south to Montpellier four years earlier, the vignerons’ unrest over the falling price of wine was a recent memory for the townspeople. During Sylvain’s visits to the Molineus he had not, they thought, made particular efforts to conceal his political activity, but nor was it something he discussed much, and if he did mention it they tended to imagine he was exaggerating for effect. As they settled into Montpellier, however, it became apparent that nothing was exaggerated, and that Sylvain was famous throughout the town for thundering to the front of the crowd at Place de la Comédie, where the syndicalists and royalists and Occitan separatists had all gathered to protest the fraudulent powder then swamping the market, which could be turned into wine with the addition of well water. And when Marcelin Albert screamed from the podium, Sylvain Leclair had roared back his slogans, and roused from the crowd the energy of a bonfire.
Such open fever had not recurred since in Montpellier, but Sylvain was always alert to other kinds of contagion. Ostensibly, the war had settled the region with the double balms of employment and bereavement. But something else was boiling underneath. The unconscripted who feared censure were quick to denounce others, and public squares were rife with scraps of hearsay, transmitted from mouth to ear, mouth to ear, until in some warped fashion they were returned to the doorstep of the accused as a talisman of wrongdoing.
It is hard to say just how the word first spread about Patrice Nolin. In all likelihood it was some indiscretion of his own, a passing remark, probably, that caught in the windpipes of a nervous patriot who proceeded to spread it around, until in the space of a single evening Nolin’s name was carried across town, and in the morning the whole of Montpellier was against him. And, naturally, Sylvain Leclair caught word of this on his morning ramble, and swiftly brought the facts as he could discern them to the house of the Molineus. Midhat had just left for the Faculty. Frédéric Molineu was about to follow when he saw Sylvain Leclair’s portly frame in the driveway, swinging his cane.
“Good day Sylvain.”
“Good morning. Have you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Nolin is gone. He came home from dinner, there were letters on his doorstep. He was scared, he left.”
“Come in, what are you talking about. What letters?”
“Thank you,” said Sylvain, brushing his feet on the rug. “There were three or four of them. Some were anonymous. At least one,” he grunted, “was written by Luc Dimon.” He shot a glance down the hall.
“Luc?” said Frédéric. “What does he have against Patrice?”
“Oh, you know. Traitor, this, that. German, selfish, all the rest.”
“My God. Should I, do you think, visit him? Or, should we avoid …”
“There isn’t time,” said Sylvain. He glanced again in the direction of the kitchen. “He and the girls were ready to leave an hour ago.”
“You’ve seen them then.”
“I passed by. I told him what I had heard.”
“What did you hear?”
“This, that. We’ll have to be very careful now. Shall we sit? I could do with a coffee.”
“I—oh dear. We could do, I suppose,” said Frédéric. “Well, what is the time? My watch has stopped.”
“Eight thirty.”
“In fact, you know, I must go. I lecture at ten. I’m sorry, Sylvain, another time.”
“What are you sorry for, my friend. Everyone is always walking over your hospitality. I suppose I am no less guilty. I’ll follow you out.”
“Well, you know, thank you for telling me.”
That was a lie: Frédéric was not lecturing at ten that day. He walked calmly beside Sylvain down the driveway to the road, but once they separated and he rounded the corner he began to march so fast that by the time he reached the department his collar was damp with sweat. He leapt up the steps two at a time, pushed through the first double doors, charged through the second, reached the last door with the frosted window, and unlocked it as fast as his shaking hands could turn a key.
Everything was the same as last night. His desk drawer was still open, the pair of glasses from which he and Patrice had drunk stood together on the cabinet, bottomed with yellow cognac circles. He dropped his briefcase and began to assemble his papers. He opened drawers and pulled out pages, stacked them on the desk and flicked through. It was no use, he would have to take all of them. Even if they were in French—here, there, references