God Speed the Night by Dorothy Salisbury Davis, Jerome Ross
Authors: Dorothy Salisbury Davis, Jerome Ross
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Armagnac, he poured the first of it into the glass of Madame Lebel’s daughter and then brought the bottle and two glasses to Moissac’s table.
Maman said peevishly, “You promised me a glace .”
Gaucher said, “I am sorry, madame, but there is no more glace in St. Hilaire. The milk is only for the children and the very old.”
Maman gave a cackle of laughter. “I am not old enough, monsieur?”
Gaucher, with a savoir faire Moissac would have sold his soul to possess, brushed the back of his hand against Madame Moissac’s cheek, winked at her, and said, “Madame will never be that old.”
Moissac said, “Bring a glass for yourself, Gaucher.”
“No, Monsieur le Préfet , but I shall have a beer.” Maman sipped the Armagnac and made a wry face that changed suddenly to pleasure. Moissac turned in his chair. She had caught sight of an old friend. Standing in the doorway and spreading his arms to her as though they had not that morning bargained over a piece of a pig was René Labrière. He was only a few years older than Moissac but his hair was as white as fleece.
A small, wiry man, he pranced across the room to Maman and kissed her on both cheeks. “You have come home, Maman Moissac. It is a celebration.”
“I have come home,” she said, and then with a toss of her head: “But you are right—it is not to die! To die one lives among the rich and looks forward to an elegant funeral.”
The old hypocrite, Moissac thought. Was it a game between them, this camaraderie? Maman’s eyes were like live coals. The whole room had come to life, the card players abandoning their game and moving to the bar. Madame Lebel’s daughter was fiddling with the radio.
To Moissac, René gave a curt but not unpleasant “Bonsoir, Théo.”
Maman twisted around in her chair and demanded, “Gaucher, bring another glass.”
“No, no, no,” Rene protested without conviction. He greeted the other men while he pulled up a chair near Maman. His eyes caressed the bottle of Armagnac. “I had forgotten what she looked like.” With a sigh and a wink at Moissac: “She is like a beautiful woman. The only difference is you know what she can do for you before you touch her, eh, Théo?”
Moissac did not want to hate him, he had never wanted to hate him.
Three more men drifted in. Gaucher drew beer for them. They had come off work from the power plant at the head of the dam. Madame Lebel’s daughter settled for a program of flamenco music.
René said to one of the newcomers, “What happened up there tonight, Duroc? My whole studio became a darkroom.”
Duroc shrugged. “They took another life today. The lights have a way of going out when that happens.”
“I knew her,” René said, looking mournfully into his glass. “Once in a temper she cracked the skull of her own son. That did not make her a patriot.” He sipped the brandy.
“The mayor himself came to the plant. He must think we are all Maquis.” Duroc did not so much as glance at Moissac. “He was anxious to spread the word: the Boche who killed her is to be court martialed.”
His companions made noises of derision.
Moissac felt uncomfortable in it, but to improve his own position in this company he said, “I was there, messieurs. The mayor exaggerates. The man is to be tried by court martial, which is a little different. Still, it is something that they even want to pacify us.”
“They want the harvest,” René said.
“And one way or another, my friend, they will have it.”
The others murmured, “ Les bâtards ,” but they agreed with Moissac.
Maman said, “The harvesters have come again. Remember how it used to be when they came? Like a carnival, and we would take them in, up and down the street, for a few sous a night. Now they are quarantined at Madame Fontaine’s.”
The old mischief maker. “They are not quarantined, maman. I suspect they are drunk.” To no one in particular he said, “She wanted me to bring them home with me.”
He
Maman said peevishly, “You promised me a glace .”
Gaucher said, “I am sorry, madame, but there is no more glace in St. Hilaire. The milk is only for the children and the very old.”
Maman gave a cackle of laughter. “I am not old enough, monsieur?”
Gaucher, with a savoir faire Moissac would have sold his soul to possess, brushed the back of his hand against Madame Moissac’s cheek, winked at her, and said, “Madame will never be that old.”
Moissac said, “Bring a glass for yourself, Gaucher.”
“No, Monsieur le Préfet , but I shall have a beer.” Maman sipped the Armagnac and made a wry face that changed suddenly to pleasure. Moissac turned in his chair. She had caught sight of an old friend. Standing in the doorway and spreading his arms to her as though they had not that morning bargained over a piece of a pig was René Labrière. He was only a few years older than Moissac but his hair was as white as fleece.
A small, wiry man, he pranced across the room to Maman and kissed her on both cheeks. “You have come home, Maman Moissac. It is a celebration.”
“I have come home,” she said, and then with a toss of her head: “But you are right—it is not to die! To die one lives among the rich and looks forward to an elegant funeral.”
The old hypocrite, Moissac thought. Was it a game between them, this camaraderie? Maman’s eyes were like live coals. The whole room had come to life, the card players abandoning their game and moving to the bar. Madame Lebel’s daughter was fiddling with the radio.
To Moissac, René gave a curt but not unpleasant “Bonsoir, Théo.”
Maman twisted around in her chair and demanded, “Gaucher, bring another glass.”
“No, no, no,” Rene protested without conviction. He greeted the other men while he pulled up a chair near Maman. His eyes caressed the bottle of Armagnac. “I had forgotten what she looked like.” With a sigh and a wink at Moissac: “She is like a beautiful woman. The only difference is you know what she can do for you before you touch her, eh, Théo?”
Moissac did not want to hate him, he had never wanted to hate him.
Three more men drifted in. Gaucher drew beer for them. They had come off work from the power plant at the head of the dam. Madame Lebel’s daughter settled for a program of flamenco music.
René said to one of the newcomers, “What happened up there tonight, Duroc? My whole studio became a darkroom.”
Duroc shrugged. “They took another life today. The lights have a way of going out when that happens.”
“I knew her,” René said, looking mournfully into his glass. “Once in a temper she cracked the skull of her own son. That did not make her a patriot.” He sipped the brandy.
“The mayor himself came to the plant. He must think we are all Maquis.” Duroc did not so much as glance at Moissac. “He was anxious to spread the word: the Boche who killed her is to be court martialed.”
His companions made noises of derision.
Moissac felt uncomfortable in it, but to improve his own position in this company he said, “I was there, messieurs. The mayor exaggerates. The man is to be tried by court martial, which is a little different. Still, it is something that they even want to pacify us.”
“They want the harvest,” René said.
“And one way or another, my friend, they will have it.”
The others murmured, “ Les bâtards ,” but they agreed with Moissac.
Maman said, “The harvesters have come again. Remember how it used to be when they came? Like a carnival, and we would take them in, up and down the street, for a few sous a night. Now they are quarantined at Madame Fontaine’s.”
The old mischief maker. “They are not quarantined, maman. I suspect they are drunk.” To no one in particular he said, “She wanted me to bring them home with me.”
He
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