‘You shouldn’t listen, Lili,’ she said finally.

‘I’m not listening. I just can’t help hearing them.’

‘Those hideous women,’ Bella shouted through her tears, ‘those old, fat, ugly creatures who can’t forgive me for having hats and dresses from Paris. They all have lovers, you know they do, Boris. And to think of all the men who chase after me and whom I turn away …’

‘Get up from the floor,’ said Mademoiselle Rose.

When her parents fell silent, for their quarrel was constantly interrupted by sudden moments of calm when they paused to gather their strength in order better to rip each other apart, Hélène could hear the servants singing as they ironed at the back of the kitchen, and it occurred to her that she could sense with more acuity than usual the strange, luminous silence of the evening. But what most interested her at that moment was her fortress. Despite the fact that the wooden soldiers had been chewed by the dogs, and their red tunics stained Hélène’s dress and fingers, she loved to arrange them; to her, they were the Grenadiers of the Imperial Army, Napoleon’s Guards. Bent over, her curls brushing the ground, she breathed in the musty odour of the dusty old wooden floor. Several large books, their pages open, had been set up to create a dark, threatening gorge between the mountains where the army was hiding out among fallen rocks. She placed two sentries at the entrance. She quickly piled the remaining books one on top of the other and started reciting sentences to herself from the Mémorial de Sainte-Hélène, her favourite book; she knew it almost by heart.

Mademoiselle Rose had gone to sit by the window to sew in the fading daylight. How sleepy and calm the world seemed with the peaceful cooing of the ringdoves on the rooftop, while from the room next door she could hear her mother’s tears, sobs, sighs and curses …

Hélène stood up and put her hand into the opening of her dress: ‘Field Marshals, officers, soldiers …’ She was standing in the Wagram battlefield, surrounded by the dead. She pictured the scene so clearly that she could have drawn the field covered in yellowing grass cropped by the horses. A dream of bloodshed, of glory held her motionless, transfixed, a little girl with her mouth wide open, her lower lip drooping, her dishevelled hair falling over her damp forehead; her painful tonsils made it difficult to breathe, but nevertheless, each of her hoarse breaths echoed her deepest thoughts. She revelled in imagining the small green hilltop in the setting sun where she was both the Emperor (soundlessly her lips formed the words, ‘Soldiers, you have earned everlasting glory!’) and at the same time the young lieutenant who lay dying while pressing his lips to the golden fringes of the French flag. Blood trickled from his pierced breast. In the mirror of the wardrobe she could see a little eight-year-old girl in a blue dress and a large white smock; her pale face wore a dazed expression that reflected the turbulence of her inner life; her fingers were stained with ink, and she had strong, solid legs in thick tights and heavy lace-up boots. But Hélène didn’t recognise her. In order better to hide her secret dream, better to throw anyone who might discover it off the scent, she began singing quietly through half-open lips: ‘There was a little ship …’

Outside, a woman leaned over the low wall of the courtyard and shouted, ‘Hey! Aren’t you ashamed to be chasing after women at your age, you old scoundrel?’

In the distance, the bells from the monastery rang loudly, solemnly, through the clear evening air.

‘… That had ne-ne-never sailed …’

The soldiers attacked; the sky was crimson; the drums were beating.

‘When you get back home, your children will say, “He was a soldier in Napoleon’s Army.” ’

‘What’s going to happen to us, Boris? What’s going to happen to us?’

‘Why are you feeling sorry for yourself?’ her father asked, his voice soft and weary. ‘Have you ever wanted for anything? Do you think I’m worried about earning a living? I’m not a layabout like your father. Ever since I was old enough to work, I’ve never asked anything of anyone …’

‘No woman is more unhappy than me!’

This time, mysteriously, the words seeped into Hélène’s consciousness, filling her heart with bitter resentment. ‘Why does she always have to make such a scene,’ she thought.

‘Unhappy, really?’ shouted Karol. ‘And what about me? Do you think I’m happy? Why didn’t I just bash my skull in on our wedding day, instead of marrying you? I wanted to have a peaceful home, a child. And all I have is you and your shouting and not even a son.’

‘Oh, stop it,’ thought Hélène. This fight was going on too long, and it seemed more serious and bitter than usual. She kicked the soldiers away and they rolled underneath the furniture.

But she could still hear her mother’s fearful, cajoling voice. Usually when Karol shouted at her she would remain quiet, or simply weep and moan.

‘Come on now, don’t be angry. I’m not blaming you for anything. Here we are fighting with each other … Let’s try to think instead. What are you going to do?’

They were speaking more quietly; she couldn’t hear any more.

The woman leaning over the wall ran off, laughing: ‘You’re too old, my dear, too old …’

Hélène went over to Mademoiselle Rose and absent-mindedly tugged at her sewing.

Mademoiselle Rose sighed and fixed the bow that was falling over Hélène’s forehead: ‘You’re so hot, Lili. Have a rest now, don’t start reading, you read too much; play with your puzzle or your pick-up-sticks …’

The servant brought in a lamp and, with the doors and windows shut, a sweet, safe little universe once more encircled the child and her governess, a world that was like a seashell, and just as fragile.

3

Mademoiselle Rose was thin and delicate, with a sweet face and fine features; she must have been rather beautiful when she was young, graceful and cheerful, but now she looked thin and worn out; her small mouth was full of the kind of wrinkles caused by bitterness and suffering that mark the lips of women over thirty; she had the beautiful, lively dark eyes of Frenchwomen from the Midi, chestnut hair that was frizzy and as light as smoke and that she wore, in the fashion of the time, in a high crown on top of her smooth forehead; her skin was soft and she smelled of fine soap and violets.