As Madame Florent got undressed, she glanced every so often at the mirror hanging on the wall; she had managed to arrange for the only mirror available to be on her side of the beach hut. She was feeling rather melancholy. The forthcoming marriage between Pierre and Simone aroused strong emotions in both mothers: one of them felt the sweet satisfaction of having the rich dowry of an orphaned child come into the family; the other felt frustrated. Not that she held out any hope for Agnès. The Hardelots had made it abundantly clear that they considered such a marriage undesirable. But it was upsetting to see other people getting married and not Agnès, upsetting and unfair. Obviously, her mother thought, she couldn’t compete with Simone when it came to money, but there was no comparison as far as her good looks, her figure, her hair were concerned — my good looks, my figure, my hair, when I was young. Those things count, after all. She looks like a cow, that Simone. And then, following this train of thought, she said out loud, ‘Your future daughter-in-law really has a delightful nature. So calm … docile even. What a valuable quality in a wife! I do admire it. I’m exactly the opposite. I live off my nerves. And her lovely skin and beautiful hair!’
‘Yes, she’s a good girl,’ said Madame Hardelot, instinctively adopting the modest, satisfied tone of someone with the upper hand. Nevertheless, she couldn’t praise Simone without having some reservations: it wasn’t proper to appear overly happy about having arranged this marriage. Simone would do, of course, but wasn’t her son better?
‘I find her rather shy,’ Madame Hardelot continued after a moment’s silence, ‘and her personality isn’t perhaps exactly as you think …’
She lowered her voice, even though she could only be overheard by the sky, the air and the waves. ‘She likes to seem easy-going. She’s not always so willing.’
‘She’s never had the calming influence of a mother,’ said Madame Florent sympathetically. ‘She lost hers when she was very young, didn’t she?’
‘Yes, very young,’ Madame Hardelot said quickly, wishing, as they say in the theatre, not to miss a cue, sensing some disagreeable remark in the air.
But Madame Florent insisted on taking advantage of the opportunity. ‘Yes, it’s odd that she died so young …’ she said. ‘And yet, Simone seems to be in excellent health, doesn’t she?’
‘Her mother died of a broken heart, after she was widowed,’ Madame Hardelot said curtly, adding triumphantly, ‘As for her father, he died in a car accident.’
Madame Florent fell silent. And anyway, Simone looked so robust that it wasn’t really possible to insinuate anything about her physical condition.
So all she said was, ‘Simone bears a remarkable resemblance to one of my friends, who married young. The poor girl … she never had any children. That sometimes happens, you know, with these chubby, rosy-cheeked women.’
‘Shall we stop the horse?’ asked Madame Hardelot, looking anxiously at the rising waves; they were as high as the running board of the caravan. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Yes, just coming.’
They stepped outside, both wearing black wool swimming suits consisting of a tunic pulled in tightly at the waist with wide, billowing pantaloons. The wind coming in from the sea made their tunics flutter in every direction and got under their canvas swimming hats, making them swell up like balloons. Madame Hardelot’s was bright green; Madame Florent’s was orange.
Just as they were about to get into the water, the ladies hesitated; Madame Florent dipped her little toe in. ‘It’s so cold!’ she exclaimed.
They stood at the doorway of the hut; every now and then they leaned forward to test the water; they both wore gold wedding bands.
‘You’ll have so much to do, so much to think about this winter, my dear Madame Hardelot … with a wedding to organise at home. But such joy as well!’
Madame Hardelot shaded her eyes from the sun and smiled. The obvious displeasure of Madame Florent allowed her to feel her own happiness. And so, sitting comfortably, without her corset, her arms and legs bare and relaxed, out in the fresh air, in the sunshine, she felt extremely peaceful; she felt happy, as if she had everything she could wish for. She had a husband she loved, the best son in the world. The paper factory was flourishing. Her mother-in-law was dead. Pierre was making an excellent marriage. She thanked divine Providence with all her heart for having scattered roses on her path while giving her the fortitude to bear their thorns in a Christian way: her father-in-law’s nature, the bad conduct of Josephine, the new maid. She was feeling charitable.
She looked at Madame Florent with indulgence. The poor woman, widowed, alone in the world … ‘But what are you waiting for?’ she asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well … shouldn’t it be Agnès’s turn to get married soon?’
The two women looked at each other. Madame Florent’s eyes said, ‘Are you just saying that?… Or do you have someone in mind?’ and Madame Hardelot’s smile replied, ‘Why not make someone else happy as long as my own happiness is not at stake?’
She nodded kindly several times. ‘I’ve been thinking …’
At that very moment a wave, more powerful than the others, broke at the foot of the caravan, crashing loudly over the running board. With cries and laughter, the two women hopped about and then, finally, clambered down into the water.
‘Oh my goodness! It’s so cold. My back’s all wet.’
‘Jump in. Just jump right in!’
‘You first.’
‘No, you first — show me how it’s done.’
Even though they were enjoying themselves, they didn’t lose their train of thought.
‘Who does she have in mind?’ Madame Florent wondered, splashing water on to her back and shivering with both fear and pleasure at the feel of the fresh, cold sea. ‘Who could it be?’ She knew all the eligible young men in Saint-Elme.
Meanwhile, Madame Hardelot gently bobbed up and down with the waves; she flailed her arms about and imagined she was swimming. The current brought the women together, then pushed them apart again.
‘Is it someone I know?’ Madame Florent finally shouted out, her patience wearing thin.
Madame Hardelot nodded yes, smiling.
‘A decent man?’
‘Of course, my dear, would I even suggest him otherwise?’ replied Madame Hardelot, pausing a moment to spit out a mouthful of salty water.
‘Is he the right age; does he have a good job and some money?’
‘There’s a slight difference in age.’
‘Really?’
‘He’s about forty …’
‘I don’t know if Agnès …’
‘It’s up to you to make her see reason. He’s Lumbres’s son.’
‘Lumbres?’ said Madame Florent, disappointed, ‘but they’re shopkeepers.’
The Lumbres were watchmakers in Saint-Omer.
‘Shopkeepers who bled themselves dry to educate their son. He’s a doctor now with a good position.’
She waited for a moment and then called out over the crest of a wave, ‘In Paris …’
‘Oh, so now we’ve come to the bottom of it,’ thought Madame Florent, smiling to herself. ‘Agnès, married and living in Paris, far away from the newlyweds. That would really suit the Hardelots. But why not, by God, why not?’ she murmured, imagining a house in Paris. She could live with her daughter …
‘You say he’s about forty?’
‘Yes, but he doesn’t look it.’
‘Is he in good health?’
‘You know old Mr Lumbres, don’t you? He’s about the same age as my father-in-law. Strong as an ox.’
‘We’ll have to see,’ murmured Madame Florent, deep in thought. ‘We’ll have to see.’
Some light clouds covered the sun. The ladies felt cold.
‘Shall we head back? That swim was so refreshing.’
‘Extremely invigorating,’ replied Madame Hardelot, her teeth chattering.
They came out of the water. Their black wool swimming costume
s had been designed to hide a woman’s natural shape as much as possible. Both ladies seemed to be wearing sacks, but the wind billowed beneath the wet material, inflating and deflating it; bizarre, hideous protuberances ballooned up around their busts and hips. They began to get undressed. Neither of them spoke. Slowly the horse dragged the caravan back. The two women knew, even without conferring, that the introduction would be made at Pierre and Simone’s engagement dinner. All introductions of this kind were arranged at someone else’s marriage or engagement; it was only natural. In this peaceful province, where no one ever held dances, such solemn occasions were like county fairs, where everyone brought along the thing they wanted to sell.
‘That’s not how I was married,’ thought Madame Florent.
It was true that she’d had to give lessons to earn a living; she was left an orphan at a very early age, after her family had lost everything and died. She taught singing and dreamed of going on the stage, but then she had met Florent, at one of her pupil’s houses … She thought with some satisfaction of how she hadn’t wasted any time, not her. She’d planned it well, winning over and marrying Florent quick as you like. At the time, she’d thought her marriage opportune and a great success. Now, she thought, ‘Ha! With my hair and figure, I could have done better!’ But it was no longer about her. She stifled a little sigh.
The caravan left the waves behind, taking its habitual route along the sandy path lined with wild carnations. Charles Hardelot, standing on a sand dune, proudly displayed his net, full of prawns. He walked over to the ladies and helped them down. They were wearing long white cotton piqué skirts, straw hats and thick veils to protect themselves from the sun. They opened their parasols. Simone and Agnès were sitting on the beach, doing some embroidery; Pierre was stretched out a bit further away, reading a book. Serene, benevolent, full of wisdom and peace, as confident as goddesses who hold the destiny of mortals in their hands, the two mothers walked over to the young people, stumbling a little in the sand on their high heels.
3
The engagement dinner began early, on a clear September evening. From where she sat, Agnès could see the garden, modest yet exquisitely proportioned and still visible in the half-light. All the windows were open and you could smell the scent of the final roses of summer. There was a basket of white roses on the table, along with the embroidered tablecloth, the heavy, gleaming Baccarat crystal and the best china, as delicate as eggshell. All the great and good of Saint-Elme had been invited. The long tables, arranged in a semicircle, occupied the entire ground floor — the drawing room, dining room, as well as part of the corridor with its black and white tiles. In the centre, in pride of place, were the fiancés, Pierre in a dark suit and Simone in a candy-pink dress. Their families surrounded them (the Charles Hardelots, the Hardelot-Arques, the Hardelot-Demestres, the Renaudins, relatives of Simone), forming a kind of guard of honour, a solid barricade mounted by wealthy men with large, healthy bodies who had invested in government bonds and intended to protect the young people from the pitfalls of destiny, and their own desires, for ever.
Tall, heavy, strong, ruddy-cheeked, they all looked alike; for generations they had been united in marriage. Whether they were farmers or landowners, they had a shared heritage, right down to Dr Lumbres, with his enormous forehead, wide mouth and the red hair common in the region: they all came from Saint-Elme, from this ancient land, which for centuries had been cultivated with their sweat and blood. They had the hands of workmen and those enormous feet that seem designed to trample and level the earth. Compared to them, Pierre looked almost frail. His body had not inherited their vigour, but it was present in his lively, passionate gestures, in his piercing expression, in his nervous energy. Agnès remembered their childhood games: Pierre, always agile and happy, beat all the competition at running and swimming. He had never been handsome, but how supple he was, how quickly he moved … And then there was the lightness of his step, the fire in his eyes, and his health, good nature and charm. No one on earth was his equal, thought Agnès. But then, remembering that he was engaged, watching him standing next to Simone and seeing nearby the man who was intended for her, she scolded herself for having such improper desires, such illicit thoughts.
‘I’ll marry the doctor,’ she thought, ‘and I’ll move far away. I’ll never see him again. It’s better that way. It’s the wisest thing to do. I’ll forget all about him.’
The substantial meal lasted a long time; it had been ordered from the neighbouring town, even though the Hardelots’ food was always excellent. But that was how it had to be done. For a special occasion, it was obligatory to serve cold salmon and it wasn’t enough for it just to be good; it had to be decorated in a way that was impossible to achieve at home: tarragon leaves, lobster tails, crescent-shaped truffles and tartlets filled with pink mousse and mushrooms were all arranged in designs as complicated as the patterns on lace. It was the same for the roast meat and the chicken, for the desserts and ice cream. Waiters with moustaches, dressed in white jackets, hired for the day, poured fine wines, brought out the various dishes and sauces. From their vantage point, Pierre and Simone could survey the majestic sight: the laden table, the drawing room whose slipcovers had been removed and, beyond, Saint-Elme’s one street whose every stone they knew by heart. On this street the Hardelots were masters, kings. At one end was their factory, at the other the home of the elderly Monsieur Hardelot, and in between the houses of Charles Hardelot, the Hardelot-Arques and the Hardelot-Demestres, all in a row, all alike: shutters closed, except on days when they had guests, a little garden at the back, a glass shade over an electric light bulb, an arbour and a vegetable garden. Only old Hardelot had allowed himself the luxury of a pond and two swans. Beyond this street lived a few families not related to the Hardelots, but no one paid any attention to them; it was almost as if they didn’t exist. It was like horses and cows, who can live side by side in the same field for their entire lives without seeming to notice each other.
Now night was falling; the garden paths and the little grey street were no longer visible. The lamps were lit above the table, casting their light over the peaceful faces below, flushed by all the food and the heat in the room. Sitting opposite the fiancés, keeping an eye on them, was old Julien Hardelot, with his white moustache and cropped hair, his strong, tanned hands placed squarely on either side of his dinner plate. He had come from a family of farmers, but wanted for nothing now. He was rich, respected; in his mind, these two sources of happiness merged into one. One was meaningless without the other, yet they were both of equal worth. If he had been honourable and poor, or rich and dishonest, his life would have been a failure. But he knew exactly how wealthy he was; he was aware of the integrity of his conscience. And so an extraordinary feeling of stability and security filled his soul. He was sure of himself and sure of everything around him: his house was solid, well built, set securely on its foundations; his factory was thriving; his family was obedient; his money invested in government stocks. His universe was small; he had never left France, rarely travelled beyond the borders of his own province, but he knew this little corner of earth as well as he knew his own heart. He knew what the children, the workers, the farmers were thinking and doing. And he knew what they would think and do tomorrow. Everything was calm and indestructible, within him and around him. He could calculate how much money he would have the following month or the next year, what the figures would be for the factory in ten or twenty years’ time, in 1920 or 1930. He himself would be dead and buried by then. But here on earth, everything would remain the same. Until the end of time, the Hardelots would continue to furnish the businesses of the Pas-de-Calais and the north with their stationery: with their incomparably superior fine-white paper, to be used for writing — ruled in any way you needed — or for printing; their imitation Japanese paper; their Bristol Board, both white and coloured … They would buy land, see their children marry, save their money and die in their beds. Not the slightest doubt or anxiety would trouble
their minds.
They were toasting the health of the happy couple. Charles Hardelot had lost his spectacles and was nervously feeling around among the glasses for his gold-rimmed crystal champagne flute. He finally found it, took a sip of champagne and felt filled with joy, a sweet, innocent kind of joy. Madame Hardelot raised her glass, holding out her little finger as she did so. ‘She has such provincial airs and graces,’ Madame Florent thought bitterly. ‘And she says “Do be seated” instead of “Please sit down”.’ Old Hardelot drank quickly and with indifference: he only really liked beer. By now the young couple should have sipped their champagne, smiled and thanked everyone with a little nod; traditionally the young woman blushed while the young man looked at her with love and respect. But Pierre, his mouth tight and face drawn, didn’t seem to be aware of what was happening around him.
Simone gently nudged him under the table. ‘Pierre, aren’t you going to join in the toast?’ she asked.
He grabbed his glass, brought it to his lips, then put it back down so brusquely that it broke. Simone let out a little cry.
‘You can be very clumsy, my poor darling,’ Madame Hardelot said with annoyance.
‘A broken glass means good luck,’ Madame Florent sang out.
Everyone rose from the table. Charles Hardelot walked behind his wife, tripping over the train of her long dress without realising it.
‘It reminds me of our engagement, Marthe …’ he said several times. ‘We’ve been so happy together. Let’s hope that our children will be too …’
‘But of course they will. Why shouldn’t they be?’ replied Madame Hardelot with a shrug.