All Our Wordly Goods (2 page)

‘The fireworks,’ shouted the children, ‘the fireworks are starting.’

A golden swirl burst forth from behind the sand dunes and spun over the waves. Everyone stood up in curiosity and pleasure. The inhabitants of Wimereux-Plage rarely indulged in entertainments; they played Ludo in the Casino and, sometimes, touring theatre companies came from Paris. They didn’t have to pay to see the fireworks. Sound economic principles reigned supreme here.

‘Come over here, Agnès,’ said Pierre. ‘Come and stand in front of me, so you can see better …’

But when Agnès went over to him, she found him flanked by his mother and fiancée. He held out his hand to help her climb on to the sand dune and Madame Hardelot immediately called out to her husband, ‘Charles, stand behind Agnès. You’re so tall! She can’t see a thing, can you, darling?’

And so, protected on three sides, Pierre was as
defended as a fortress. He pushed the women away rather briskly. ‘It’s too hot. I prefer lying in the sand.’

Agnès didn’t dare move. She lowered her head and choked back the tears.

During the winter the Hardelots and Florents rarely saw each other, even though they were neighbours. The people of Saint-Elme had a remarkable talent for ignoring whatever they didn’t wish to know. How well they knew when to become deaf and blind. How tactfully they side-stepped anything they found unpleasant! Families could live next door to one another for twenty years and never even glance at each other. But here, at Wimereux, it was different. In their youth, Agnès’s father and Charles Hardelot had each bought property on the seafront; their chalets were adjoining. It was unfortunate, but as this was a good location, it took precedence over any other factor. They couldn’t very well ignore each other. And besides, summer was of no consequence, the Hardelots thought; it was as if their habits, their prejudices, their preconceptions were all part of their environment, their habitat. Once away from home, they became more tolerant, just as certain insects lose their sting once outside the hive. But summer was nearly over. ‘And we’ll never see each other again,’ thought Agnès. ‘He’ll get married and as for me … Anyway, does he even love me? He’s never told me he does … He knows he can’t marry me, so it wouldn’t be right,’ she thought. ‘But if he did love me, I’d follow him to the ends of the earth.’

‘Look how beautiful it is,’ said Madame Florent, leaning towards her daughter.

‘Oh, yes, beautiful,’ replied Agnès, her voice trembling, seeing nothing.

A spray of shooting stars rose towards the sky, then fell back down again, lighting up the crowd; a long whistle sounded as it descended, like a jet of steam. Everyone looked up: Pierre, thin and suntanned, with his wide forehead, small mouth and light-brown moustache; Madame Hardelot, fat, soft and pale; Simone, with her heavy chin. Agnès automatically imitated the movements of the others; she had a young, thin face, pale skin and dark hair.

Flames, cornucopias, fiery wheels filled the skies. Then they went out. The night seemed even darker; the air smelled of smoke. Only one little green shooting star, as lost as an orphan, hovered for a moment in the sky before plunging at great speed towards the sand dunes. ‘Oh!’ the crowd sighed in disappointment, but then other fireworks lit up the east (a cockerel, a fountain, white at first, then tinged with silver, then with red, white and blue) and the crowd showed its joy by crying out a satisfied ‘Ah-ah-ah …’ while the wails of a child rose from the darkness.

The fountain exploded and fell silent. The last rockets disappeared into the sea. The fireworks were over. The Florents and the Hardelots set off for home. Charles Hardelot led the way. His spectacles, set low on his nose, glistened in the beam from the lighthouse. He held his
shoes and socks in his hands; he had rolled his trouser legs above his knees. It was difficult to walk in the dunes unless you were barefoot; the hills and valleys of sand were constantly shifting, then re-forming, setting off fine white rivers that crunched inside stockings and ankle boots. It was a constant trial to these ladies; they walked with difficulty, grimacing, leaning against each other. Naturally, the idea of taking off their shoes would never have occurred to them, any more than the idea of removing their corsets. The young women walked alongside their mothers, in silence. Pierre was gone.

‘He said he was going over to the Casino before coming home,’ said Madame Hardelot disapprovingly. Then she whispered in her husband’s ear, ‘Don’t go to bed before he gets back so you know what time he comes in …’

‘Do you want to know what I think?’ said Charles, in the same tone of voice. ‘I’ll feel better when we’re back in Saint-Elme and Pierre is married. I dislike these excessive seaside distractions,’ he added, rubbing his thin dry legs; the sand fell from his tight, muscular calves and long, delicate ankles. He put his shoes back on, shaking his head with a worried expression.

A few street lamps were lit along the road, illuminating the houses set among the sand dunes and pine trees. They had names like ‘My Respite’, ‘My Delight’, ‘The Swiss Chalet’ or ‘The Waves’. They were all alike, with their high pointed roofs and wooden balconies, their narrow windows decorated with pebbles and seashells.
The Hardelots and the Florents had the last two houses. Beyond them, the road turned into a sandy slope. Sand covered the front steps and the garden paths.

Wimereux was already getting ready for a peaceful night. Here and there, a light flickered behind the shutters, then went out. Each household barricaded itself in to keep out the nocturnal wind, the roaring sea. There was no singing; no shouting: the people of Wimereux were ‘respectable’. Further down the coast, a luxury hotel had been built, so they’d heard; its guests were gentlemen who dressed for dinner every evening, and ladies who went riding every day. Down there, they danced and gambled until dawn. But no one envied those outsiders. That sort of thing went on far away, or so it seemed, on another planet, one that deserved neither interest nor consideration of any sort. As they went inside, the families exchanged long, ceremonious goodbyes. Sleepy children were dragged along by the hand. In single file, they climbed the pale wooden steps that smelled of sap and honey. Simone went into her room; it was between Pierre’s grandfather’s room and his parents’ bedroom. Pierre slept on a different floor, as far away from his fiancée as possible, so as not to arouse the slightest suspicion about the fact that a young man and young woman were living under the same roof. Doors were bolted; windows locked; they checked under the beds. In their peaceful universe, these people saw danger everywhere, pitfalls of every kind.

In her room, Agnès lifted a corner of the curtain,
looking down the road for Pierre. She was very careful not to be seen. What a scandal it would be if anyone suspected she wasn’t asleep, that she was waiting … for whom? Someone else’s fiancé. He wasn’t there. A soft but thick fog rose from the sea. It was early September; you could smell autumn now. The air had lost its warmth, become damp and bitter. She waited. It was nearly midnight. One by one, the street lamps went out. At midnight, all of Wimereux was asleep. Finally, finally, she heard the long creak of the little wooden door, pushed open by Pierre. He was home. He wasn’t coming home to her, but to Simone; yet in spite of everything he was home. She stood beside the window for a moment longer, gently removing the pins that held up her long hair. The beach, the sea, were invisible, covered in mist. All that could be heard was a very faint murmur wafting up from the waves, like the sound of someone sighing.

Madame Florent and Madame Hardelot were going for a swim. They had shared the hire of a beach hut. A horse pulled a faded little caravan towards the sea; inside it, the ladies were undressing. Out of modesty, they each kept to one side of a makeshift curtain made of towels. The horse plodded slowly along; sun filled the beach hut. They had gone past the sand dunes, the thistles, the place where wild little pink carnations grew. They were nearly at the water’s edge. Through the small window, Madame Hardelot waved at her husband who was fishing for prawns; at his waist hung a little wicker basket with the words ‘Wimereux-Plage’ embroidered in red; his old felt hat was dripping wet; in one hand he held his net, in the other his spectacles which kept falling off. Charles’s innocent enjoyment of simple pleasures caused his wife regret that the summer holidays were coming to an end. Otherwise, she was happy to be going home
to Saint-Elme and her routine. Standing there in her pink corset, large, flabby and pale, vague thoughts passed through her mind: that the water would be cold, that Madame Florent would make little shrieking noises when diving in. She thought about Pierre, about the engagement dinner, about that girl Agnès, so obviously in love with Pierre, about the engagement ring (how expensive everything was!), about Simone’s dowry, about love, marriage, life. Taking off her black cotton stockings and rolling them up, she let out soft sighs.

As Madame Florent got undressed, she glanced every so often at the mirror hanging on the wall; she had managed to arrange for the only mirror available to be on her side of the beach hut. She was feeling rather melancholy. The forthcoming marriage between Pierre and Simone aroused strong emotions in both mothers: one of them felt the sweet satisfaction of having the rich dowry of an orphaned child come into the family; the other felt frustrated. Not that she held out any hope for Agnès. The Hardelots had made it abundantly clear that they considered such a marriage undesirable. But it was upsetting to see other people getting married and not Agnès, upsetting and unfair. Obviously, her mother thought, she couldn’t compete with Simone when it came to money, but there was no comparison as far as her good looks, her figure, her hair were concerned —
my
good looks,
my
figure,
my
hair, when I was young. Those things count, after all. She looks like a cow, that Simone. And then, following this train of thought, she said out
loud, ‘Your future daughter-in-law really has a delightful nature. So calm … docile even. What a valuable quality in a wife! I do admire it. I’m exactly the opposite. I live off my nerves. And her lovely skin and beautiful hair!’

‘Yes, she’s a good girl,’ said Madame Hardelot, instinctively adopting the modest, satisfied tone of someone with the upper hand. Nevertheless, she couldn’t praise Simone without having some reservations: it wasn’t proper to appear overly happy about having arranged this marriage. Simone would do, of course, but wasn’t her son better?

‘I find her rather shy,’ Madame Hardelot continued after a moment’s silence, ‘and her personality isn’t perhaps exactly as you think …’

She lowered her voice, even though she could only be overheard by the sky, the air and the waves. ‘She likes to seem easy-going. She’s not always so willing.’

‘She’s never had the calming influence of a mother,’ said Madame Florent sympathetically. ‘She lost hers when she was very young, didn’t she?’

‘Yes, very young,’ Madame Hardelot said quickly, wishing, as they say in the theatre, not to miss a cue, sensing some disagreeable remark in the air.

But Madame Florent insisted on taking advantage of the opportunity. ‘Yes, it’s odd that she died so young …’ she said. ‘And yet, Simone seems to be in excellent health, doesn’t she?’

‘Her mother died of a broken heart, after she was widowed,’ Madame Hardelot said curtly, adding
triumphantly, ‘As for her father, he died in a car accident.’

Madame Florent fell silent. And anyway, Simone looked so robust that it wasn’t really possible to insinuate anything about her physical condition.

So all she said was, ‘Simone bears a remarkable resemblance to one of my friends, who married young. The poor girl … she never had any children. That sometimes happens, you know, with these chubby, rosy-cheeked women.’

‘Shall we stop the horse?’ asked Madame Hardelot, looking anxiously at the rising waves; they were as high as the running board of the caravan. ‘Are you ready?’

‘Yes, just coming.’

They stepped outside, both wearing black wool swimming suits consisting of a tunic pulled in tightly at the waist with wide, billowing pantaloons. The wind coming in from the sea made their tunics flutter in every direction and got under their canvas swimming hats, making them swell up like balloons. Madame Hardelot’s was bright green; Madame Florent’s was orange.

Just as they were about to get into the water, the ladies hesitated; Madame Florent dipped her little toe in. ‘It’s so cold!’ she exclaimed.

They stood at the doorway of the hut; every now and then they leaned forward to test the water; they both wore gold wedding bands.

‘You’ll have so much to do, so much to think about
this winter, my dear Madame Hardelot … with a wedding to organise at home. But such joy as well!’

Madame Hardelot shaded her eyes from the sun and smiled. The obvious displeasure of Madame Florent allowed her to feel her own happiness. And so, sitting comfortably, without her corset, her arms and legs bare and relaxed, out in the fresh air, in the sunshine, she felt extremely peaceful; she felt happy, as if she had everything she could wish for. She had a husband she loved, the best son in the world. The paper factory was flourishing. Her mother-in-law was dead. Pierre was making an excellent marriage. She thanked divine Providence with all her heart for having scattered roses on her path while giving her the fortitude to bear their thorns in a Christian way: her father-in-law’s nature, the bad conduct of Josephine, the new maid. She was feeling charitable.

She looked at Madame Florent with indulgence. The poor woman, widowed, alone in the world … ‘But what are you waiting for?’ she asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well … shouldn’t it be Agnès’s turn to get married soon?’

The two women looked at each other. Madame Florent’s eyes said, ‘Are you just saying that?… Or do you have someone in mind?’ and Madame Hardelot’s smile replied, ‘Why not make someone else happy as long as my own happiness is not at stake?’

She nodded kindly several times. ‘I’ve been thinking …’

At that very moment a wave, more powerful than the others, broke at the foot of the caravan, crashing loudly over the running board. With cries and laughter, the two women hopped about and then, finally, clambered down into the water.