Fandom: Suite Française
Summary: The aftermath of the execution of the Viscount.
Words: 1151
It all started with a single shot. Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe it had started with the bombings that took them by surprise, even though they should have expected them days before the fatal attack. Maybe it had started when Benoît drove a bullet through Bonnet’s heart. Maybe it had started with the firing squad, whose presence still lingered on Bussy’s town square. She knew better. Those had only been the warning shots, not the ones that had taken her fantasy and ripped it to pieces. That had been that single shot after the many – the shot which she knew could only come from one man.
When Lucile heard the front door creak, she knew she wouldn’t be able to look at him. She didn’t blame him, not really. Neither could she hate him. He received his orders and he had to follow them. But she did hate what that made him. It made him the same as all the other uniformed men who had been strutting around [i]their [/i]town since the occupation had started. Machines. She had been lying to herself if she imagined their billeted lieutenant was any different from them. Even if she had never cared about the viscount de Montmort in particular, his execution had forced her back into reality.
She hid herself in a room on the first floor, the only one with a lock. It was small and rather hot in the summer, but that was of little consequence to Lucile. She had hid in here many times before, when she didn’t want to talk to her mother-in-law, or even before the war, at times her husband was particularly cranky. Still little less than two weeks ago she had hid herself here from Bruno, when she had found out that he had known all along that her husband was an adulterous, lying [i]connard[/i]. She pressed her lips together until it hurt, and closed her eyes in a weak attempt to focus on something else. The room was adjacent to Bruno’s room, so she would hear him come up without having to talk to him. Lucile sat down against the door and willed herself not to cry. She was stronger than that. She shouldn’t long for her fantasy anymore, for it was nothing more.
His heavy, black boots made a thumping sound on the carpet. She heard him take them off and tried to imagine him in his white shirt, stripped from his Wehrmacht uniform, but found that she couldn’t. With that shot, he had become his uniform.
“Lucile? Où es-tu?” her mother-in-law’s shrieking voice bellowed through the house. Lucile huddled her legs to her body, embracing them as she rested her chin on her knees.
“She’s not here, Madame,” Lucile heard Bruno say.
“Of course she isn’t,” Madame Angellier said, her voice even and cold. “Why would she be?”
“She wouldn’t,” Bruno replied, his voice devoid of emotion.
The door closed. “You can come out,” he said softly. “She’s gone.”
Lucile closed her eyes. “I can’t.” Her voice quivered and she scolded herself for it.
He answered her with the soft piano tones she had become so attached to.[1] She closed her eyes to see his fingers move over the clavier, producing the sweet and calm notes that were filling her ears. This was his piece, his very own masterwork, and for a moment she forgot everything else. For a moment, she forgot everything he was. She just saw the artist.
But then the music stopped, and the image crumbled again.
“I think you should come out of there now. Madame will be going into hysterics.”
“Let her rage,” Lucile said, but she pushed herself up from her sitting position nonetheless, placing the palm of her hand flat against the door.
“You don’t mean that.”
“Vous ne savez rien sur moi,” she whispered under her breath. “Rien du tout.”
She opened the door and was ready to storm past him, but Bruno grabbed her arm. “Look at me,” he said. His voice wasn’t more than a whisper. “Please.”
Lucile complied. “I am looking at you now,” she said. “Does it change anything?”
“Everything,” he answered, his green eyes piercing hers with their honesty. “It can’t change what I did, I know that.” He bit his lip uncomfortably. “But if only one person could think good of me, it would change who I am.”
“My father used to say that men are formed by their actions.” Lucile knew her words to be cruel.
To his credit, Bruno didn’t look away. “I – I can’t afford to think like that.” He caressed Lucile’s cheek with the back of his hand. “Can I kiss you?”
She didn’t answer. She wanted to, but she had promised. Whatever fantasy they had been living in was over now. Lucile laughed because of the irony. What the large explosions in the fields hadn’t been able to accomplish, a single bullet now had. His bullet.
“Have your feelings for me changed?” Bruno’s face was blank, but Lucile could hear a slight tremor in his voice.
“I wonder what would happen if you just stopped following orders,” she countered his question with one of her own. Knowing the answer to her question, she left the room.
Lucile found the lieutenant in her bedroom that evening. “I’m not like them.” He had been crying; his eyes were still glassy with tears, and he made no effort to hide it. With a shock she realised just how much he trusted her, and how little deserving she was. She knew she would never give him what he wanted, as much as she would not take what he offered. There were differences over which even love was not supposed to triumph. Not during the war – and she didn’t yet dare to hope for an end. “I didn’t want to shoot him, but I had to,” Bruno said, clasping her small hands in his shaking ones. “He wasn’t dead after – after the others had fired. It was a mercy shot. I’m not like them.”
She wanted to believe it as much as he did. She truly did. Every time he touched the piano, she almost believed it. But even if he didn’t want to be, he still was. Bruno’s single shot had disrupted not only the viscount’s heartbeat that day. De Montmort would take hers with him to the grave, only a weak beating discernible against the insuperable damage, a calm and sweet melody still reaching out to Bruno von Trap long after he was gone, finding a way where love had not. [i]Je t’aime, je t’aime[/i].
[1] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BYK6qlnHQvs
Summary: The aftermath of the execution of the Viscount.
Words: 1151
A Perfect Melody
“This music,
the sound of this rain on the windows,
the great mournful creaking of the cedar tree in the garden outside,
this moment, so tender, so strange in the middle of war,
this will never change, not this, this is forever.”
- Irène Némirovsky
- Irène Némirovsky
It all started with a single shot. Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe it had started with the bombings that took them by surprise, even though they should have expected them days before the fatal attack. Maybe it had started when Benoît drove a bullet through Bonnet’s heart. Maybe it had started with the firing squad, whose presence still lingered on Bussy’s town square. She knew better. Those had only been the warning shots, not the ones that had taken her fantasy and ripped it to pieces. That had been that single shot after the many – the shot which she knew could only come from one man.
When Lucile heard the front door creak, she knew she wouldn’t be able to look at him. She didn’t blame him, not really. Neither could she hate him. He received his orders and he had to follow them. But she did hate what that made him. It made him the same as all the other uniformed men who had been strutting around [i]their [/i]town since the occupation had started. Machines. She had been lying to herself if she imagined their billeted lieutenant was any different from them. Even if she had never cared about the viscount de Montmort in particular, his execution had forced her back into reality.
She hid herself in a room on the first floor, the only one with a lock. It was small and rather hot in the summer, but that was of little consequence to Lucile. She had hid in here many times before, when she didn’t want to talk to her mother-in-law, or even before the war, at times her husband was particularly cranky. Still little less than two weeks ago she had hid herself here from Bruno, when she had found out that he had known all along that her husband was an adulterous, lying [i]connard[/i]. She pressed her lips together until it hurt, and closed her eyes in a weak attempt to focus on something else. The room was adjacent to Bruno’s room, so she would hear him come up without having to talk to him. Lucile sat down against the door and willed herself not to cry. She was stronger than that. She shouldn’t long for her fantasy anymore, for it was nothing more.
His heavy, black boots made a thumping sound on the carpet. She heard him take them off and tried to imagine him in his white shirt, stripped from his Wehrmacht uniform, but found that she couldn’t. With that shot, he had become his uniform.
“Lucile? Où es-tu?” her mother-in-law’s shrieking voice bellowed through the house. Lucile huddled her legs to her body, embracing them as she rested her chin on her knees.
“She’s not here, Madame,” Lucile heard Bruno say.
“Of course she isn’t,” Madame Angellier said, her voice even and cold. “Why would she be?”
“She wouldn’t,” Bruno replied, his voice devoid of emotion.
The door closed. “You can come out,” he said softly. “She’s gone.”
Lucile closed her eyes. “I can’t.” Her voice quivered and she scolded herself for it.
He answered her with the soft piano tones she had become so attached to.[1] She closed her eyes to see his fingers move over the clavier, producing the sweet and calm notes that were filling her ears. This was his piece, his very own masterwork, and for a moment she forgot everything else. For a moment, she forgot everything he was. She just saw the artist.
But then the music stopped, and the image crumbled again.
“I think you should come out of there now. Madame will be going into hysterics.”
“Let her rage,” Lucile said, but she pushed herself up from her sitting position nonetheless, placing the palm of her hand flat against the door.
“You don’t mean that.”
“Vous ne savez rien sur moi,” she whispered under her breath. “Rien du tout.”
She opened the door and was ready to storm past him, but Bruno grabbed her arm. “Look at me,” he said. His voice wasn’t more than a whisper. “Please.”
Lucile complied. “I am looking at you now,” she said. “Does it change anything?”
“Everything,” he answered, his green eyes piercing hers with their honesty. “It can’t change what I did, I know that.” He bit his lip uncomfortably. “But if only one person could think good of me, it would change who I am.”
“My father used to say that men are formed by their actions.” Lucile knew her words to be cruel.
To his credit, Bruno didn’t look away. “I – I can’t afford to think like that.” He caressed Lucile’s cheek with the back of his hand. “Can I kiss you?”
She didn’t answer. She wanted to, but she had promised. Whatever fantasy they had been living in was over now. Lucile laughed because of the irony. What the large explosions in the fields hadn’t been able to accomplish, a single bullet now had. His bullet.
“Have your feelings for me changed?” Bruno’s face was blank, but Lucile could hear a slight tremor in his voice.
“I wonder what would happen if you just stopped following orders,” she countered his question with one of her own. Knowing the answer to her question, she left the room.
Lucile found the lieutenant in her bedroom that evening. “I’m not like them.” He had been crying; his eyes were still glassy with tears, and he made no effort to hide it. With a shock she realised just how much he trusted her, and how little deserving she was. She knew she would never give him what he wanted, as much as she would not take what he offered. There were differences over which even love was not supposed to triumph. Not during the war – and she didn’t yet dare to hope for an end. “I didn’t want to shoot him, but I had to,” Bruno said, clasping her small hands in his shaking ones. “He wasn’t dead after – after the others had fired. It was a mercy shot. I’m not like them.”
She wanted to believe it as much as he did. She truly did. Every time he touched the piano, she almost believed it. But even if he didn’t want to be, he still was. Bruno’s single shot had disrupted not only the viscount’s heartbeat that day. De Montmort would take hers with him to the grave, only a weak beating discernible against the insuperable damage, a calm and sweet melody still reaching out to Bruno von Trap long after he was gone, finding a way where love had not. [i]Je t’aime, je t’aime[/i].
[1] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BYK6qlnHQvs
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