Old Bones

'He never . . .” Ray was shocked. “You mean to say he—he just . . . his own cousin...?'

'I know, but the Nazis told him if word got out they'd shoot everybody in Ploujean instead, and him too.'

'So he said,” Sophie put in bitterly.

Ben made a tck-ing sound, tongue against his teeth. “I don't know; I can feel for the poor bugger. Things were hard.'

'That's not an excuse,” Sophie said stolidly to her hands. “He could have done something. But he didn't. And so there he is, sitting in the manoir, grosser, and fatter, and more disgusting than ever ...And Alain and five other good, brave men have been dead for forty-five years.” Her eyes shimmered with held-back tears. “Forty-five years, and nobody knows where they're buried. If the damned Nazis even buried them.'

In the quiet that followed, Ray reached out to pat her hands, which lay loosely clasped on the purse in her lap.

'Afterwards, Claude holed up behind the walls in St. Malo with his Nazi pals,” Ben went on, “where the Maquis couldn't get to him. When the Germans pulled out he ran too. Turned up in Avranches, near Mont St. Michel, where nobody knew him, and started a butcher shop. Now he owns a meat- processing plant in Rennes; the sausage king of Brittany, so they say.” He smiled crookedly. “He started out to be a surgeon, if you can believe it.'

'You're not serious,” Ray said.

'No, it's true,” Sophie said. “He studied medicine for a year or two, but the war put an end to it. It's a family joke.'

'A joke?'

'They say one profession was as good as another to Claude,” Ben said. “He just likes the feel of raw meat. That's always good for a laugh from Jules.'

Sophie stood up and shivered. “The sun's gone in. Maybe we ought to go inside. Guillaume's probably back by now.'

They began to walk up the patch towards the house. “There's still something I don't understand,” Ray said.

Ben lifted an eyebrow in his direction.

'What's he doing here? I mean, why would Guillaume invite him to a family council?'

'Well, I think that's what we're all wondering. But he's actually Guillaume's closest relative, a lot closer than Sophie or Rene. You're even further off, and there isn't anyone else in the family. So if there's some sort of important business, I guess he's got a right to be here.'

'I don't see why,” Sophie said. “He's only related because his father married Guillaume's aunt.'

'Only!” Ben laughed. “That just makes him Guillaume's first cousin, that's all! Way back when, he was next in line for the domaine, but when Guillaume got back after the war he cut Claude out of his will. Naturally enough.'

After a few more steps Ben spoke to Sophie. “Did you see the way Mathilde jumped when you mentioned Alain's name? I wonder if she's still carrying a torch for him. Poor old Rene.'

'For Alain?” Ray said. “Mathilde?'

Sophie nodded. “They were engaged. I suppose they were having an affair, although I was too young to know about it.'

'But—but she—'

'Don't look so censorious, dear. She and Rene weren't a thing yet. And she was very beautiful, in a monumental sort of way.'

'Yes, but she was only...How old could she have been?'

'Oh, about seventeen, I suppose. And Alain was in his early thirties.'

Ray blinked, not with mere prudish disapproval—not entirely—but with astonishment. His straitlaced, comically stuffy Aunt Mathilde a teenaged beauty carrying on an illicit affair with the dashing Alain?

Sophie laughed softly at his expression. “As a matter of fact, that's what I like most about her; that she loved Alain.'

When they got to the top of the path, Ray said he thought he wouldn't go in yet, but would stroll down the quiet lane toward Ploujean. Maybe he'd look at the plaque. They'd given him a lot to think about. He turned from them, walked a step, and came impulsively back to put his arms around Sophie in an awkward hug.

'Aahh,” she said, “dear Raymond,” and laughed, and patted him lightly on the shoulders, and kissed the air by the side of his freckled cheek.

'What a nice boy he's turned out to be,” she said to Ben as Ray headed down the alley between the rows of bare plane trees, “but I do worry about him.'

'What's there to worry about? He seems fine to me.'

'But he's so—well, he's like an old maid, and he's not even thirty-five. I don't suppose he'll ever get married now. I don't know if he even likes women. I'm not sure he knows about women.'

'Maybe not, but hell, he's happier with those dusty old books than most men ever are with wives, and that's what counts, isn't it?'

'Yes, of course,” she said, unconvinced. “Still—” ;

'Sophie, don't worry about him.” He pulled open the door for her. “You know, ol’ Ray reminds me of what my