CHAPTER XIX
PHILIPPE'S MOTHER
The horn of a two days' moon was driving across the window; then stars, darkness, dawn and sunrise painted the open square; till rustling, and turning towards the light, she awoke. At the top of the window a magpie wiped his beak on a branch, bent head, and tail bent to balance him —then dropped like a mottled pebble out of sight. She sat up, drew the table prepared overnight towards her, lit the lamp for the chocolate —thinking of the dim Julien who might pay his beautiful visit in turn with the moon and the sun.
She got up and dressed, and walked in the spring morning, first to the bread shop to buy a pound of bread from the woman who wouldn't smile … so serious and puzzling was this defect that Fanny had once asked her: "Would you rather I didn't buy my bread here?"
"No, I don't mind."
Then to the market for a bunch of violets and an egg.
And at last through the "Silver Lion"—for luck, opening one door of black wood, passing through the hot, sunny room, ignoring the thrilled glances of soldiers drinking at the tables, looking towards the girl at the bar, who shook her head, saying: "No, no letter for you!" and out again into the street by the other black door (which was gold inside).
She passed the morning in the garage working on the Renault, cleaning her, oiling her—then ate her lunch in the garage room with the Section.
Among them there ran a rumour of England—of approaching demobilisation, of military driving that must come to an end, to give place to civilian drivers who, in Paris, were thronging the steps of the Ministry of the Liberated Regions.
"Already," said one, "our khaki seems as old-fashioned as a crinoline. A man said to me yesterday: 'It is time mademoiselle bought her dress for the summer!'"