After eating, Lucienne, Marthe and Rémi tour the house. At its centre, a broad wooden staircase leads to the four bedrooms upstairs. On one side is the kitchen. At the back, a corridor passes beneath the staircase and connects the rear rooms to those overlooking the river. Behind the kitchen, on the other side of the corridor, Lucienne’s small quarters open onto a private garden, now buried beneath night and snow. The house is deep, and some rooms, no longer needed, serve as storerooms. At the front, the sitting room connects to the dining room, then to Marthe’s former consulting room.
Rémi whistles as he enters. Books and more books, nothing but books on all four walls. Only the doors and windows serve as reminders that the room stands on Earth and is not the plush, schizophrenic belly of a sated old mind. From the outside door, Marthe points out the now abandoned path by which her patients used to arrive. Then she shows him the narrow staircase leading up from the back of the house, and the laundry chute, still in use. Lucienne does the washing on Thursdays and cleans upstairs on Fridays. She does not make beds, and he had better remember it, the housekeeper declares.
“If you do anything filthy, bundle up your sheets and, if possible, wash them yourself.”
“Me, do anything filthy? Come now!” Rémi jokes.
“Tell that to someone else. We all know that at your age you’re always randy.”
“Speak for yourself, Lucienne,” Marthe adds.
Lucienne plays along, leaning towards Marthe as though she did not want Rémi to hear.
“It’s different at our age. But we have technique.”
He laughs.
“It’s like a hotel,” he remarks admiringly.
“At one time, we entertained a great deal during the summer.”
“Good thing all that is over. I couldn’t keep up the pace anymore,” says the housekeeper.
“You already do a great deal…”
“Hard to know when it will end,” Lucienne replies enigmatically.
Marthe takes careful note of the allusion.
“Can you take Rémi to see Léo’s clothes?”
“Come along, my boy, I’ll show you the ‘shop.’ Some people collect knick-knacks; Marthe collected clothes. Hold your nose—it smells of mothballs—but you’ll see, there’s some very fine stuff. Marthe’s a snob. She wanted her Léo to look handsome, but he came for only a few months and wore almost the same thing all the time, when he wasn’t half naked.”
“I’m going to Armand’s,” Marthe tells them.
“You amaze me, Marthe.”
He begins to cry.
When she entered his cottage, she had once again been surprised to find a stillness denser than it had been two days earlier. Armand had not risen, pinned to his bed by pain. Deep rings drew heavy shadows beneath his eyes. He looked like a sad clown, or a Don Quixote in his final hours.
“What you’ve done does you credit,” he continues, “but I’m afraid it may be purely theoretical.”
He sniffs.
“That’s one way of looking at it,” she says.
“Is there another?”
“Hélène will need help soon. She won’t be able to look after you all the time, especially if you continue doing foolish things like yesterday.”
“One glass…”
“And your liver nearly stopped.”
He shrugs.
“Have you spoken to Gustave?”
“Not yet.”
“He made me a veritable declaration of love. I had never seen him in such a state.”
“He harassed Lucienne.”
“I know. He was truly drunk. Don’t be too hard on him. He is having trouble accepting it.”
“That’s no excuse.”
He shrugs again. His eyes, reddened by fever, struggle to pierce the dimness.
He blows his nose.
“I stayed in bed all day and was bored out of my mind. I was ready to end it yesterday, you know. Gustave saw nothing. I fought to show no sign of it until he left for bed. I never thought he would go to Lucienne’s. I cowardly rang for Hélène. I was in too much pain.”
“Is it better now?”
He nods.
“What do you intend to do?”
He looks at her, apparently angry.
“What do you expect me to do? Why are you asking that?”
At this moment, she could bring out her entire arsenal and force him to search his soul, but she does nothing of the kind. Instead, she restores some distance, tired.
“Rémi will come to see you tomorrow.”
“What did you offer him?”
“Offer?”
“He isn’t doing it for my pretty eyes. You’re paying him.”
“Of course. But it’s more than that. I think the offer came at the right moment for him. He needed a change of scene, a chance to make himself useful.”
“I don’t want him to treat me like a sick man.”
“I don’t think he will. The other day, he knew when to remain silent because I needed him to.”
Armand seems to consider her answer.
“Nothing so terrible happened, you know. Help me, please.”
He frees himself from the blankets. She helps him stand, barely overcoming her panic when she touches his hands.
“My hands are cold, aren’t they?”
“It’s startling.”
“And look at me. I resemble an old rag doll.”
He points to the armchair in the sitting room. They make their way there slowly. Once seated, he suddenly seems to improve.
“Could you bring me that blanket?”
She covers him. He thanks her and pulls towards him the small wheeled table that now serves as his desk. He examines several sheets, most of them birth charts.
“I watch myself, I watch all of us. I have nothing else to do. I watch the stars move. When I disappear, their course will continue—for you, and afterwards for others. Tomorrow I’ll draw Rémi’s chart. That will be a good way to begin.”
“Good idea.”
He grimaces and shifts in his chair. Sweat appears on his brow.
“Would you like some water?”
“Yes, there is some in that jug on the counter.”
With a trembling hand, he points to it. She returns with the carafe and a glass already filled. He drains it, asks for more, then closes his eyes and smiles.
He pats her hand; once again, she becomes aware of the coldness of his skin.
“You seem to feel better.”
“I do. Rémi does me good, Marthe; thank you. He knows how to make himself useful without giving me the impression that I am already dead.”
She presses herself against him.
“I no longer know where I am going,” she confesses in his ear.
“Of course you do. You are too old not to know the path before you.”
He is right; she remains pressed against him.
“I mean that I am sad.”
“He should seek treatment or go straight to a hospice.”
Seated at her desk, Hélène finishes putting away some papers, then takes the armchair opposite Marthe.
“I rarely come to your place,” Marthe says, still under the spell of the moments spent with Armand.
“I rarely invite anyone.”
“It’s beautifully decorated. Delicate.”
“Would you like tea?”
“Gladly. I have a feeling the night will be long.”
“It’s the full moon tonight. I like it when snow has just fallen; it feels like another world.”
Hélène busies herself silently in the kitchen.
“Would you like to hear my ready-made answer?”
“I’m dying to,” she replies ironically.
“Men love the open air, Hélène, grand ideas, diversity. If we shut Armand away in a hospice…”
“He will be in less pain.”
“But he won’t be able to breathe the open air whenever he wishes. He won’t be able to have Rémi beside him.”
Hélène returns with the tea service.
“Do you have several tea sets like this?” Marthe asks.
“Why?”
“It matches what you’re wearing. Do you have a tea service for every outfit?”
Hélène returns to the kitchen to check the water.
“You’re playful tonight.”
“This afternoon I went to my notary. I asked him to redo my will. I was leaving everything to Léo. Can you imagine?”
Hélène quickly returns, looks at her, laughs, then goes back into the kitchen.
“I burn my books, I’ll give my house away to someone—I just don’t know who yet—and I demand fresh air.”
“When is the great operation?”
“What?”
“When are you changing sex?”
Hélène pours the hot water into the teapot and brings over a plate of small cakes.
“You’re going to make me fat.”
“You’ll never grow fat.”
Marthe takes a brownie.
“I met my notary Victor’s youngest son. He’s taking over the practice. And you know what? His name is Victor too!”
Hélène snickers.
“And you were saying men love the open air? They shut themselves inside cramped conventions instead.”
“But young Victor surely wore an earring. I saw the scar.”
“And?”
“Nothing. I thought he might make a companion for Rémi.”
Hélène laughs heartily.
“Rémi agreed at once to come and help Armand?”
“Beyond my expectations. I told him he was still young and could afford it. I made him understand that I would need him afterwards, when we go travelling.”
“You want to take him?”
“Why not? He will be the one who wants to see everything and forces us out of our hotel rooms.”
“As long as we don’t go camping…”
“Really! At our age! No, hotels and luxury food.”
“It will cost you.”
“Léo will pay. I met the people at Simon and Courville. You cannot imagine the noise this sale will make.”
“You’ll have your revenge.”
“We’ll have money and freedom.”
“You’ll have your revenge,” Hélène repeats.
Marthe sets down her teacup.
“I’ll have my revenge, but it will hurt no one.”
Hélène sets down her cup too, rises and walks towards the bookcase arranged, like Marthe’s, around the fireplace.
“Should I burn my books as well? Watching you stir the waters around you, you create waves. You realise that, don’t you? I like what is happening, and I do not. I trust you, but I’m afraid.”
She takes a book.
“Hemingway.”
She opens the fire screen and throws the novel into the flames.
“Perhaps I should begin with Sartre. And to return to my tea sets, I have three, one for each primary colour. That way, I can adapt to anything.”
“You have style.”
She sits again.
“Armand’s pain distresses me.”
“I understand.”
“He is taking massive doses of morphine. He won’t last long.”
“He told me he wanted to die yesterday.”
Hélène sighs.
“I was tempted to leave the bottle of pills on his bedside table.”
She yawns.
“He kept me awake nearly all night.”
“He is happy to see Rémi. He wasn’t expecting him.”
Hélène looks at her with tender eyes.
“You are a marvellous witch.”
Marthe rises and takes her coat.
“The old witch has a few words to say to Gustave.”
“Poor man.”
“You pity him?”
“He is searching for air, as you say. He is afraid. Don’t be too hard on him.”
“I’m credited with a great deal of power in this house. Armand told me the same thing.”
“Because you do have power. How can you believe you were Léo’s satellite? He was the one who forced his way out of orbit.”
Marthe stops, speechless. With a symbolic sweep of her hand, Hélène dismisses what she has just said.
“One can make the past say anything, as you yourself said not so long ago. What happens to us transforms our gaze; what we look at transforms what happens to us.”
“A fine vicious circle.”
“A fine circle, full stop. Off you go. Go scold Gustave—you’re making me want to write.”
“Your place is tidy.”
“You don’t often come here.”
“True.”
“That wasn’t a reproach.”
“I have some for you.”
“No need. I’m an old fool. I don’t know what came over me. Yesterday I went to the village and bought a bottle of scotch, not the cheapest, and…”
“…it allowed you to cry.”
Gustave stares at her.
“I have nothing to explain to you. You’re too strong for me.”
“Strength is relative.”
He stares again, making it clear that she should not try to demonstrate hers.
“Lucienne is angry with you.”
“And you?”
“You did nothing to me.”
“I apologised this afternoon, when I returned from the clinic.”
“She didn’t tell me.”
He snickers.
“Of course not.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Not really. It’s only a slight dislocation. Old age makes everything worse.”
“Armand told me you made him a veritable declaration of love.”
Gustave’s face collapses. He lowers his shoulders in resignation.
“I don’t know how to say things.”
“Keep it simple and continue being what you are.”
“Meaning?”
“Yourself, nothing more. We love you that way.”
She rises.
“It’s getting late.”
“What is Henri’s son doing here?”
“I hired him to look after Armand. Hélène will soon need him. She says Armand will decline quickly.”
“I’m here.”
“That has nothing to do with it. Don’t you understand?”
“No.”
She sighs.
“What is it? What am I supposed to understand?”
“Has Armand told you about his life in all the years you have known him?”
Gustave shrugs.
“I don’t see what you mean.”
“You’ve always kept that little homophobic streak.”
“Very well.”
“Instead of saying ‘very well,’ open your eyes. I am offering Armand beauty, embodied by Rémi. You’ll have to make yourself scarce if you cannot accept that side of him.”
He starts to protest. She feels anger rise in him and prepares for a confrontation that does not come, for Gustave instead sinks into his chair.
“Couldn’t the world be simpler? Black, white, pleasure, baby?”
She laughs.
“It won’t hurt you to see the colours of the rainbow.”
She kisses him.
“Besides, he is a nursing aide. He isn’t there to replace you. I plan to take a long trip after Armand dies. Hélène is coming with me. Will you come?”
He is surprised.
“You’ve planned everything.”
“Not everything. I’m adapting.”
“I don’t understand!”
“Death! Our death, Armand’s death, and then this peaceful existence. I need air!”
She knocks at Lucienne’s door.
“Coming.”
Heavy footsteps, the sound of the lock being released, the door opening to reveal Lucienne in her nightdress.
“Were you asleep?”
“No, but I was going to bed.”
“You lock your door now? May I come in?”
“Well, no.”
Faced with Lucienne’s embarrassment, Marthe suddenly realises:
“You’re not alone?”
“No!”
“I didn’t see anyone arrive.”
“You were at Armand’s.”
“Who is it?”
“Dimitri.”
“Do I know that one?”
“Well, yes…”
“Ah… I won’t disturb you, then.”
Before Lucienne closes the door on her embarrassment, Marthe adds:
“This is the first time you’ve brought a man here.”
“All right, all right.”
The housekeeper closes the door almost violently. Marthe cannot help laughing. She takes the servants’ corridor to reach the sitting room more quickly. Rémi has settled in front of the television, remote control in hand.
“Nice big television.”
She gives a small cry of surprise. Rémi shows her the clothes he is wearing.
“These are nice too, aren’t they? They were still in their packaging and don’t even smell of mothballs. They’re comfortable too, and even fashionable. Nothing is ever invented.”
She sits beside him and touches the fabric of his shirt.
“Quality never goes out of fashion,” she says absently.
“Does Armand know?”
She returns to herself.
“You start tomorrow. He is happy you’ve arrived.”
“I’m going to like it here.”
“I’m very glad.”
For a few moments, she watches the television programme with him.
“I never turn this one on. You have a television in your room, did you know?”
“Oh! I didn’t see it.”
“It’s in the cabinet at the foot of the bed. The remote is on the bedside table. It rises by itself.”
“Cool.”
“Aren’t you a little old to say that?”
He does not take his eyes from the television.
“Men are big children, aren’t they?”
“Yes,” she says, touching the fabric again. “Everyone here knows what happened between you and Léo.”
He turns sharply and switches off the television. Smiling, she continues:
“And I said very little. Armand could see you from his sitting room. He was in league with Léo. I didn’t know.”
She corrects herself.
“I knew nothing about any of it. I saw nothing.”
She looks at Rémi, who remains serious, then seems to relax and snickers.
“You find it funny?”
“Well, I can hardly do otherwise, can I? Have I thrown myself into the wolf’s jaws?”
“We’re too old to bite. We have no teeth left.”
“But still?”
She settles into the armchair and leans against him.
“Perhaps I need you more than Armand does. I am sweeping away my past, opening drawers for which I had no key. You seem to be one. I need someone to interpret my memories.”
“I suddenly possess all that power?”
“Let’s say I have just chosen you.”
She smiles, but feels overcome by extreme weariness. Rémi turns the television on again.
“How is Armand?”
“His illness is advancing quickly. You won’t have much time, whatever that means. It won’t be easy. Hélène explained the stages of the disease to me. You will need courage.”
“I have it.”
“We know that only when we need it. What you have above all is the courage of youth. Armand is becoming a kind of black hole. The desire of unfulfilled people resembles a planet without air.”
“In any case, the ice is already broken, isn’t it? He has already seen me in my birthday suit.”
He smiles and adds:
“I truly have fallen into a den of curious wolves.”
She rises.
“Wolves that no longer bite, I repeat.”
“No longer?”
“We were not always wise. We too were young and adult. And we have money to lose, hours to live, a past to soften us. All of that is very dangerous.”
He laughs.
“Money doesn’t make one intelligent.”
“No. Nothing makes one intelligent except courage.”
“Back to that again?”
“Always. Now, I’m going to bed. Good night, dear boy.”
“Good night, mistwess.”
She throws a cushion at him.
She sleeps deeply, with no apparent dream other than a tumult resembling the river in winter, imprisoned by ice along its shores, free and saline at its centre, where dreams sail before a tireless wind. Images swell the sails.
One ship passes, then another; the hours strut, occupied elsewhere, where it is daylight. Since it is snowing, there should be no moon. Yet a silvery, almost opaque light enters through the window, illuminates Marthe’s red hair and deepens the furrows of her face. A hand rests upon her; it is warm, masculine. “Only at night can I see your true face.”
She wakes with a start and looks around. No one. A white, almost opaque light enters through the window. Yet it is snowing. She rises and approaches the glass. Snow crashes against it and dies, liquefied. The property is bathed in a brightness whose source she cannot trace. She looks up. The full moon has managed to illuminate this soft storm.
What time is it? Four in the morning. She hears a noise. Rémi? She puts on her dressing gown and descends the main staircase. In the sitting room, Rémi is asleep on the sofa, the television reproducing in its own fashion the storm raging outside. She picks up the remote he dropped on the floor and switches off the set. She is about to shake Rémi, but changes her mind at the last moment and instead sits in the armchair placed at an angle, from which she can observe him at leisure. Bruz appears, approaches his mistress, meows and jumps onto her lap. Rémi seems to smile. She hears footsteps. Lucienne arrives in her nightdress, assesses the situation and sits beside Marthe.
“I’m not used to having someone in my bed,” she whispers.
“Did he come of his own accord?”
Lucienne nods.
“You don’t often talk about that one.”
“He’s a sailor.”
“Ah…”
“Rémi isn’t ugly.”
“He doesn’t play for your side,” Marthe says ironically.
“I know. Besides, at that age they’re too hurried or too hard.”
Marthe laughs a little too loudly. Rémi moves.
“Shh…”
They continue whispering.
“What did Armand say?”
“He thanked me.”
“You didn’t choose the ugliest.”
“Of course.”
“Of course.”
“And your Dimitri, why did he come in the middle of a storm?”
“Guess…”
Lucienne snickers, then grows serious again.
“I called Henri last night. He’ll come and clear the snow.”
“Thank you. The snow is early this year.”
“We’re on the North Shore. It’s normal.”
“Not twenty centimetres at once, surely.”
“True. Rémi seems to have a good appetite. I’ll have to vary my menus.”
“Don’t do too much, Lucienne. You’re growing old too.”
“Speak for yourself!”
“I saw you climb the stairs last night. You were out of breath by the second step.”
“I’m fat.”
“Precisely. Be careful. Perhaps I should hire someone to help you.”
“I wouldn’t say no. Especially if things are changing.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow. I don’t feel like discussing it tonight.”
“Dimitri wants to take you away with him?”
“I said tomorrow!”
She spoke a little too loudly. Rémi wakes.
“Huh? What?”
The two women laugh. Rémi sits up, rubs his face and becomes aware of their presence.
“I fell asleep.”
“We noticed,” Lucienne replies with her great booming laugh.
“Have you been spying on me long?”
“No, but in future,” Marthe answers, “you’ll have to lock your door, because two old bats like us enjoy ogling pretty young things at night.”
He stands and stretches.
“It won’t be the first time, will it?” he replies, looking at Marthe.
He quickly unbuttons his shirt and removes it.
“I’m going to bed. Good night.”
“Sleep well. Tomorrow will be a long day,” Marthe says.
Rémi smiles.
“It will certainly be interesting.”
He leaves. The two women remain for a few moments, watching the dying fire.
“Do you think he showed us his belly on purpose?” Lucienne asks.
They burst out laughing.
In the early morning, a mere two hours later, Lucienne is already at her pots. Marthe hears her talking with this Dimitri she has never met. She presses the intercom button.
“Lucienne, I’ll have breakfast in my office.”
“O.K.,” says Lucienne’s now electric voice.
She presses a section of the bookcase, which swings open onto the staircase leading to her office. She rarely uses the intercom and thus signals to Lucienne that she may take her time with Dimitri.
As soon as she reaches her office, a door opens and Lucienne appears with a cup of coffee.
“It won’t be long. Would you like croissants?”
“Gladly.”
Lucienne returns a few moments later with two warm croissants and jam.
“Did you sleep well?” the housekeeper asks.
“Not really. I couldn’t get back to sleep. I read and thought a great deal. And you?”
“Oh, me, you know, I enjoyed my man…”
“Is he Russian?”
“No, Greek. You should hear him sometimes when he…”
“…comes?”
Lucienne snickers.
“Yeah, that’s it. Mind you, even in French you can’t understand what they’re saying!”
They laugh.
“Will you send Rémi to me when he gets up?”
“O.K. Can Dimitri stay here a few days?”
“Yes, no problem.”
“It’s just that he’s a sailor…”
“I know. You told me last night.”
Lucienne seems troubled.
“What is it?”
The housekeeper was merely waiting for the question to continue.
“I don’t talk about Dimitri often.”
“True.”
“We’ve known each other ten years.”
“Really?”
“We see each other two or three times a year, when he docks. He’s retiring soon.”
“So I was right this morning?”
Lucienne lowers her eyes.
“Yeah…”
Marthe smiles.
“Will you accept?”
The housekeeper’s manner changes abruptly. Marthe senses her struggling with something.
“I don’t know, Marthe. Three days ago I was in that fool Pedro’s arms, but that was all it was. This is different. Dimitri wants to take me to Greece. I’m not sure I’d like it, and I can’t imagine leaving this place.”
“My word, you’re crying.”
Lucienne makes a quick gesture of denial.
“Eat. Your croissants will get cold. We’ll talk about it later.”
“If it reassures you, Lucienne, I have plans of my own. We will indeed talk later.”
“What are you plotting now?”
“Happiness for all of us. Go on, return to your Dimitri.”
After Lucienne leaves, Marthe slowly eats her croissants, surprised and happy, enjoying the silence. She does not know whom to thank, chance or the Good Lord, perhaps both.
Papers to file, overdue correspondence, bills to pay. How expensive life is, she thinks, languidly placing invoices in an envelope she will mail to her accountant.
She still receives a great deal of mail for Léo. At first, she conscientiously forwarded it to his agent. Now she feeds the orphaned envelopes into the shredder. She no longer even opens them. Most are invitations, recognisable by the affectation of their envelopes; artists do everything with style, which means that most of the time they manage the wind. All the more reason to shred them. Incorrect address books reveal that this person no longer belongs to that circle, that another has just entered it without knowing the proper contacts. Shredder. More official papers, sometimes from universities that probably wish, for publicity and subscriptions, to confer an honorary doctorate on Léo. Shredder. “You’ll have your revenge,” Hélène said. Yes, she thinks, revenge, but rather the desire to wipe the slate clean. Tabula rasa und desinfiziert: disinfected. Ohne Erbe: disinherited. Her few scraps of German slip confusedly into her thoughts, adding to the bitterness. That is bitterness: the bitter taste of having been deceived. My God, she thinks, silently raising a letter into the air, could I not have lived with a normal man? After reflection she shrugs and throws the envelope into the machine’s jaws. Would she have been content with a man who wore brown socks like Gustave? She snickers. “You got what you wanted.” Very well, she answers aloud. “But I did not get everything I wanted.” Her mind, seasoned by analysis, quickly reasons with and qualifies that final sentence, returning it to the more real terrain of uncertainty and ignorance. “What do you know of this ‘everything’?” At that rate, or in that game, one never escapes, to return to the discussion she had with Junior. A handsome man, incidentally. She smiles. Her thoughts are more scattered than the papers she is filing.
After destroying what did not concern her and putting her correspondence in order, she quickly reads the few leaflets inviting her to various conferences. She sometimes recognises names, has met some of the people, and feels slightly overwhelmed by the new titles, new faces, new subjects. Here, an invitation to lecture… on artistic expression! They can go to hell; all they want is to learn what she knows about Léo. She takes a sheet of paper, writes only “no,” then signs it. The letterhead will say the rest. Some will write about that no when Léo dies. She stops reading. She thinks too much about Léo’s death, she tells herself.
There is a knock at the door.
“Come in, Rémi.”
Instead, the heads of old Bob and Henri appear.
“Ah, good morning,” she says, rising.
“We’ve come to return the keys. It was time the work was done, with all this snow.”
“Perfect! Let’s go and see!”
“Did you say Rémi—my Rémi?” Henri asks.
“Yes, Dad!”
Henri turns towards his son, who had followed them.
“What are you doing here?”
“He arrived with me last night, Henri. He’ll be helping me for a while.”
Henri looks at Marthe, then Rémi, not particularly pleased.
“Oh… You quit your job?”
“Yes. Marthe has hired me for the winter, and perhaps longer.”
“Oh?” says Henri.
Rémi seems in no hurry to explain. Marthe takes the old man’s arm to appease him.
“Rémi is resuming his psychology studies with me, aren’t you, Rémi?”
The young man smiles at her.
“Nothing could be truer.”
“Will it earn you a diploma?”
“I promise you one before you die, dear Papa.”
Good heavens! She tightens her hold on Henri’s arm.
“Do you trust me, Henri?”
He looks at her and softens. Hélène arrives just then, greets everyone, kisses Rémi and welcomes him. Henri raises his eyebrows.
“Marthe, I can see you’re busy…”
“You’ve arrived just in time to take Rémi to Armand. Have you had breakfast, Rémi? Good. You met Dimitri.”
Rémi winks at her.
“Dimitri?” Henri asks.
“Yes, he’s Greek, a friend of Lucienne’s.”
“Oh!” Henri says again, visibly trying to assemble all the pieces of the puzzle.
Bob remains silent, looking as though he could not care less about the conversation. Lucienne arrives in turn. Henri greets her, but the housekeeper scarcely pays him any attention.
“Well!” Marthe exclaims. “Everyone is here to see our young lovers’ future home.”
“They’re very happy to be coming here. Marie-Claire told me again on the phone yesterday. She said they were thinking of moving in a week, if that’s all right with you. Their lease begins only in December.”
“Of course it is! Tell her to call me. No, I’ll call her instead. Hélène, will you join us afterwards?”
“Agreed. Are you coming, Rémi?”
“Yes, mistwess numbeh two.”
“What?”
Rémi laughs.
“Can I know what is going on around here?” Henri asks after Hélène and his son have left.
“None of your business, old man,” Lucienne replies.
“Come, come,” Marthe says gently. “Rémi is here to help Hélène. With Armand.”
“Oh… Is that diploma story serious?”
“Yes,” Marthe lies. “In a way,” she adds, moving closer to the truth. “Let’s go and see the cottage.”
“Merciful God!” Lucienne exclaims. “It’s only when you see something new that you realise you live in something old!”
Marthe enters behind her. She already knows every alteration. She chose the colours, approved the wall in the baby’s room, discussed the height of the cupboards for far too long and had two electrical outlets moved after Henri’s son-in-law installed them according to a logic she could not fathom. She came almost every day, sometimes twice, inventing a question so she could watch the men gradually tear Léo from the walls.
This morning, however, the cottage seems different. The tools and dust sheets are gone. There are no paint tins left in the corners, no sawdust on the floor, no voices calling for a hammer or cursing a recalcitrant piece of moulding. Only the smell of varnished wood remains, and the silent cleanliness of rooms waiting to be inhabited.
Bob hands her the keys.
“We finished the last touch-ups yesterday. The bedroom door was still rubbing a little, and Henri replaced the circuit breaker that was acting up.”
Marthe opens the door to the small room. She already knew it would be narrow, but empty like this, lit by the new window, it seems larger.
“The cradle will go there,” Lucienne says, pointing to the wall. “Not close to the radiator. Men never think about such things.”
“They’ll have plenty of time to move the furniture ten times,” Marthe replies.
She goes into the kitchen, opens a cupboard, then closes it. Lucienne inspects the counters with the authority of a general receiving a conquered position.
“I want some,” she declares. “The same ones.”
“You have no room to put anything else.”
“That’s no reason.”
Bob laughs. Marthe returns to the sitting room. The river light now crosses the room without encountering dusty curtains, easels or Léo’s ponderous furniture. She witnessed their disappearance, object by object, and yet only today does she understand that the cottage no longer truly belongs to him.
No, she corrects herself. It still belongs to her. It is the past that has lost its right of entry.
She places a hand on the freshly painted wall. Nothing returns beneath her fingers. No image, no voice, none of the former warmth of a body. The room has finally become indifferent.
“Does it meet with your approval?” Bob asks.
Marthe turns. The two men await her reply, not anxiously, but concerned to close the worksite properly.
“Yes. Marie-Claire and Luc may move in whenever they wish.”
“Even next week?”
“Even tomorrow.”
Bob takes an envelope from the inside pocket of his coat.
“Here is the final painful instalment.”
Marthe weighs it without opening it.
“I’ll send it to my accountant this morning. You’ll be paid as before, immediately.”
“We appreciate it. It’s rare nowadays to be paid so quickly.”
“Marthe has money,” Lucienne declares. “That’s why I want new cupboards.”
Marthe looks around once more. The cottage is ready. Life may enter.
The door suddenly opens. Rémi appears, looking worried. Marthe immediately suppresses her joy.
“What is it?”
“It’s Armand. We should take him to hospital.”