Under the snow, the property resembles the sky above the clouds. The river has emptied itself of whales and orcas; the heights have dried themselves of birds. Early morning in December cannot overcome the night. It is difficult to tell whether the day will be fine or the weather will turn to snow or ice. Sky and snow, water and the bodies of trees all possess the same hue. So does her breath as it escapes her, only a little whiter and more alive. She has dressed warmly to welcome the day, but will there be one? It is difficult to believe so when the sun, almost as blue as the night, merely brushes the horizon, as though too heavy to overcome gravity.
A light appears in Marie-Claire’s cottage. At the same moment, she sees a shadow moving back and forth behind the closed blinds. She guesses it is Luc preparing to leave. He must rise early, since the town is still forty-five minutes away by car. It cannot always be easy. But he is young, she tells herself; he has all the time in the world to grow tired. Marie-Claire’s more convex silhouette appears in turn. She ought to rest, sleep longer than this. Is she preparing his lunch? Marthe hopes not. She will have to ask; if necessary, she will give them money so he can eat at a restaurant. She feels like a grandmother and adores the idea. The young woman opens the blinds and looks outside. Does she see her? Probably not; it is still too dark. She leaves the window. Marthe spies on the silhouettes coming and going. Night does not readily surrender its place to day; the sky is only slightly greyer. Marie-Claire appears on the veranda, warmly dressed, coffee in hand. Marthe infers this from the easily recognised gesture of someone bringing something hot to their lips while enjoying the welcome warmth it transmits to their hands. Luc comes out in turn and embraces her. They remain beside one another, looking at the river, gently swaying as only lovers learn to do.
Then he releases her and goes to his car, which he quickly starts. He returns to Marie-Claire, gives her a long kiss, then gets into the car and takes the lane that must pass before the manor. The headlights illuminate Marthe. Luc stops, gets out and waves; she waves back.
“Everything all right?” he asks.
“Yes, yes. I’m getting some air, as usual.”
“I don’t often see you out here.”
“I keep my own hours.”
“It’ll be fine today.”
“Without a doubt.”
“Well, have a good day.”
He returns to the wheel and quickly leaves the property. Marie-Claire, who must have seen the exchange, waves to her, and Marthe imitates the gesture. The young woman goes inside. This seems to signal the awakening of Hélène and Gustave, soon followed by light springing from the manor windows. This property is driven by a very strange energy, Marthe amuses herself by believing. She thinks again of the Casimir effect. But how can she truly believe in it without plunging back into turmoil? She watches the river borrow the sun’s red. By continuing, she concludes, by following the river. She goes inside.
Lucienne says good morning.
“Where is Dimitri?”
“Didn’t you hear him? He left late last night. His ship sailed this morning.”
“When will he return?”
“I’m not quite sure.”
“But he will.”
“Yes, yes. At least, I hope so! Who’s coming to lunch? It’s got so you have to ask every time. You can’t recognise the place anymore!”
“What is it, Lucienne?”
“Nothing!”
“You’re sad.”
“Yes!”
“He’ll return. He seemed serious.”
“He’d better, Holy Mother of God!”
“You haven’t even done your hair.”
Lucienne stops and looks at herself in the mirror above the sink.
“Well, that’s only too true.”
“I’m going to my office.”
“I’ll bring your breakfast.”
“Take your time.”
“That’s all I ever do—wait, work, then wait!”
Lucienne disappears into her rooms. Marthe sighs and crosses the great sitting room on her way to the office. She stops at the piano, which Armand left open, contrary to his habits. She glances around the room, still tinged with familiar shadows. The fire on the hearth is dying. Usually so sensitive to the cold, Lucienne has neglected to feed it. Marthe sees her cat silhouetted against the window.
“So, there you are.”
He meows.
“A great deal is happening in this house, don’t you think?”
The almonds of his eyes narrow, disappear under the effect of his purring. Marthe turns towards her bookcase, now resembling Swiss cheese. Some books, freed from the narrow corset of order, have collapsed. She will transfer books from the overflowing shelves in her office. She no longer wants to burn anything; symbolic gestures lose their power, as though crying last night had dried up the source of her resentment.
Few of these books speak of tears except to treat them as symptoms of more secret causes. She turns towards the shelves holding literature. There live the creaks and tears. She reads the spines, immediately pauses at Nelligan and opens the book at random. Weep, birds of February… Weep my tears, weep my roses. She closes it. There is no chance in this household, she tells herself. She decides to place the poet’s collection beside a study of Laing.
Lucienne opens the door leading into the office.
“What are you doing? Your croissants are ready.”
“I told you to take your time. There’s no fire, my dear.”
“I did take it. You’re the one dawdling this morning.”
“I didn’t sleep much last night.”
“I heard. There were footsteps in your room, and then you took a shower.”
“Forgive me for disturbing you.”
“I wasn’t asleep either. I enjoyed my Dimitri.”
Lucienne giggles and warms to the subject:
“That man has a fine way about him. Must be the sea that makes them like that. The swell, surely… He told me himself. You’rre laïque de sea…”
They laugh. Lucienne stands aside.
“I’m sorry about earlier.”
“You needn’t be. I understand that you’re anxious.”
“You’re always too good. You let us do and say whatever we want.”
Marthe sits down.
“Are you reproaching me for letting you be yourself?”
Lucienne plants herself before her as though preparing a great blow.
“Yes! If you’d been less permissive, you wouldn’t be here pining for your Léo.”
“Too permissive, or too happy?”
Lucienne growls in protest at what she finds too complicated.
“Say what you like, it’s never too late to begin your life again.”
“I have the impression you’re trying to convince yourself to leave.”
The housekeeper hesitates, then sits.
“That’s possible,” she says in a voice reduced to its simplest form.
“Would you have preferred me to tell you to stay?”
“Maybe…”
Marthe watches her struggle against tears.
“We aren’t going to begin again, are we? Listen, go this spring. Think of it as a long holiday. You need one. If you decide you don’t belong there, you’ll come back.”
“You already told me.”
“I won’t abandon you, Lucienne.”
“I know…”
Rémi’s head appears in the doorway.
“Do I see the most beautiful women in the world?”
Lucienne rises, quickly dries her eyes while hiding her face, and leaves through the service door. Rémi comes forward, his dressing gown open.
“What did I say?”
“Nothing. It isn’t your fault. Could you dress yourself properly, young man?”
Rémi stops and ties his dressing gown.
“Sorry.”
He approaches and looks at Marthe’s croissants.
“Those look good.”
Marthe snickers.
“Where is Victor?”
“Finishing dressing. A notary’s clothes are complicated: underpants, socks, trousers, shirt, jacket. Then the boyfriend who undoes all of it…”
“You’re in love.”
“Only when I’m naked.”
Lucienne returns with croissants and coffee for him.
“Ah! She reads my thoughts!”
“I can’t resist a young man in his underpants.”
“Who says I’m wearing any?”
“I had time to see them before Marthe asked you to cover yourself.”
“The walls have ears.”
“No, they’re simply not insulated well enough…”
“Good morning!”
“Here comes the gentleman with the tie,” says Lucienne.
“Lucienne!”
“What? The handsome fellow is never relaxed! Don’t you agree, Rémi?”
“It depends. You should see him in bed.”
“You need only invite me.”
Rémi bursts out laughing while Victor, slightly red, sits beside him.
“Well, what do you want for breakfast? It would be simpler if you all arrived at the same time. This isn’t a restaurant!”
“No need, Lucienne. I never eat in the morning.”
Lucienne turns towards him, wide-eyed.
“Young man, I’m the one who needs a diet. If you want to perform in bed, exercise, say your prayers, but above all, eat bacon! I’m making myself eggs with roast drippings. Dimitri left me starving. A real chimney sweep, that one.”
“At least he makes you come?” Rémi asks.
Lucienne turns crimson.
“What do you know about a woman coming?”
“Nothing! I concede the point. But if you’d like me to tell you about prostate stimulation…”
“Rémi, please,” Victor says.
Marthe laughs.
“Coffee will be enough,” Victor insists.
Lucienne shrugs and says as she leaves, more to herself but loudly enough to be heard:
“No wonder he’s such a sissy!”
Rémi finds her very funny; Victor does not. Marthe does not want to offend him further and immediately changes the subject.
“I want to apologise for last night. I was rather abrupt with you.”
“It’s nothing. I understand the situation. Rémi explained about Augusti. Arcand did not reveal his son’s existence.”
“I don’t even know how old he is.”
“It was nevertheless indelicate of me. I could have investigated.”
“You had no time. Still, I want to apologise. I was afraid you would fall into the trap of all those art critics who see genius even in artists’ urine.”
“Life is simpler, indeed.”
“Life is above all more serious. There is a time for ties and another for underpants. Isn’t that right, Rémi?”
He stops chewing his croissant and produces the eyes of a beaten child. She adores it when he behaves that way.
Victor clears his throat.
“Today is the great day.”
“Yes, the paintings. I’ll be glad to be rid of them.”
“They cannot take them immediately. We must prepare the inventory and draw up the terms and conditions.”
She interrupts.
“I know all that.”
“You may change your mind.”
“I won’t take them into my grave.”
“You aren’t dead yet.”
She appreciates his quick mind but wishes he would free himself from his mould.
“What would you do in my place, handsome young man beloved of Rémi?”
Lucienne arrives just then with eggs and bacon, which she brazenly presents to Victor. His mouth falls open in astonishment. Marthe and Rémi burst out laughing before a Lucienne proud of her triumph.
Sunlight fills the rest of the day. There is much to do. The people from Simon and Courville arrive early with their cameras and specialists. Marthe attends the examination of the works.
Naturally, the experts marvel, try to ask her questions, but she immediately refers them to Victor. She decides to leave them, claiming she wants to help Lucienne prepare the meal, since they are staying to eat, are they not? They readily agree, saying for form’s sake that they do not want to impose. Rémi goes downstairs with her and announces that he is joining Armand. Before leaving, he kisses her cheeks. The gesture moves her.
After the meal, during which she had to answer the experts’ technical chatter, she dresses warmly and descends to the snowy shore. The river welcomes her with a long silence. The wind of recent days has rolled the snow, making it possible to walk. Unable to provide sufficient warmth, the northern sun nevertheless seems determined to redouble its brightness, giving the sky an unmodulated steel blue. She hears footsteps behind her. Hélène joins her.
“Good morning!”
“What a beautiful day,” Hélène replies.
“Yes. They’re forecasting a cold spell for the coming weeks. Snow will become rare.”
“Good! We’ll be able to walk. Shall we? The wind has swept everything clear here.”
“Gladly. It will take my mind off things.”
“Are the auction people there?”
“Yes. They exasperate me.”
“They’re doing their job.”
“I know. Let me complain.”
“I saw light in your room last night.”
“I couldn’t sleep. Nor could you, apparently.”
“I was with Armand. He is suffering. I’m trying to convince him to return to hospital.”
“He won’t.”
“I realise that. He is declining faster than I expected.”
They advance along the beach, quickly leaving the property, walking silently at a pace that leaves them slightly breathless. Unlike Léo, Marthe has always loved winter. During this first part of the season, the river possesses viscous water, hesitating between ice and vapour.
“Victor’s discovery must have shaken you,” Hélène says quickly, as though the words continued her silent thoughts.
“Last night, I felt I would not emerge from Léo alive. I was fragile, not a pretty sight.”
“I should have stayed with you, but Armand needed help.”
“Don’t worry. Rémi came to see me and gave me a long massage.”
“Lucky you! I wouldn’t mind having a young man.”
“I didn’t have him!”
Hélène laughs.
“I didn’t say you did. But admit the thought crossed your mind.”
“No!” Marthe says a little too loudly, though smiling. “Actually, I cried in his arms.”
Hélène presses more closely against her to show that she understands.
“Léo is twisted all the same,” Hélène continues, “and at his age!”
“There is no age limit on trying to find one’s way out.”
“Now you’re the one excusing him?”
“Not really. You know, you’re the writer: life likes to wear grey.”
“Only at night, and only among the rich.”
Marthe laughs.
They continue walking, telling each other about their respective nights. They slow both because going any farther has become impossible and because Marthe is speaking very softly, fragile, searching for air. Double causes intensified by secondary causes: rage, emotion, uncertainty and experience. They stop and look at the horizon.
“I would have liked being a grandmother,” Marthe says softly.
“So would I…”
“Are you lonely?”
“No!” her friend declares cheerfully. “I have my porn magazines, and I peel my carrots on top of them.”
They both roar with laughter.
“Seriously,” Hélène says, “I take good hot baths and let things go. But there is certainly that little something…”
“The call of nature?”
“You think I’m reactionary?”
“Not at all. I understand you perfectly. You and Gustave could have worked.”
“Don’t start again. He’s very nice, but too much of a ‘guy’ for me. Besides, he snores with his legs spread like a great seal. I’m not like you. In fact, I was never truly satisfied by men’s company. Solitude suits me perfectly.”
“Then?”
“Then,” Hélène says with a shrug, “I don’t know! I haven’t thought about it!”
“I trust Nature, with a capital N. If she allows women to deviate from the course that was theirs until now, so much the better. I would love to see where the human species will be in a thousand years. Perhaps everything will happen through brain waves and everyone will be equal.”
“Mercy! What will old ladies do if there is no more sex?”
“There will be ultra-intergalactic vibrators.”
“Did you see that in a magazine?” Hélène asks ironically.
“No. It was one of my patients’ inventions. I was treating him for his libido. One might say he was ahead of his time with that invention. He had built himself a closed, watertight world. A beautiful case. I would have liked to continue with him, but I met him only twice. Poor man.”
“Why?”
“Well, he tried to build his invention and electrocuted himself. It killed him.”
Hélène bursts out laughing.
“It isn’t funny,” Marthe says, stifling a laugh.
“You must have seen everything under the sun.”
“Yes and no. Everyone tries to find their freedom. Some succeed more than others.”
“Perhaps Nature is amusing herself with us.”
“If so, she isn’t always funny.”
“What if we went into town this afternoon?” Hélène suggests. “That, at least, is amusing—and so feminine!”
“You can be such a fool!”
“You love me that way, don’t you?”
“There’s room for improvement…”
“Some friend you are! Christmas is coming and I haven’t bought anything.”
“Neither have I. It will cost us dearly this year, with all these lovely people.”
“We could stay at the hotel, spend a few days and have some time among women.”
“Good idea. But Armand?”
“Rémi will look after him.”
“He was in a bad way yesterday.”
“We won’t be far. We’ll leave our contact details.”
They reach the staircase leading up to the property.
“Then it’s settled. Shall we say hello to our future mother?”