‘Come on,’ whispered Sandrine.
Raoul’s edginess was contagious. Every sound, however innocent, was laden with threat, with danger. The empty streets she knew so well no longer felt safe.
‘Where are we going?’ he asked.
‘Rue du Palais, it’s not far.’
Raoul stopped. ‘Not this way.’
‘But it’s quickest.’
‘We can’t go past the Palais de Justice,’ he said. ‘And that building opposite’ – he pointed to an elegant white building past which Sandrine had walked a thousand times – ‘that’s the local headquarters of the Deuxième Bureau and where the Kundt Commission sets up shop when they’re in Carcassonne.’
‘What’s the Kundt Commission?’
‘Gestapo,’ he said.
She hesitated, then nodded. ‘We’ll go via the rue de Lorraine then. Avoid the area altogether.’
Sandrine led him through the narrowest alleyways and short cuts, Raoul half carrying, half wheeling the damaged bike. They emerged opposite Square Gambetta. Between the fountains and lakes and stone balustrades and trees, the white marble statue of a warrior angel shone gauzy in the haze of the setting sun.
‘After my father died, I got into the habit of sitting here and looking at her,’ she said quietly. ‘She’s called Y Penser Toujours – Never Forget.’
‘I didn’t know she had a name,’ he said.
They continued in silence through the square and into the rue de Lorraine. Raoul suddenly stopped, rummaged in the front pocket of his rucksack and produced a rather twisted and bent home-made cigarette with tobacco spilling out of both ends.
‘I forgot I had it,’ he said, striking a match.
Sandrine watched as he pulled hard once or twice, until the paper sparked and started to burn. He exhaled a long white cloud of smoke, then offered the cigarette to her. She hesitated, then accepted.
She put it between her lips, aware of the taste of him on the paper, and took a puff. Heat hit the back of her throat as she inhaled, then immediately doubled over. Choking, as the smoke went down the wrong way. He thumped her on the back, until she stopped coughing. When she looked up at him, through streaming eyes, she saw he was trying not to laugh.
‘First time?’
Sandrine nodded, unable to speak. She handed the cigarette back.
‘Filthy habit anyway,’ he said, though he was smiling. Then his expression grew thoughtful again. ‘Before, you asked me why I didn’t stay yesterday.’
‘It’s all right, you don’t owe me an explanation.’
She wanted to ask him if he’d taken the chain, but she didn’t know how to bring it up in case the man she’d tried to save was his friend.
‘The thing is . . .’ she began, but Raoul carried on.
‘No, I want to explain.’ He paused. ‘You must have thought badly of me.’
Sandrine tilted her head to one side. ‘And that bothered you?’
‘I suppose it did.’ He shrugged. ‘I kept wondering if you were all right. You were on my mind – my conscience – all day.’
Sandrine glanced at him, then away again.
‘You kissed me,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, then added: ‘Did you mind?’
‘No,’ she said quietly.
She heard him sigh. ‘Well . . . good.’
They walked a little further, until they came to the corner of the rue Mazagran, where he stopped. Sandrine stopped too. Feeling as if she was watching the scene from the outside, she felt his hand on the back of her neck. Then he was drawing her gently towards him. She was aware of the steady pace of her breathing, in and out, in and out. The texture of his skin against hers, then the imprint of his lips on her forehead. Sandalwood, the memory of heat on his skin, tobacco.
‘Since you didn’t mind,’ he said, when he released her.
They kissed again, then stood still for a while longer, bound together by stillness, by the calm of the moment. Raoul traced the line of her neck, over her shoulder, running his fingers down the length of her bare arm, over her elbow and wrist and hand, to empty air.
‘We should keep going,’ he said.
Time accelerated, catching up, returning Sandrine to the Bastide. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
They walked on through the square until they reached the crossroads.
‘We can go in through the back,’ she said, pointing at the side gate.
Her voice sounded thin, high, even to her own ears, but Raoul didn’t seem to notice. He followed her into the garden, then propped the bike against the wall. For a moment, she couldn’t see him.
‘Raoul?’ she whispered, terrified suddenly that he’d changed his mind.
He was standing beside the fig tree, half silhouetted in the fading light.
‘I’m here,’ he said.
Raoul followed Sandrine into the house. Through a mesh screen door, the hiss of steam and pans clattering, a wooden spoon being banged against the side of a mixing bowl.
As they walked in, a medley of smells hit his senses – wild thyme and tarragon, sweet mashed turnip, even sausages. His heart tightened a notch. It reminded him of his mother’s kitchen in the old days. An elderly woman, dressed in old-fashioned sabots and a long black dress beneath a patterned housecoat, looked up.
‘Marieta, this is Raoul,’ Sandrine said, her voice falsely bright. ‘He’s the one who helped after my . . . accident at the river.’
The housekeeper’s expression didn’t change. ‘How does he come to be here now?’
Raoul was not surprised by the old woman’s hostility, but he could see Sandrine was taken aback at her abrupt tone.
‘We ran into each other in town, outside the post office,’ Sandrine replied defensively. ‘Can supper stretch to one more?’
‘Madomaisèla Suzanne is still here. Madomaisèla Lucie too.’
‘I’d like him to stay,’ she said.
‘I don’t want to put anybody out . . .’ he began.
‘I invited you,’ Sandrine said quickly, now evidently embarrassed.
Marieta continued to stare, but then turned and walked towards the table.
‘In which case, I will lay an extra place.’
‘I don’t think she likes me,’ Raoul said under his breath.
‘Marieta’s like that with everybody at first,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t take it to heart. She’s a lamb really.’
‘She’s looking out for you,’ he said, touched Sandrine was trying to make him feel better. ‘I don’t blame her for that.’
They were standing close together now, close enough for him to smell the scent of her skin. His heart tightened another degree. There was a clatter of plates, then Marieta emerged from the larder carrying a wooden board with a large cut of ham in one hand, and the remains of a white loaf in the other.
Raoul stepped forward. ‘Can I give you a hand?’ he asked.
‘I can manage.’
He swung the rucksack off his shoulder. ‘I have some wine. It’s not much, but I’d like you to have it.’
He took out the bottle and put it on the table. For the first time, Marieta looked directly at him. Then, finally, she nodded. Sandrine smiled with relief and Raoul stopped caring about anything else.
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘I’ll introduce you to everyone.’
‘Is there anywhere I could clean up?’ he said.
Marieta stood back from the sink. Raoul quickly put his hands under the tap and splashed water on his face, the worst of the grass stains and dust of the day. When he was ready, he followed Sandrine down a long dark corridor towards the front of the house.
The last of the day’s light filtered through a large patterned glass window on the half-landing, illuminating three small black and white framed photographs. Raoul stopped and looked up. All were views of the countryside: the first, a village set high on a hill; the second, two or three odd flint huts, like tiny stone igloos. The third was a shot of a ruined castle.
‘Where were they taken?’
Sandrine smiled. ‘Coustaussa. We have a summer house there.’
‘What are those strange buildings?’
‘Our capitelles – castillous, the locals call them. They’re actually quite famous. Visitors come from all over the place to photograph them.’ She paused. ‘Well, they did before the war.’
‘What are they used for?’
‘My father said they were a form of very old shepherds’ shelter, for those taking their flocks south over the mountains in autumn and back again in the spring after the snows had melted. Truthfully, nobody even knows how old they are. When my sister and I were little, we used to play hide and seek in them, though we weren’t allowed.’
In the darkness of the corridor, their fingers found one another. Just for a moment. Sandrine squeezed tight, then let go of his hand. Briefly, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. His face was gaunt, but for the first time in a very long time, he looked happy. Then he remembered the events of the day, remembered César and Antoine, and his eyes clouded over once more.
Behind a closed door to the left, he heard women’s voices and the sound of a wireless in the background.
‘Come on,’ Sandrine said. ‘Let’s get it over with.’