§2
Marie walked home between her sons and her brown
peasant face was patient but puzzled. A momentous
disaster had fallen upon France, this they had all
known before that sermon; indeed they had known it
for seven long days, talking of little else in their
homes, in the streets and in the cafes. And yet Marie's
face was patient but puzzled as she strove for a
fuller understanding of what this momentous disaster
might mean and, still striving, fell far short of realiza-
tion. For in spite of the Cure's impassioned outburst,
August brooded placidly over Saint Loup, filming the
distant mountains with haze; while down in the
harbour not a vessel stirred, so immeasurably peaceful
and blue lay the water.
She said: 'That was surely a very fine sermon —
very fine.5 But her voice was lacking in conviction.
She was tired and the war seemed a long way away;
much farther away than the large pile of laundry
which should have been finished on the previous
evening —for now Marie must earn by washing for
neighbours. Then she said: elt is strange how trouble
breeds trouble. Only four months ago came your poor
fathers seizure, and it may be that never again will
he stand; then comes this terrible German invasion,5
But Christophe knew that her thoughts were less of
the German invasion than of his father.
He nodded, finding no adequate answer, conscious
only of a well-nigh unendurable sadness, of a kind of
inexplicable grief which had come upon him all
unawares as he sat in the quiet, familiar church and
listened to that unfamiliar voice, so unlike the
monotonous voice of the Cure. He had been deeply
stirred by those eloquent words, catching fire from
the man's fanatical anger, so that he also had felt
enraged against those who had planned to destroy
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