All Our Worldly Goods Read online

  She looked at the money. ‘Very sure,’ she said.

  ‘Was she hurt?’ Guy asked quietly.

  ‘No, not a scratch.’

  Guy picked up his hat, glanced one last time at Burgères’s body and went out to Pierre.

  ‘You were in there a long time,’ said his father.

  Guy said nothing. They left, in silence.

  19

  Burgères’s body was transported to Saint-Elme and buried beneath the memorial built for Simone’s parents; on it was a carved figure with a long beard, kneeling on a stone cushion, wearing a cloak that fluttered in the wind, while an angel touched his shoulder with one hand; the angel’s other hand pointed towards the factory chimney, visible above the cypress trees. Guy walked behind the coffin with all the Hardelots and Renaudins, threw some holy water into the open grave, bowed to Simone and Rose, went back home, had lunch, did, in a word, everything he should have done, everything that was expected. Then he said goodbye to his family, went back to Paris and, that same night, shot himself twice in the chest.

  Pierre had slept badly, haunted by sinister dreams; he was resting after lunch. He was awakened by the sound of the telephone and Agnès screaming as she came and threw herself down on the bed, sobbing.

  They left for Paris together. They were told that Guy was dying. He could go at any moment. When at last they arrived at the hospital, after a journey that felt like an incoherent nightmare, they were told that the surgeon was operating on Guy, that they were doing everything and more to save him. They were asked to wait. They waited, sitting side by side on the green velvet settee, in the sad room reserved for visitors. They were not alone. Other people were waiting like them. No one said a word. A muffled sigh sometimes escaped from a heavy heart and when the door opened, all the pale, pained faces looked up at the nurse as she came in. All their lips moved softly, silently. All their trembling hands clasped each other, clutched on to one another or clung nervously on to the arm of the chair. At that time of night they only operated on the most urgent cases, people who were extremely ill. But the nurse walked through the room and noticed nothing but her face in the mirror. She was young and pretty; she adjusted her hat, went out. The door closed behind her.

  Pierre and Agnès didn’t have the courage to speak to each other, or look at each other, or hold each other’s hand. The pain they felt was like none they had ever felt before; it didn’t bring them closer; it was too different in each of them. Agnès’s pain was violent and overwhelming, devoid of thought or will, nothing but the physical pain she had felt when she’d given birth to this child. Pierre’s pain was thoughtful and bitter. His son, his Guy, to be capable of this, this sin, this cowardice! He didn’t dare turn to look at Agnès. What could he possibly say to her? Their burning hands had touched for just a second. Absent-mindedly he pushed back a lock of grey hair that had come loose from under Agnès’s hat and silently she pushed him away. She didn’t see him any more, didn’t recognise him any more. She wanted her son. He was finally returned to her, after that long night. He was alive. ‘He has a chance,’ she was told. He didn’t say a word. He accepted her care and attention with the same indifference he accorded the nurse. Sometimes it even seemed to the despairing Agnès that he preferred the nurse, a stranger, whose reproach he didn’t fear.

  They remained in Paris all spring. They stayed at a hotel near the hospital. They only lived now for the few hours each day when they were allowed into Guy’s room, when they sat, in silence, one on each side of his bed, when they listened to him groan, when they watched over him, when they waited for the doctor to visit, when they stared at the white chart that kept track of his fever.

  They had aged a lot in those few weeks. Their faces were thin, ravaged, and their eyes surrounded by dark rings. During moments of half-consciousness that followed nights of delirium, Guy wondered why they had changed so much. Then he would forget them. He thought about the woman who had cheated on him with Burgères. He thought about his own life. His father and mother were so distant to him, so good, he mused, so detached, so calm. They were how you imagine the dead: in a pure, warm place, while on earth you burn and devour your own heart. Agnès’s hand stroked his forehead, held his hand; he fell asleep.

  One day he was stretched out like this, without moving. But he was feeling better. The doctor spoke words of hope. The strange coldness between Pierre and Agnès melted. Quietly, for the first time, their voices faltering, they spoke of things they had never thought about, of their youth, of love, of passion, of the madness that had driven their child to suicide.

  ‘But didn’t you ever find out the name of the woman?’

  ‘No,’ replied Pierre, ‘what good would it do?’

  ‘But if he recovers he’ll want to see her again.’

  ‘But she won’t want to see him. She hasn’t even been to see him once, has she? She hasn’t tried to find out how he is, I know that for a fact. It was an affair that lasted three years and she got tired of him, that’s all there is to it.’

  They fell silent.

  ‘I don’t understand this child,’ Pierre whispered again, sadly.

  They began to talk about themselves, their past.

  ‘Would you have been able to do this?’

  ‘No. I feared God. What about you?’

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘But you were never jealous,’ said Agnès with a faint smile. Her features lit up with that fleeting brilliance of youth that adorns the faces of wise, mature women when they speak of love.

  ‘I was jealous,’ said Pierre, ‘when we were young and I found out you were engaged to Lumbres, and I imagined his butcher’s hands on your body … and, during the war, I felt the worst kind of jealousy, for no reason, the kind that is born out of an idea, a sigh, a dream. I trusted you, I respected you, but I knew what a mad time we were living through and what some women did while we were away …’

  ‘Well, I was jealous of Simone and even now, when I see her, I feel …’

  She broke off. She placed her hands on her throat.

  ‘I’ve never loved anyone but you,’ said Pierre, without looking at her.

  ‘I know,’ she replied softly. ‘I know everything about you. When you were attracted to another woman … don’t deny it, it’s happened to you just as to everyone. Even before you were touched by desire, I was already being tortured by it. But I know you’ve never loved anyone but me.’

  He took her hand. ‘My poor wife,’ he said shyly, and he smiled, because he was using the same words that Charles used to Marthe in the past.

  They fell silent, both of them smoothing their son’s bed, and such warmth and tenderness flowed from them that they were a little ashamed to be so old and still so in love.

  ‘He’s going to get better,’ thought Agnès, looking at Guy’s face. ‘Things will soon be as they have always been.’

  They felt as if they had gone through the worst trial of their lives, that finally it was all over, that all they had to do now was to make their way along life’s straight and easy path, two old horses, harnessed together, bearing the same burden, until they died.

  Guy woke up and asked for something to drink.

  20

  Simone paid the bills due on 31 May and 30 June. Towards mid-July 1936, Pierre, who was still in Paris with the convalescing Guy, received a note from Simone asking him please to come to Saint-Elme, even for only forty-eight hours, ‘to sort out some urgent matters’. He read her letter with a heavy heart. During Guy’s illness his financial problems had seemed of no importance whatsoever. His boy had to get well; nothing else mattered. Now that his son was recovering, his problems at the factory became his main concern once more. They disturbed the little bit of sleep he still managed to get. He found it horrible to talk to Simone about money, to stand in front of a woman like a beggar. While Burgères had been alive, Simone never openly intervened between her husband and her ex-fiancé, even though she controlled everything. What’s more, she was one of those wome
n who only ever says things like ‘My husband would prefer it if … It’s what my husband wants … My husband has expressly forbidden me to do that …’ Rich as she was, and even though she’d learned how to protect her fortune to such an extent that Burgères had been forced to go to moneylenders more than once, if she cancelled an order for a hat from her milliner, she would add, ‘My husband thinks it’s too expensive.’ This was a way of thinking she had inherited, combined with a sense of propriety. A woman should never be forward. She had raised Rose according to these principles. But Rose was haughty and intelligent; she had Burgères’s temperament and clashed with her mother on this subject, as well as on many others.

  When old Hardelot had died, Pierre and Agnès had refused to live in the château, so the Burgères had bought it. Even though Pierre told himself, often and out loud, that he hated the oppressive building and was happy he didn’t live in it, every time he crossed its threshold he felt dispossessed. Today more than ever. He walked up the path along which, in the past, Julien Hardelot would take his evening walks in the summer, passed the garage wall, all that remained of the original house, its stones still bearing traces of the flames that had scorched it. He went into the reception room with its closed shutters, its covered furniture. The room smelled of polish and camphor, just as it had in his grandfather’s day. The chandeliers were carefully wrapped in brown paper and yellow gauze. Only the piano was partially uncovered: someone had forgotten to close it and put back its dust cover. Simone came in and, seeing the piano, frowned, apologised, went to the door and called out, ‘Rose!’

  The young girl came in (she was only sixteen, but strong and shapely, with brown hair, lustrous skin and thick, dark eyebrows) and said hello to Pierre.

  ‘Rose,’ was all her mother said, pointing at the keyboard.

  Without replying, Rose slammed the lid shut with such force that the chandelier tinkled, despite being doubly wrapped. Pierre hadn’t seen the girl for more than two years, for she was at boarding school in Belgium, and during the holidays her mother travelled with her to England and Austria, to help her improve her languages: Simone was the perfect mother. Pierre thought back to the silent, docile little girl she used to be. She had certainly changed. The constant battle between the two women was obvious in the haughty looks Simone flashed and the silent rage on Rose’s face.

  She started to walk away. ‘Rose,’ her mother said again.

  She hadn’t replaced the cover. The young girl came back, leaned over, set it in place and left without a word, but with a final furious look at her mother.

  Simone picked up her black-edged handkerchief from the table and began fanning herself. She wore, of course, the heaviest mourning clothes and even though it was difficult to make distinctions in such things, Pierre thought he had never seen such a deep, harsh shade of black as the one she wore. From her collar to the tips of her toes, she was all black crêpe and jet necklaces. On the mantelpiece stood a portrait of Roland Burgères, painted at his deathbed.

  ‘She has a very difficult nature,’ said Simone, raising her eyes to heaven as soon as Rose had gone. ‘But I don’t have to tell you, my dear friend, what problems our children cause us … How is your poor boy?’

  ‘Fine,’ Pierre replied curtly. ‘Thank you for asking.’

  He found it repulsive that she should talk to him about Guy, that she should judge Guy. Did she know how her husband had died? He held her responsible for the attempted suicide. He knew it was unfair, but still … ‘This woman has always brought me misery,’ he thought. ‘Everything that happens to me because of her is bad. Because of her, Agnès was rejected by my family. Because of her husband, my child has suffered. She stripped me of my fortune …’

  Out loud he said, ‘Is there something you need to tell me?’

  ‘Yes. I understand nothing about business, as you know. My poor husband took care of everything. But now that he is no longer with us I am forced to do my best as far as running the factory is concerned. You know, don’t you, that I paid the last two months’ bills?’

  ‘I am very grateful to you.’

  She waved her fat hand. ‘Of course. You are going through such difficult times. I am a mother, I understand. I have barely had time to mourn my poor husband myself. I’ve been plagued by a mountain of problems, both mine and yours. I personally took care of Baumberger’s bill; that brings our accounts to …’

  She broke off.

  ‘They worked out the account this morning at the office. Please forgive me for being obliged to look through the paperwork. I’ve never had a head for numbers,’ she continued, opening her handbag; it was black, with an ebony frame, dark, heavy and solid, like her.

  Pierre stretched out his hand and stopped her. ‘Dear friend, I know the figures by heart and they are (need I say, since you know it as well as I do) well beyond my current means. I hope you don’t wish to ruin me? Are you demanding that I pay you what I owe you at once?’

  Like all women, a direct question unnerved her. Her haughty, sullen face blushed slightly. ‘Please know, my dear Pierre, that only the most pressing necessity is forcing me to speak to you like this. The situation in which I find myself is difficult. I have an enormous number of financial matters to deal with. I’m not used to running a business …’

  ‘Oh,’ murmured Pierre.

  Each of us remains faithful to the idea we have of our true nature, our spirit and our character. Simone obviously clung fast to her role as a weak, gentle woman, submissive before masculine superiority. It was a role, thought Pierre, that had been instilled in her since childhood. She had performed it at her very best when they were young, when she took pride of place on the sandy beach at Wimereux-Plage, as the chaste fiancée, in a pink dress, the ribbons of her waistband fluttering behind her. Without a doubt, in her own eyes she hadn’t changed. She lowered her heavy, wilting eyelids, with an air of innocence.

  ‘I would love to be able to live like Agnès, quietly in my corner, I can assure you … Unfortunately, that’s impossible. You knew Roland. The poor man had a generous, impulsive nature. He has left a lot of debts, a very complicated situation, very sensitive. The company is in grave danger, make no mistake, Pierre. We have done our best, but everything is working against us: taxes, social policies, the wholesale price of materials, the economic crisis, which looks endless.’

  ‘I know all this as well as you, dear friend,’ Pierre said coldly.

  ‘But while you’ve been away, the situation has grown worse. You have no idea how many nights I’ve spent trying to find a way, calculating, working things out. At the moment we have one order from England, but after that, if we don’t get some more money to invest in the factory, we’re finished, finished. We’ll have to file for bankruptcy. The Hardelot and Burgères factory going bankrupt, the workers out on the street … think of your poor grandfather. We owe it to his memory to preserve the business he founded. Personally, I can tell you that I’ve sacrificed everything. And I’m not even counting all the loans made against my dowry. But now I have my daughter’s future to protect. I see only one solution: I’ll have to pull out of the business, if I can, and go and live in peace in the Midi, with Rose, far from Saint-Elme.’

  Pierre said nothing. He knew that if she even hinted in Saint-Elme that she intended to pull out of the factory he’d be finished. All the existing credit would be cut off. She would ruin him, because in order to avoid bankruptcy he would spend every penny he had, all of Agnès’s savings; he was a Hardelot; he would not be disgraced. But if he sold his shares to Simone, he thought, the factory would be saved.

  ‘Your grandfather left you with a heavy burden,’ she said. ‘He was very rich, but for a fortune to last from generation to generation it needs constant reinvestment, sustained by inheritances …’

  ‘Or by marriages,’ said Pierre.

  He could barely conceal his anger. He looked at her with hatred. Agnès was right. Simone still held their broken engagement against him, after twenty-six years. These
women, good Lord, these women … It was only by thinking of Agnès, by picturing Agnès’s sweet face that he finally calmed down.

  ‘What are you proposing?’ he asked.

  She hesitated.

  ‘It would be possible to help you this time, once again … oh, not you, but the company. It’s only the company that’s the issue, you know that very well. It’s clear that we are both prepared to make sacrifices so the company can survive. What I could do would be to sell my mother’s jewellery; Rose will reproach me for it one day, but too bad. With that money I could buy out your shares and then you would owe me nothing.’

  ‘The shares are worth more than that, as you know very well.’

  ‘And you know what you were offered for them in Paris,’ she said, turning away so he couldn’t see the look of triumph on her face. She had made sure she was well informed.

  After a moment she leaned towards him. ‘You can’t have everything,’ she said quietly. ‘You’re happy with Agnès and your delightful children. Your family can be your consolation for your difficulties.’

  ‘Don’t bring my family into this.’

  ‘Why not? It affects them. Do you think that Agnès will reproach you for having regained your freedom? All in all, this factory is a burden. You’ll have enough money to live on. And you’re not like your grandfather who cared about nothing in the world except the factory. It was his passion; it isn’t yours. I envy you. A business like this is less certain, more dangerous than a love affair. Think of the cost of running it, of working in it, of worrying about it and what it will cost in future … And think of how many people would love to get their hands on it. How vulnerable it is,’ she insisted. ‘After me, Rose will inherit it. So her husband will become the head of it. What kind of husband? Sometimes I can’t sleep for worrying about that. She’s not the kind of girl you can marry off as you please; she’s so stubborn. But I’ve become attached to the factory. I was brought up with the idea that one day it would belong to me and it must have been in my blood, you understand, because even though I gave up the man, I couldn’t give up the company. And since then I’ve grown even more strongly attached to it. People become attached to other people or to bricks and mortar; I don’t know which is wiser. Here is a company that should be the best in the country but is on the verge of bankruptcy. Why? If there were a reason, at least, or if it were my own fault. But no … Sometimes everything is handed to you, sometimes it is all taken away and you never know why. So I will save the business this time. Agreed? But then what? … Do I know what laws they’ll come up with next? Do I know whether war will break out tomorrow? Or revolution? Or … In such circumstances I will have sacrificed my youth, my happiness, for nothing. Roland hated Saint-Elme. He was … I don’t want to talk about it: he’s dead. I don’t get along with Rose. She knows that all the money belongs to me and that she can’t do as she pleases. I’m telling you all this … because we’ve known each other such a long time and we’ve never spoken honestly to each other. This is all I have left,’ she said, pointing to the chimneys of the factory.