An insistent meowing pulls her from sleep. She opens her eyes and does not see Bruz beside her. The cry comes again, farther away.
She looks at the time. Eight thirty. She gradually gathers her senses. The cat is still meowing. She spots him perched on the windowsill, body taut, tail lashing, wholly absorbed by whatever he is watching outside.
“What are you looking at like that?”
She throws back the covers, slips on her dressing gown and staggers over. Bruz turns his head toward her, then looks out the window again, meowing.
“What is there to see, Bruz? I don’t see… my God!”
Her vision blurs. She presses her fist to her mouth.
“My God… Armand?”
Dizzy, she struggles for breath and begins to tremble. A surge of adrenaline finally sets her in motion. She blindly searches for a cardigan, anything warm, hurries from her room, runs down the stairs, pulls her coat from its hook and opens the door.
Armand is sitting in the snow, looking at the river.
“Armand!”
She breathes, tries to disentangle her thoughts, but can no longer move. Armand does not move. She tries to go forward, realizes there is nothing on her feet, and returns to pull on her boots.
When she comes back to the door she left open, Armand’s silhouette is still there, near the stairs descending to the shore. She bursts into tears, stupidly telling herself that his back is turned. She takes time to button her coat.
“Lucienne,” she says softly.
Then louder:
“Lucienne!”
Louder still:
“Lucienne!”
She slams the door behind her.
This is a dream, she tells herself; dreams can be terrible. The wind bars her way, so fiercely does it press against her. Shaken by spasms, she slows two-thirds of the way there and realizes that she is suddenly very afraid.
She makes a detour to pound violently on Hélène’s and Gustave’s doors, then resumes walking. Armand’s body is outlined too sharply against the snow; it can only be a dream.
“What are you doing there? What are you doing there?” she says to the motionless figure.
She turns toward the cottage. The door is open; Katou, curled up on the threshold, is watching Armand. Marthe then becomes aware of the blood staining the snow from the door all the way to him.
What happened? She tries to understand, stubbornly insists upon explaining the scene to herself before she continues. It is no use; she must go on. She looks at the sky. Can she wake now? Is the wind answering her? She shivers and advances, unable to stop her tears.
When she reaches him, she freezes, immobilized by fear. In one last reflex of hope, she manages to touch him. Armand, his eyes closed, is already stone. She withdraws her hand and steps back.
How is it possible? In so little time?
“I didn’t want this, Armand. I didn’t want you to die this way.”
She hears a cry behind her.
“Armand!”
It is Lucienne.
She hears Hélène and Gustave moan in turn. A peaceful sadness takes hold of her. Her body supplies the necessary drugs. She manages to catch her breath and swallow her tears. So this is not a dream? Everything is too logical.
She sits beside him and gently begins to weep again, just enough to give herself the courage to accept the situation. She does not dare look at him, content simply to remain very close. What if he is not dead yet? No, no, there is no point insisting; that is not what he wants. The winter morning bites her cheeks. She cannot remain seated long. Alone. He is no longer there to keep her company. She hears footsteps, more weeping, distress. She still has time to look at him. She notices the peace upon his face.
“How long have you been here?”
She mechanically takes stock of the last few hours. It happened too quickly. Lucienne approaches. Like an animal unable to understand what is happening, she touches him again and tries to wake him. You are not asleep, Marthe, she tells herself. Lucienne’s shadow envelops her.
“We didn’t say goodbye, Armand,” she manages to think.
Lucienne is already upon the poor man, covering him with kisses. Marthe rises; she weeps but cannot imitate Lucienne and admires her courage. She looks at the river, at the place where Armand must have cast one last glance before closing his eyes. Night lay upon Armand when he closed his eyes, he who so loved to see things. She clings to these many details. Gustave and Hélène come running. Marthe studies her friend’s lifeless body. She shudders to see how quickly he has turned to stone.