All Our Wordly Goods

  Everyone went out into the garden. The autumn evening was peaceful and still warm. The betrothed couple led the way. They walked ahead in silence. A few minutes later Simone went inside, leaving Pierre alone. It was dark now. He walked towards the arbour, knowing he would find Agnès there. They never agreed to meet: it was pointless. It was always instinct that brought them together. On several occasions they had managed to spend a few moments alone, away from their parents. But nothing they had said was of any consequence; they were afraid of themselves. On this evening, when Pierre went over to Agnès, they were both too upset, too anxious to lie to each other. Agnès was crying.

  Pierre took her hand. ‘Are you going to marry Dr Lumbres?’ he asked, for the idea had been torturing him all evening, arousing within him a kind of jealousy he had never felt before: he had been so sure of her.

  ‘I have no choice. You’re going to marry Simone, aren’t you?’ And then she added more softly, ‘It will be the same type of marriage.’

  At that very moment they heard Madame Hardelot’s voice calling her son from the top of the steps.

  ‘Where are you, Pierre? Come back inside, quickly, darling, your fiancée is looking for you.’

  Pierre made an irritated gesture. ‘They’re all so annoying. They don’t even know me. I have my own mind, on top of my own shoulders and I know what I want. Agnès, don’t go! Don’t be afraid.’

  But she was trembling, trying to pull away from him.

  ‘I don’t want anyone to see me with you. I don’t want anyone to find us here,’ she kept saying.

  ‘But I need to talk to you. Can I come to your house?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Because of Madame Florent?’

  ‘It’s not that,’ she whispered. ‘You know very well that between the servants, the neighbours, anyone passing by … All of Saint-Elme would know by the next day.’

  ‘Well, where could we meet, then? You must think of something. Girls are good at that kind of thing,’ he said in the lively, slightly mocking voice he had used to tease her when they were children. She could feel her heart melting as she remembered. Yes, within her chest she could feel something becoming as heavy and fragile as a ripe peach. The sensation was so sweet, so new to her that she fell silent for a moment, then said loudly, ‘I’ll do whatever you want.’ Her voice was surprisingly clear and distinct.

  ‘Tomorrow, then. In the Coudre Woods. Late afternoon. Could you meet me there?’

  ‘Yes, now go.’

  ‘But you’ll come, won’t you? You will come? How will you manage it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll ask if I can go and see my old nanny who lives near there. Mama will take me over and come to collect me, but in between … I don’t know, I’ll have to see … Now go. I promise I’ll be there. But why? What good will it do? It won’t change anything. I’ll marry the doctor and you’ll …’

  ‘Oh, we’re no better than children,’ cried Pierre. ‘We’ve allowed ourselves to be led about and manipulated like children. And now, as I know just as well as you, it’s too late. It would cause a terrible scandal. And our families would never … If it were only them, then … but Grandfather would never … Perhaps it would be better if you didn’t come tomorrow, Agnès. Perhaps it would be better if we just said goodbye for ever, here and now.’

  ‘No,’ she whispered, bursting into tears.

  ‘Then we’ll say goodbye tomorrow, all right, Agnès? Tomorrow …’ he said, his voice growing weaker.

  In the darkness he pulled her tight against him, but dared not kiss her. They stood close together like that for a moment, their hearts pounding, then, in silence, they parted.

  4

  A month later, one Sunday after Vespers, Madame Florent rang the Hardelots’ doorbell. She had spent a long time thinking about what to wear and her outfit was simple but not excessively modest, formal but not austere. She had on a rust-coloured coat with black braiding and a cloche hat decorated with jet beads. She held her umbrella tightly in one hand, her handbag in the other. It was a dismal autumn day. It had rained continuously for forty-eight hours; the duck pond on the corner was spilling over. The inhabitants of Saint-Elme were hidden away behind their closed windows, drowsy from their idleness, still digesting Sunday lunch and dozing off as they watched the falling rain. Madame Florent knew that everyone could see her and she didn’t mind a bit. ‘At this point’, she thought, struggling with her umbrella in the wind, ‘there’s nothing left to hide. On the contrary, a scandal might be just the thing we need to break off Pierre Hardelot’s engagement. In any case we’ll have to see; I’m just doing my duty as a mother.’

  She went inside the Hardelots’ house and asked to see Madame.

  ‘Madame or Monsieur, preferably both of them, it’s a matter of some urgency,’ she said to the maid.

  She was shown into the sad, cold drawing room, whose furniture had the slipcovers back on; a vase of Honesty decorated the mantelpiece while, on the piano, there was a bouquet of artificial roses. Madame Florent smiled scornfully. ‘Oh, I’ll never get used to this provincial place …’

  She heard Madame Hardelot’s heavy footsteps. She took a few steps forward; the door opened. The two women shook hands, half-heartedly murmuring some cold pleasantries.

  ‘Do be seated,’ said Madame Hardelot, pointing to a stiff armchair upholstered in twill. ‘You told the maid it was a matter of some urgency. I must admit it gave me a fright. My husband will be here in a moment. Would his presence be …?’

  ‘Preferable? Yes, it would,’ said Madame Florent, who had lost all her confidence by now and had started shaking slightly. ‘I have come about a delicate and distressing matter, but I am a mother first and foremost. We are both mothers and should be able to sympathise with one another and … to sum it up, this is what is happening: Dr Lumbres, as you know, my daughter’s intended …’

  ‘Of course I know all about it. I was the one who arranged the marriage.’

  ‘Yes, just so, it was here in your house that we met him for the first time. He seemed truly impressed by Agnès’s looks and personality. In a word, he asked me for her hand; their engagement was to be made official. Now it has been broken off.’

  ‘Broken off? But why?’

  ‘Because, apparently, he found out that my daughter … your son, rather, Monsieur Pierre, arranged to meet Agnès secretly on several occasions in the Coudre Woods.’

  ‘That is impossible,’ said Madame Hardelot, stunned. ‘Pierre is engaged.’

  ‘I know he is and that is what makes the matter so serious. You realise that Dr Lumbres was made aware of this by evil gossip. Agnès has no father. It is my duty to come and ask what you intend to do about it, what intentions Monsieur Pierre has towards my daughter. Because, after all, we’re not talking about some little servant,’ she exclaimed (she had gradually recovered her composure and become bolder), ‘we’re talking about a young woman from a good family.’

  ‘Well, Madame, a young woman from a good family doesn’t agree to secret assignations,’ Madame Hardelot said bitterly.

  ‘I agree. There must have been a great deal of love, some very sincere beseeching or promises made to persuade my daughter …’

  ‘Promises? That’s impossible! But you know as well as I do that he’s engaged.’

  ‘He wouldn’t be the first man to …’

  ‘Such things do not happen in our family,’ Madame Hardelot said haughtily. ‘Pierre made no promises, of that I am certain. Your daughter must have been chasing him.’

  ‘What are you saying, Madame?’

  ‘I know exactly what I’m saying, Madame.’

  They both had stood up and were glaring at each other with hatred. Madame Hardelot was the first to regain her composure.

  ‘This is serious, very serious indeed. This is something a man must consider. Charles! Charles!’ She opened the door and called out, ‘Josephine, my dear, please ask Monsieur to come.’

  In silence, they waited for the m
an, the judge, to arrive. He came in.

  ‘Charles,’ Madame Hardelot blurted out, her voice quivering with emotion, ‘Madame is saying, is claiming … that Pierre made certain promises to her daughter, in the Coudre Woods.’

  ‘What sort of promises?’ asked Charles harshly.

  ‘But … to marry her, naturally.’

  All three fell silent.

  ‘This is disastrous,’ Charles said at last.

  His wife was crying softly, her face hidden in a handkerchief.

  ‘I know Pierre. If he finds out that Agnès has been compromised, that her engagement has been broken off, he’ll want to marry her. He has always loved her. Oh yes, I knew that very well. But why didn’t you keep an eye on your daughter? This is such a scandal. We’ve set the date for the wedding. The invitations have already been ordered. He has to marry Simone!’

  ‘But what about my daughter, what about her?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t give a damn about your daughter,’ said Madame Hardelot, forgetting all her manners. ‘All she had to do was resist.’

  ‘Marthe!’ cried Charles, ‘Marthe! I beg of you, ladies, please don’t say things you will regret. We love our children. We want them to be happy. We must think. Think a great deal and say very little.’

  ‘I’m warning you,’ said Madame Florent,’ Simone will find out about her fiancé’s behaviour. You know very well that such a thing could never remain a secret in a tiny little place like Saint-Elme. What will she think? She’ll see very clearly that he’s only marrying her for her money. Of course such things are tacitly understood, but young women do not see life as we do. You told me yourself that she wasn’t always easy-going. What kind of future are you planning for Pierre?’

  She paused for a moment, then added more softly, ‘Granted, Agnès doesn’t have the kind of money Simone has, but she’s not completely poverty-stricken. Her father left her a dowry made up of very safe stocks and Russian bonds.’

  Charles had removed his spectacles; he wiped the lenses, put them back on, then took them off again, obviously upset.

  ‘Hear me out, Madame. I’m going to tell you my honest feelings and I am certain that my wife will agree. If it were only up to us … we love Pierre so much. But it isn’t only up to us. His marriage was arranged by my father. You know him. You know that he has never allowed me my own money, that I’m not even a partner in his business, just a sort of unpaid employee. He gives me a living allowance and he’ll give one to Pierre if he approves of whom he marries. What can I say? He’s old. He is … let us call a spade a spade, tyrannical. I have never questioned his will. I have always believed, as Clemenceau did of the French Revolution, that the family is an institution that one must accept as a whole. Pierre should do as I do. What’s more, he’s twenty-four. His future in the factory will be guaranteed. But if Pierre goes against his grandfather’s will, who knows what disasters might follow, for his grandfather will not allow him to remain here after the kind of scandal that you’re talking about. Finally, are you sure, ladies, that what you are getting yourselves all worked up over isn’t merely a matter of gossip and slander?’

  ‘Yes, perhaps that’s all it is,’ exclaimed Madame Hardelot. ‘There’s nothing for it, Charles, I’m going to ask Pierre to come in. What do you think?’

  ‘Be careful. This is a delicate situation.’

  ‘No, I want my mind put at rest. He’s being accused, he has the right to defend himself. It’s the least we can do.’

  ‘Be careful not to arouse the suspicion of the servants, Marthe. Josephine has already given me an odd look.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Madame Hardelot, upset. ‘Tomorrow I’ll let her go. And anyway, I suspect she’s seeing Papa’s driver …’

  ‘That’s awful. If Papa had the slightest suspicion …’

  ‘Certain people,’ said Madame Hardelot, glaring in fury at the other mother, ‘certain people couldn’t care less about the catastrophes they cause.’

  ‘You have the nerve to say that to me? To me? When my daughter’s entire future …’

  All three of them suddenly stopped speaking.

  Pierre had just come in. ‘I can hear you from my room. At least, I heard my name and Agnès’s. What’s going on?’

  He forced himself to remain calm; he said hello to Madame Florent.

  ‘This woman,’ cried Madame Hardelot, ‘claims that you enticed her daughter into the Coudre Woods. What I say, is …’

  ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ asked Madame Florent softly.

  ‘We met twice. Both times in the presence of Agnès’s old nanny. Agnès and I wanted to say goodbye. We were both promised to others. I had given my word and we agreed to part. You are the ones who have brought us back together, for if the least harm happens to her …’

  ‘She’s ruined!’ cried out Madame Florent, raising the umbrella and handbag that she had held tightly against her heart in a gesture of despair reminiscent of Tosca when, in the last act of the opera, the heroine throws herself on the lifeless body of her lover. It surged forth from the depths of her memory, from a time when she dreamed of going on the stage and would spend her evenings singing the great operatic arias in front of the mirror.

  ‘Her reputation is ruined! Dr Lumbres … Oh, the letter he sent me … If my darling’s father were still alive, he would slap the face of any man who dared write me such a letter. But then again, what should I have expected from the son of a watchmaker? But you, Pierre, my darling Pierre, please allow me to call you that, you who used to come to my house when you were a little boy …’

  ‘Don’t listen to her,’ Madame Hardelot whispered in Pierre’s ear, ‘she’s a scheming woman.’

  ‘Madame,’ said Pierre very quickly, ‘may I have the honour of asking you for your daughter’s hand in marriage.’ He had gone completely white; he looked defiantly at his parents.

  Both women let out a cry. While Madame Florent nodded ‘yes, yes’ and started sobbing, Charles and Marthe groaned, ‘Are you mad? Do you realise what you’re doing? It’s not as if you took advantage of her innocence … You were foolish, but it’s a far cry from that to … Pierre, your grandfather will send you away. You’ll have no job, no money. You know we’re not in a position to help you. And what about Simone? Are you considering Simone?’

  ‘No,’ replied Pierre, ‘I’m not.’

  ‘But what about us, are you considering us? The pain you’re causing us?’

  They continued shouting at him, pleading with him, but all in vain. He replied as a respectful son should; he consoled them; he tried to calm them.

  But they realised it was over, that he didn’t belong to them any more. Madame Hardelot’s heart was breaking. She was confused and thought, ‘After I’ve loved him so much, protected him from everything, made sure nothing bad ever happened to him, now, in the space of a second, someone has taken him from me. He won’t be able to stay in Saint-Elme. His grandfather wouldn’t allow it. I’ve lost him. With Simone, he would have lived here. I would have seen him every day. But now …’ She wasn’t even listening to the conversation between Charles and her son any more. She knew for certain that it was quite pointless, that they were losing him. His grandfather wouldn’t be able to convince him either. Oh, why wasn’t he docile and timorous like Charles? But in spite of herself, she admired him. ‘At least he’s a man, a real man,’ she thought. And it was that respect, that admiration for Pierre’s character that finally eased her soul somewhat. She continued crying, but without bitterness, only with pained resignation.

  Later on, when she and Charles were alone, they looked at each other sadly.

  ‘You wouldn’t have done what he’s done,’ said Madame Hardelot and Charles didn’t know (nor did she) whether she was criticising him or praising him.

  Charles sighed.

  ‘Do you think they’ll be happy together?’ she asked, after a moment’s silence.

  Charles had absolutely no idea.

  ‘Ah, my darling,’ he said finally and, with a g
entle, hesitant gesture, he stroked his wife’s forehead and grey hair. ‘All this is very painful to me … No, not just how badly these two children have behaved and all the problems I can see ahead (for, naturally, my father will hold me responsible for everything — but then again, I’m used to that). None of that matters. No, it doesn’t,’ he continued, seeing Madame Hardelot’s surprise. ‘If he had married Simone, it would have changed nothing. Whether you have an arranged marriage or not, life is always … very long … I place the happiness of these children in the hands of Providence, but I know how fate defines happiness, in its divine wisdom: worry, anxiety, endurance, our worldly goods, Marthe … We two have been happy, but I can still remember the early years and our first night together, when you cried …’

  ‘Don’t be so silly,’ Madame Hardelot said softly, through her tears.

  ‘My father’s temper and how you fought with poor Mama, and when Pierre was born, and two years ago when you were ill and needed that operation. Now we’re facing old age and the marriage of our child …’

  He was speaking quietly, whispering broken words, as if in a dream.

  ‘The day I asked you to marry me, the seed of it all was there. And what lies in store for them? Ah, ask the maid to bring me a nice warm cup of camomile tea, will you, Marthe? I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I’m having trouble digesting my food.’ He rubbed the spot between his stomach and his heart. ‘All of this, you know, all of this …’

  He fell silent. Madame Hardelot wiped her eyes and went into the kitchen to ask for the tea. She didn’t understand what Charles was feeling; she was irritated and upset. She couldn’t see beyond tomorrow and the scene her father-in-law would make, and then Pierre’s wedding, which would have to be very small and private if Julien Hardelot refused to attend. The rest belonged to the world of men.

  5

  They were coming out of the church: the newlyweds, their parents and the witnesses. It was a small group, made up of people who felt sad and lost on this Parisian street, beneath the rain. Monsieur and Madame Hardelot had been driven to near distraction by the stubbornness of Julien Hardelot, who refused to see his grandson, and by Pierre’s determination to get married as soon as it was legally possible, ignoring his mother’s advice (‘Just wait a while … Everything will sort itself out. Good things come to those who wait …’). To Madame Hardelot, this wedding in Paris was a disgrace, a scandal, but what else could they do? She didn’t feel she could face the people of Saint-Elme, the congratulations of her friends. And Simone’s presence there made things even more difficult. So they had conferred an imaginary relative upon Agnès: an elderly woman who lived in Paris, who couldn’t travel and demanded that the wedding take place in the capital. The newlyweds would spend three months with her, said the Hardelots. ‘Afterwards, we’ll see,’ thought Marthe, who still had hopes that everything would work out and that her father-in-law would see reason. All of Saint-Elme knew that the Hardelots were lying, and the Hardelots knew that all of Saint-Elme knew, but they had to keep up appearances.