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The short June night was fading. The stars grew paler, the air smelled of milk and moist grass; now, half-hidden behind the forest, only the pink tip of the moon could be seen, growing dimmer and dimmer in the mist. Tired, triumphant and covered in dew, the cat gnawed on a sprig of grass, then slipped back into Jacqueline's room, on to her bed, looking for that warm spot near her thin feet. He was purring like a kettle on the boil.
A few seconds later, the arsenal exploded.
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The arsenal exploded and the horrible echo of the explosion had only just stopped (the air all around them shook; all the doors and windows were vibrating and the small wall at the cemetery crumbled) when a long flame shot up, whistling, from the bell tower. The noise of the incendiary bomb had merged with the explosion of the arsenal. In a second, the entire village was in flames. There was hay in the barns, straw in the lofts. Everything caught fire. Roofs caved in, floors cracked in half; the refugees rushed into the streets while the villagers ran to open the cowsheds and stables to save the animals. The horses were neighing, rearing, terrified by the intensity of the noise and fire; they refused to come out and beat their heads and hoofs against the burning walls. A cow rushed by, bellowing in pain and terror as it frantically tried to shake a bale of burning hay from its horns; pieces of glowing straw flew everywhere. In the garden, the blossoming trees were bathed in a red-as-blood light. Normally, the firemen would have come and people would have calmed down, once the initial fear had passed. But this disaster, happening after so many others, was more than they could bear. Also, they knew the firemen had received orders to leave with all their equipment three days before. They felt hopeless. "If only the men were here," cried the women, "the men!" But the men were far away and the children were ru
The refugees were howling in terror. Among them were the Péricands, half-dressed, faces dirty, hair dishevelled. It was the same as when the bombs had fallen on the road: everyone was shouting at once, calling to one another, and the voices all merged into one-the village was reduced to a roar. "Jean!," "Suza
"Please don't let them bomb us any more! Please don't let them bomb us any more! Please…" These words went round and round endlessly in her bowed head. Out loud she said, "Don't let go of my hand, Jacqueline! Bernard, stop crying! You're behaving like a girl! There, there, baby, don't worry, Mummy's here!" She said these words mechanically, while silently continuing to pray: "Please don't let them bomb us any more! Let them bomb anyone else, dear God, but not us! I have three children! I have to save them! Please don't let them bomb us any more!"
They finally made it out of the narrow village street; she was in the open countryside; the fire was behind her; the flames fa
Na
But the harsh voice of her mistress had miraculously returned the gift of speech to Na
Madame Péricand looked at her, thought there was something odd about her but couldn't say exactly what it was. Everything seemed incredible. The world was a horrible dream. She dropped down on to the verge, put Emmanuel back into Na
"Stop!" Madame Péricand shouted. "Where's the nearest railway station? "
"Saint-Georges."
"How long would it take you to get there with your donkey?"
"Well, about four hours."
"Are the trains still ru
"I've heard they are."
"Good. I'm getting in. Come on, Bernard, Na
"But Madame, I wasn't going that way and what with going and coming back, that'll be at least eight hours."
"You'll be well paid," said Madame Péricand.
She climbed into the carriage, calculating that if the trains were ru