Birdsong Read Free Page A

which I risk playing the fool and making you think ill of me.”
    Madame Bérard laughed incredulously.
    “I am going to sing. Yes, there’s no point in trying to dissuade me. I am going to sing a little song that was popular when I was a boy, and that, I can assure you, was very many years ago.”
    It was the speed with which, having made his declaration, Bérard launched into his song that surprised his listeners. One moment they had been making formal after-dinner conversation, the next they had been turned into a trapped audience as Bérard leant forward in his chair, elbows on the table, and sang in a warbling baritone.
    He fixed his eyes on Madame Azaire, who was sitting opposite. She was unable to hold his gaze, but looked down at her plate. Her discomfort did not deflect Bérard. Azaire was fiddling with his pipe and Stephen studied the wall above Bérard’s head. Madame Bérard watched with a proud smile as her husband made the gift of his song to his hostess. Madame Azaire blushed and squirmed in her chair under the unblinking stare of the singer.
    The dewlaps on his neck wobbled as he turned his head for emphasis at a touching part of the song. It was a sentimental ballad about the different times of a man’s life. Its chorus ran, “But then I was young and the leaves were green/Now the corn is cut and the little boat sailed away.”
    At the end of each refrain Bérard would pause dramatically and Stephen would allow his eyes a quick glance to see if he had finished. For a moment there was utter silence in the hot dining room, but then would come another deep inhalation and a further verse.
    “ ‘One day the young men came back from the war,
The corn was high and our sweethearts were waiting …’ ”
    Bérard’s head revolved a little as he sang, and his voice grew louder as he warmed to the song, but his bloodshot eyes remained fixed on Madame Azaire, as though his head could turn only on the axis of his stare. By an effort of will she appeared to compose herself and stiffen her body against the intimacy of his attention.
    “ ‘And the little boat sailed away-y-y.’ There,” said Bérard, coming abruptly to an end, “I told you I should make a fool of myself!”
    The others all protested that, on the contrary, the song had been magnificent.
    “Papa has a beautiful voice,” said Madame Bérard, flushed with pride.
    Madame Azaire’s face was also pink, though not from the same emotion. Azaire became falsely jovial and Stephen felt a drop of sweat run down inside the back of his collar. Only Bérard himself was completely unembarrassed.
    “Now, Azaire, what about a game of cards. What shall it be?”
    “Excuse me, René,” said Madame Azaire, “I have a slight headache. I think I shall go to bed. Perhaps Monsieur Wraysford would like to take my place.”
    Stephen stood up as Madame Azaire rose from her chair. There were protests and anxious enquiries from the Bérards that Madame Azaire waved away with a smile, assuring them she was perfectly all right. Bérard lowered his face to her hand and Madame Bérard kissed the still-pink skin of Madame Azaire’s cheek. There were a few freckles on her bare forearm, Stephen noticed as she turned to the door, a tall, suddenly commanding figure in a blood-red skirt that swept over the floor of the hall.
    “Let’s go into the sitting room,” said Azaire. “Monsieur, I trust you will join us to make up our card game.”
    “Yes, of course,” said Stephen, forcing a smile of acquiescence.
    “Poor Madame Azaire,” said Madame Bérard, as they settled at the card table. “I hope she hasn’t caught a chill.”
    Azaire laughed. “No, no. It’s just her nerves. Think nothing of it.”
    “Such a delicate creature,” murmured Bérard. “Your deal, I think, Azaire.”
    “Nevertheless, a headache can mean the beginning of a fever,” said Madame Bérard.
    “Madame,” said Azaire, “I assure you that Isabelle has no fever. She is a woman of a