1914

5

LEAVING BEHIND THE SERRIED ranks of buildings, the squares with their old houses huddled together, Blanche went farther and farther away from the center of town along thoroughfares that were more open and airy, with somewhat unusual, almost eccentric, and certainly less regimented architecture: these houses in a greater variety or even absence of styles breathed more freely, set back from the street, and all had some form or other of garden around them. Continuing along her way, Blanche passed in front of Charles’s residence and then Anthime’s, now equally deserted.

Charles’s house: beyond an ornate front gate concealing a garden one felt was flourishing, with well-tended flowers and lawns, a path led to a flagstone terrace set off by pillars flanking a double front door of polychrome stained glass, enthroned atop three steps. From the street, one could just make out at some distance the yellow and blue granite facade: tall, narrow, and, like its owner, tightly shut up. Three stories, with a balcony on the second floor.

Anthime’s: this was a single-story house set closer to the street, with a roughcast facade, lower and more compact, as if a residence, like a dog, absolutely had to be homothetic to its master. Less well hidden by a front gate—ajar—made of ill-joined planks covered with flaking white paint, the property was a smaller and poorly defined zone of weeds bordered by some attempts at vegetable gardening. To enter Anthime’s home one had next to cross a cracked slab of concrete ornamented solely by some very distinct and canine paw prints—from an animal therefore probably none too light on its feet—left in the fresh cement on the distant day it was poured. The only memorial to the defunct animal remained these impressions, at the bottom of which had accumulated an earthy grit, an organic residue in which other weeds, of a smaller format, were struggling to grow.

Blanche had given these two domiciles only a passing glance as she walked on toward the factory, a continent-sized heap of dark brick as ponderous as a fortress, isolated from the neighborhood by timid little streets running all around it, as a moat encircles a château. Ordinarily gaping, the enormous main entrance, a maw that periodically engulfed fresh masses of laborers only to regurgitate them utterly exhausted, was on this Sunday closed as tightly as a savings bank. On the circular pediment atop this entrance moved the hands of a gigantic clock, with BORNE-SÈZE spelled out by huge letters in high relief. Below, on the gate, hung a sign bearing two words: NOW HIRING. This factory made footwear.

All kinds of footwear: shoes for men, women, and children, boots, bootees, and ankle boots, Gibsons and Oxfords, sandals and moccasins, boxing shoes, slippers, mules, orthopedic and safety shoes, even the recently invented snow boot, and not forgetting the godillot, that military boot named after its creator, the discoverer of—among other marvels—the difference between the left foot and the right. Everything for the feet at Borne-Sèze: from galoshes to pumps, from buskins to high heels.

Pivoting on hers, Blanche walked around the factory toward an isolated structure of the same dark brick, apparently one of the plant’s outbuildings. DR. MONTEIL, announced a copper plate beneath the door knocker, and hardly had she knocked when this practitioner appeared: rather tall, stooped, with a florid complexion, dressed in gray, looking fiftyish enough—just above the age limit for territorial soldiers—to have narrowly escaped the mobilization. The Bornes had been his patients for a long time when Eugène had asked Monteil to become the factory’s physician—participating in the selection and orientation of new hires, offering consultations and emergency care, giving the odd lecture on industrial hygiene—and although Monteil had immediately cut back on his private practice, he had remained the family doctor for the Bornes and three other local dynasties, while retaining as well his seat on the municipal council. Dr. Monteil knew quite a few people and had connections just about everywhere, even in Paris. He had taken care of Blanche ever since her infancy, so she had come to consult him in his capacity as both doctor and public official.

To the official she spoke of Charles, gone with the others toward the northeastern border, no one knew exactly where. When she spoke of a possible intervention, with the hope of an assignment other than the infantry, Monteil asked what she might have in mind. Well, suggested Blanche, aside from the factory, which takes up all his time, Charles is very interested in aviation and photography. Perhaps there might be something to be done along those lines, replied Monteil. The Air Service, I believe they call it now. Let me think about this, I might have someone in mind at the ministry, I’ll keep you informed.

To the general practitioner she explained her situation, showing him her figure under her clothing, and the exam did not take long. Palpation, two questions, diagnosis: definitely, declared Monteil, you are. And when will it be, asked Blanche. The beginning of next year, he figured, and I’d say toward the end of January. Blanche said nothing, looked at the window—where nothing was going on or past, not the slightest bird or anything—and then at her hands as she placed them on her belly. And you plan to keep it, of course, remarked Monteil to break the silence. I don’t know yet, said Blanche. Otherwise, he said more softly, there would always be a way. I know, said Blanche, there’s Ruffier. Yes, said Monteil, although, not since the other day, he went off like everyone else but we’re talking about two weeks, it will all be over quickly. Or else his wife could always be of service. Silence again and then no, said Blanche, I think I will keep it.