Orville stepped back, stepped aside in disgust.
He was amazed at the beauty of Lena's yellow hair, flung about the pillow, amazed too by the athletic face, her open mouth suggestive of pain. He opened his mouth and shut it again and wet his lips with his tongue, blaming the war for her death. She had a lace handkerchief clenched in her hand ... maybe Amélie had died that way ... maybe Lena had been watching the rain trickle down her bedroom window. Her face was harsh: shadows added to the harshness. Hand on her bedpost, Orville wished he had slept with her: how could it have mattered?
Jeannette had come down the stairs as he descended. Hand sliding down the railing, he saw Lena as a kid, no, the two of them, screaming down the steps, to get outdoors, to play ball. He found Jean in the living room: he did not wish to talk: he wanted to feel that Lena was still alive: as he sat down and faced Jeannette she thought how it must be coming home to death, death in his home, death after the deaths of war: coming home was perplexing at best. Slipping her fingers into his, she tugged at him as they sat together on the sofa.
Claude was standing nearby.
"She's dead," Orville said to him.
Bichain heard Orville. The old man stiffened, and rubbed his beard: he became unaware of Jean and Orville: with bowed head he walked off, seeing the girl he had helped to raise, a woman of tantrums, woman of courage, love and beauty. Mumbling a little, he went to his own room, shut the door, and lay down, an arm flung across his eyes.
"Where's Aunt Therèse?" Orville asked Jean.
"I don't know," she said.
They continued to sit there saying nothing, one lamp lit, no fires burning in the fireplaces, the room quite cold, the wind fumbling at the French doors. Slowly, as they sat together, he became aware of his stench: nobody wanted him: he had nothing for anyone: he clenched his stained hands, eyes toward the floor: this was no way to be, sitting beside her.
"They should have been able to save her," he said.