Geneviève was coming out by the front door of the house when he reached the carriage gate beside the road.
She ran to meet him.
“Good morning. I was on my way to fetch you.”
She seized his hand and pressed it hard.
“How sweet of you!”
“But, Jean, you’re not coming from the village.”
“I’ve been walking.”
“How early you must get up!”
“You see, the sun rises just opposite my window, and shines in on my bed. That makes me get up early.”
She pushed him in the door ahead of her. They went through the hall to a long high room that had a grand piano and many old high-backed chairs, and in front of the French windows that opened on the garden, a round table of black mahogany littered with books. Two tall girls in muslin dresses stood beside the piano.
“These are my cousins… Here he is at last. Monsieur Andrews, ma cousine Berthe et ma cousine Jeanne. Now you’ve got to play to us; we are bored to death with everything we know.”
“All right… But I have a great deal to talk to you about later,” said Andrews in a low voice.
Geneviève nodded understandingly.
“Why don’t you play us La Reine de Saba, Jean?”
“Oh, do play that,” twittered the cousins.
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather play some Bach.”
“There’s a lot of Bach in that chest in the corner,” cried Geneviève. “It’s ridiculous; everything in the house is jammed with music.”
They leaned over the chest together, so that Andrews felt her hair brush against his cheek, and the smell of her hair in his nostrils. The cousins remained by the piano.
“I must talk to you alone soon,” whispered Andrews.
“All right,” she said, her face reddening as she leaned over the chest.
On top of the music was a revolver.
“Look out, it’s loaded,” she said, when he picked it up.
He looked at her inquiringly. “I have another in my room. You see Mother and I are often alone here, and then, I like firearms. Don’t you?”
“I hate them,” muttered Andrews.
“Here’s tons of Bach.”
“Fine… Look, Geneviève,” he said suddenly, “lend me that revolver for a few days. I’ll tell you why I want it later.”
“Certainly. Be careful, because it’s loaded,” she said in an offhand manner, walking over to the piano with two volumes under each arm. Andrews closed the chest and followed her, suddenly bubbling with gaiety. He opened a volume haphazard.
“To a friend to dissuade him from starting on a journey,” he read. “Oh, I used to know that.”
He began to play, putting boisterous vigor into the tunes. In a pianissimo passage he heard one cousin whisper to the other:
“Qu’il a l’air intéressant.”
“Farouche, n’est-ce pas? Genre révolutionnaire,” answered the other cousin, tittering. Then he noticed that Mme. Rod was smiling at him. He got to his feet.
“Mais ne vous dérangez pas,” she said.
A man with white flannel trousers and tennis shoes and a man in black with a pointed grey beard and amused grey eyes had come into the room, followed by a stout woman in hat and veil, with long white cotton gloves on her arms. Introductions were made. Andrews’s spirits began to ebb. All these people were making strong the barrier between him and Geneviève. Whenever he looked at her, some well-dressed person stepped in front of her with a gesture of politeness. He felt caught in a ring of well-dressed conventions that danced about him with grotesque gestures of politeness. All through lunch he had a crazy desire to jump to his feet and shout: “Look at me; I’m a deserter. I’m under the wheels of your system. If your system doesn’t succeed in killing me, it will be that much weaker, it will have less strength to kill others.” There was talk about his demobilization, and his music, and the Schola Cantorum. He felt he was being exhibited. “But they don’t know what they’re exhibiting,” he said to himself with a certain bitter joy.
After lunch they went out into the grape arbor, where coffee was brought. Andrews sat silent, not listening to the talk, which was about Empire furniture and the new taxes, staring up into the broad sun-splotched leaves of the grape vines, remembering how the sun and shade had danced about Geneviève’s hair when they had been in the arbor alone the day before, turning it all to red flame. Today she sat in shadow, and her hair was rusty and dull. Time dragged by very slowly.
At last Geneviève got to her feet.
“You haven’t seen my boat,” she said to Andrews. “Let’s go for a row. I’ll row you about.”
Andrews jumped up eagerly.
“Make her be careful, Monsieur Andrews, she’s dreadfully imprudent,” said Madame Rod.
“You were bored to death,” said Geneviève, as they walked out on the road.
“No, but those people all seemed to be building new walls between you and me. God knows there are enough already.”
She looked him sharply in the eyes a second, but said nothing.
They walked slowly through the sand of the river edge, till they came to an old flat-bottomed boat painted green with an orange stripe, drawn up among the reeds.
“It will probably sink; can you swim?” she asked, laughing.
Andrews smiled, and said in a stiff voice:
“I can swim. It was by swimming that I got out of the army.” “What do you mean?”
“When I deserted.”
“When you deserted?”
Geneviève leaned over to pull on the boat. Their heads almost touching, they pulled the boat down to the water’s edge, then pushed it half out on to the river.
“And if you are caught?”
“They might shoot me; I don’t know. Still, as the war is over, it would probably be life imprisonment, or at least twenty years.”
“You can speak of it as coolly as that?”
“It is no new idea to my mind.”
“What induced you to do such a thing?”
“I was not willing to submit any longer to the treadmill.”
“Come, let’s go out on the river.”
Geneviève stepped into the boat and caught up the oars.
“Now push her off, and don’t fall in,” she cried.
The boat glided out into the water. Geneviève began pulling on the oars slowly and regularly. Andrews looked at her without speaking.
“When you’re tired, I’ll row,” he said after a while.
Behind them the village, patched white and buff-color and russet and pale red with stucco walls and steep, tiled roofs, rose in an irregular pyramid to the church. Through the wide pointed arches of the belfry they could see the bells hanging against the sky. Below in the river the town was reflected complete, with a great rift of steely blue across it where the wind ruffled the water.
The oars creaked rhythmically as Geneviève pulled on them.
“Remember, when you are tired,” said Andrews again after a long pause.
Geneviève spoke through clenched teeth:
“Of course, you have no patriotism.”
“As you mean it, none.”
They rounded the edge of a sand bank where the current ran hard. Andrews put his hands beside her hands on the oars and pushed with her. The bow of the boat grounded in some reeds under willows.