, as usual. The least thwarting of her wishes sent her into this state.
‘I’ll tell Philippe …’
‘What will you tell him?’
‘You hate us, don’t you?’
Why was it that Article 12 kept coming into his head like a snatch of song?
Every person condemned to death will be beheaded.
‘I’m starting to see that you’ve just come back here to infuriate us. You’re not even hiding. You tell everyone your name … People had almost forgotten … Now they’ll begin talking again. Go on, admit it, this is the way you’re planning to get Papa to give you your money. You’re doing it on purpose, dressing like a tramp and living with I don’t know what kind of people.’
‘With Tati.’
‘What?’
‘I said, I live with Tati. She’s my mistress. And the old goat lives here too, as she calls him. Her father-in-law. And now and then she sleeps with him, it’s like giving sweeties to a child to keep it quiet. It’s the only way to hold on to the house.’
‘Jean!’
‘What?’
‘Oh, this is making me ill! Don’t you understand? You’re doing this deliberately, I know it. And I’d come all this way to help you. Philippe would have found you a job.’
‘Not round here, though!’
‘I beg you. Stop making fun of everything. Do you want me to go down on my knees? I know you’re going to do something stupid. You’re going off the rails.’
‘I’ve always been going off the rails.’
‘Oh, do be quiet and listen to me. Think how our mother, if she was here, would say the same thing.’
‘She would ask me whether I was very unhappy.’
‘And what about me? Isn’t that what I’ve been asking you for the last hour? Didn’t I come to try and rescue you from here? You’re young, you’ve got …’
‘I’ve got years of extra time. Right now, I ought to be dead, my head separated from my body …’
‘Don’t you have any pity, any feelings?’
‘I’m tired.’
He cast around for something to do and, picking up a piece of wood, he began whittling it with the slow and careful movements of a peasant.
‘Shall I go away, then?’ his sister asked, not knowing what to do with herself any more.
He looked at her as if he was not seeing her and rubbed his brow with his hand.
‘You really are so annoying,’ he sighed.
At the same moment, he pricked up his ears and took a few steps towards the door, with the piece of wood and knife in his hand.
‘What is it?’ he cried.
Félicie was approaching at a run, in her blue smock, her hair flying and panic in her eyes.
‘Come quickly, it’s my aunt, my aunt …’
He turned towards Billie, who was standing in the half-darkness of the kitchen. He wanted to say goodbye to her but didn’t take the time.
‘What’s happened?’
‘She’s … she’s injured. Please come …’
The sunlight had taken him over suddenly. They were in another world now, he and Félicie, who was running ahead, too distressed even to cry.
The anglers along the canal were unaware. Bubbles rose to the surface of the water. Over the way, pink roof tiles; a dark door in a white wall.
‘She won’t stop bleeding. I’m so scared. It was my father …’
The lock-keeper with the wooden leg was smoking his pipe, sitting on his threshold, and one of his children was crawling on all fours in front of him.