Le Temps des Cerises Read Free Page B

blustering was a good heart and a kind soul and he reckoned that out of all the members of 7 th Company (apart from Alphonse of course) Tessier was the one he’d trust his life to despite the bad feet and poor eyes which to his utmost shame had kept him out of the regular army.
    The card game went on as the afternoon sun drifted down over the camp. Two idiots were trying to light a fire with green sticks and brambles, smoking out the whole provisions tent; and an officer stood polishing his boots and roaring at a corporal to put the pegs in straighter because a gale was forecast that night and he didn’t fancy ending up over the ramparts. Laurie felt quite unnerved by the pointless activity, the squabbles between the men, the endless hustle and bustle of squads changing shifts, the dirt and mess of it all – and it was times like this he craved the solitude of his own little room where at the very least he could be bored to death in peace. Here there was nothing but mud and white, swathes and swathes of mud and white that enveloped you like a cloak as you walked through the night and into the early hours, clasping your dew-laden rifle in your hand and listening to the sound of hooting bats, grunting owls and, hardly knowing which was which, fleeting snores of men for company. If he’d been an artist he’d have sketched a sentryman as a wingless owl or a bodyless head, képi perched at a jaunty angle, bayonet in the air, eyes fixed expectantly on a middle distance as though awaiting some out-of-doors theatrical production. Sometimes when he stared into the darkness a vision of the city would appear before his eyes: the grand old towers of Notre Dame and the elegant spire of the Sainte Chapelle swaying in the breeze above the drear white acres, like the lofty rigging of some ancient ship. And sometimes, in the solitude of his own little room, the view beyond the ramparts would rise above the bed sheets in ghostly immanence – all mud and white – an endless succession of days and nights…

Chapter three

    Bernadine slipped through the convent gates – a shadowy figure in her black cloak and boots, black horsehair basket and inevitable black umbrella to fend off wind, rain and unwanted attention. She didn’t have the time today to touch tubercular fingers, run her hands through lice-infested hair or give reassurance that the Lord was biding His time where the Prussians were concerned. How on earth did she know what the Lord had planned? He moved about in mysterious ways like a spy in the midst of them. Seemingly friendly at first, a good sort, the kind of man you could bare all for, lay your heart on your sleeve for and then, lo and behold, He was trotting off to the enemy camp with your secrets and your heart on His sleeve all bayoneted and blown to pieces. Leaving you bereft, appar­ently glad to be cleansed of all sin, all passion, all animated life. A chosen vessel. A vessel fit for the Holy Ghost to pour his goodly vapours into.
    She stopped to blow her nose in the frosting air and scan the street. It was quite deserted and she smiled at all her unnecessary caution; few people would be travelling this path on such a grim winter’s day – it was too far away from the bright lights and boulevards, too close to the lairs of waifs and strays, outlaws and strangely loitering men. ‘We are close to the lion’s den,’ the Mother Superior would sometimes whisper to the trembling novices, ‘and we must tread very carefully.’ Strange how the convent had been built in such a sinister part of the city and yet, of course, not strange at all for its very motto was ‘To bring Light into Darkness’. The railway was overgrown and rusted with disuse, barely visible beneath the melting snow and thick brambles and she felt a pang of regret that she might never again hear the merry whistle from inside those convent walls and stop to imagine the people going off for