‘You’ll be all right, then?’ she said.
Always that little glance in which he read satisfaction, and something like a promise, but also a warning note. She wasn’t suspicious. But she still needed to watch him for a while.
‘Yes, don’t worry.’
‘You can draw some water from the well to wash with. There’s soap and a towel in the wash-house.’
Why were her eyes suddenly laughing?
‘I bet you’ve not got a razor. You can use the old man’s for today. It’ll be in his room. I’ll bring you one when I next go to Saint-Amand.’
A little later, she was walking along the canal, short and stout, clad in black from head to foot and clutching her missal to her chest while holding an umbrella in the other hand.
He shaved in the kitchen, in front of the fragment of mirror, then went to douse himself in the yard with the ice-cold water from the well.
When he felt clean, bare-chested under an open shirt, his hair still damp, he would have liked a smoke, but he had no cigarettes left, nor did he have any money to buy them.
After prowling round the house, he found on the kitchen mantelpiece an open packet of coarse tobacco. Some pipes of the old man’s were hanging from a rack. He picked one out, then, as he felt some repugnance to smoke something that had been Couderc’s, he fetched the bottle of brandy from the cupboard, filled the bowl of the pipe with alcohol and drained it through the mouthpiece.
From time to time, he glanced across at René, the widow’s son, fixed there in his photograph frame, with his cap, his uniform and his lopsided and degenerate face.
‘Small-time crook,’ he muttered.
He knew what he was talking about. A nasty-looking little brute and dishonest as well.
The stew was cooking gently, the meat hissed in the pan and he did not forget, when he thought it might catch, to pour a little water on it, as instructed.
After that he went out, for no particular reason, and found himself on the towpath, as light-hearted as a man who has no ties at all.
The old father-in-law was still with the cows across the water. The angler had set up two lines with huge red floats, probably hoping for carp or tench, and was sitting motionless on his folding stool.
Cyclists kept passing, some with bunches of lilac on their handlebars, probably going to visit relations in town. One of the boatmen, standing in his dinghy, was varnishing the side of his empty barge with a long brush.
Jean reached the lock. The lock-keeper, who had a wooden leg, was sitting on his threshold, repairing a net for eels. The door was open and a baby was crying. And on the other side of the water, the house by the brickyard was open too, but it was impossible to see inside.
He was about to make his way back, because of the stew. The pipe was a bit strong for him. He was only used to smoking cigarettes. He turned round on hearing the sound of two bicycle bells. He saw two gendarmes, cycling slowly and watching him attentively.
The gendarmes carried on for about half a kilometre. Then they got off their bikes and came back towards him.
‘Got your papers?’
They were not taken in like the women on the bus. Their thick eyebrows registered suspicion. They looked at each other with the sidelong glances of people who aren’t going to be fooled.
From his hip pocket, Jean pulled out some folded papers, which they examined. They took some other papers from their bag and compared them, before moving aside for a moment to whisper.
‘You know you’re not allowed to leave this département?’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘And that you must register with us as soon as you have a fixed address?’
‘I’ve got one. I was going to come and see you tomorrow.’
The two men were showing some respect. If Jean had been an ordinary vagrant, they would have been less polite with him. But this was a man about whom special instructions had been received. A man who had spent five years in Fontevrault.
‘What’s the address?’
‘At Madame Couderc’s.’
‘Has she hired you?’
‘Yes, as a handyman.’
‘We’ll take your papers. You’ll get them back when the captain’s seen them.’
They rode off on their bikes. Jean, hands in pockets, jumped easily across the lock gates and walked round the brickyard in the hope of seeing Félicie. He even glanced inside the house. The girl was probably at Mass, since in the half light of the kitchen, where there was a bed, the only sign of life was the baby, standing upright in a sort of cane frame that allowed it to walk. A woman noticed his presence, though, and came out to stare at him. Her stance was hostile, her expression unfriendly. Not finding anything to say, she slammed the door in his face, leaving herself in near darkness.
So, for want of occupation, he went to sit alongside the angler, who felt no need to speak to him and who from time to time threw little pellets smelling of cheese into the water to attract fish.
From there, he saw Tati coming home from Mass. A little later, he spotted the two gendarmes cycling as before along the towpath. They dismounted at the house and went into the kitchen.
They did not emerge until a quarter of an hour later, patting their moustaches, indicating that they had been offered a glass of something.
Tati had not changed her dress. A cameo brooch pinned to her chest almost echoed the velvety mole on her left cheek. She had put the dishes after lunch into a bucket, wiped down the table, then suggested:
‘We could go and sit outside. Bring the armchair and a kitchen chair for yourself, and put them in front of the door.’
He gathered this was part of her Sunday tradition. He fetched the armchair, which was made of wicker, with a red cushion on the seat and a triangular cushion for her head. She did, all the same, go to take off her shoes, which must have been pinching, and came back wearing brand-new blue slippers.
