The short June night was fading. The stars grew paler, the air smelled of milk and moist grass; now, half-hidden behind the forest, only the pink tip of the moon could be seen, growing dimmer and dimmer in the mist. Tired, triumphant and covered in dew, the cat gnawed on a sprig of grass, then slipped back into Jacqueline's room, on to her bed, looking for that warm spot near her thin feet. He was purring like a kettle on the boil.

A few seconds later, the arsenal exploded.

The arsenal exploded and the horrible echo of the explosion had only just stopped (the air all around them shook; all the doors and windows were vibrating and the small wall at the cemetery crumbled) when a long flame shot up, whistling, from the bell tower. The noise of the incendiary bomb had merged with the explosion of the arsenal. In a second, the entire village was in flames. There was hay in the barns, straw in the lofts. Everything caught fire. Roofs caved in, floors cracked in half; the refugees rushed into the streets while the villagers ran to open the cowsheds and stables to save the animals. The horses were neighing, rearing, terrified by the intensity of the noise and fire; they refused to come out and beat their heads and hoofs against the burning walls. A cow rushed by, bellowing in pain and terror as it frantically tried to shake a bale of burning hay from its horns; pieces of glowing straw flew everywhere. In the garden, the blossoming trees were bathed in a red-as-blood light. Normally, the firemen would have come and people would have calmed down, once the initial fear had passed. But this disaster, happening after so many others, was more than they could bear. Also, they knew the firemen had received orders to leave with all their equipment three days before. They felt hopeless. "If only the men were here," cried the women, "the men!" But the men were far away and the children were running, screaming, rushing about, causing even greater confusion.

The refugees were howling in terror. Among them were the Péricands, half-dressed, faces dirty, hair dishevelled. It was the same as when the bombs had fallen on the road: everyone was shouting at once, calling to one another, and the voices all merged into one-the village was reduced to a roar. "Jean!," "Suzanne!," "Mummy!," "Grandma!" No one replied. A few youngsters who had managed to get their bicycles out of the burning sheds pushed them violently through the crowd. Yet, oddly enough, everyone believed that they were remaining calm, that they were behaving exactly as they should. Madame Péricand was holding Emmanuel in her arms, Jacqueline and Bernard were clutching her skirt (Jacqueline had even managed to get the cat back into his basket when her mother had pulled her out of bed and she now gripped it tightly to her). "The most precious things have been saved!" Madame Péricand said to herself over and over again, "Thank you God!" Her jewellery and money were sewn into a suede pouch pinned inside her blouse and she could feel it against her chest as she ran. She'd had the presence of mind to grab her fur coat and the small overnight case full of the family silver, which she'd kept beside her bed. She had her children, her three children! Sometimes a thought shot through her, as sharp and rapid as lightning, of her two older sons, in danger, far away: Philippe and that mad Hubert. She'd been desperate when Hubert ran away, yet rather proud of him. His behaviour had been irrational, wild, but manly. For them, Philippe and Hubert, she could do nothing, but her three little ones! She had saved her three little ones! She was sure she'd had a premonition the night before; she'd put them to bed half-dressed. Jacqueline didn't have a dress on but a jacket covered her naked shoulders; she wouldn't be cold; it was better than wearing just a blouse; the baby was wrapped up in a blanket; Bernard even had his beret on. She herself had no stockings, just red slippers on her bare feet, but gritting her teeth, arms tight round the baby, who wasn't crying but whose eyes were rolling wildly with fear, she made her way through the panic-stricken crowd, without the slightest idea where she was going. The sky above seemed filled with countless planes (there were two) flying back and forth with their evil buzzing, like hornets.

"Please don't let them bomb us any more! Please don't let them bomb us any more! Please…" These words went round and round endlessly in her bowed head. Out loud she said, "Don't let go of my hand, Jacqueline! Bernard, stop crying! You're behaving like a girl! There, there, baby, don't worry, Mummy's here!" She said these words mechanically, while silently continuing to pray: "Please don't let them bomb us any more! Let them bomb anyone else, dear God, but not us! I have three children! I have to save them! Please don't let them bomb us any more!"

They finally made it out of the narrow village street; she was in the open countryside; the fire was behind her; the flames fanned out across the sky. Scarcely an hour had passed since dawn, when the bomb had struck the bell tower. They were passed by car upon car fleeing Paris, Dijon, Normandy, the Lorraine region, France itself. The people inside them were numb. Sometimes they raised their heads to look at the fire in the distance, but their faces were indifferent. They had seen so many things…

Nanny was walking behind Madame Péricand. She seemed mute with terror; her lips were moving but she made no sound. She was holding her fluted bonnet with its cotton ties, newly ironed. Madame Péricand looked at her indignantly. "Really, Nanny, couldn't you have found something more useful to bring? Honestly!" The old woman made an extraordinary effort to speak. She went red in the face, her eyes filled with tears. "Good Lord," thought Madame Péricand, "now she's going mad! Whatever will I do?"

But the harsh voice of her mistress had miraculously returned the gift of speech to Nanny… She replied in her usual tone of voice, simultaneously respectful and bitter: "Madame didn't think I would leave it behind? It's valuable!" This bonnet was a bone of contention between them: Nanny hated the hats she was forced to wear-"so suitable," Madame Péricand thought, "so appropriate for a servant," for she felt that each social class should wear some sign indicative of their station to avoid any misconceptions, just as shops displayed price tags. "You can tell it's not she who does the washing and ironing, nasty old bag!" Nanny would say as she worked. Her hands trembling, she put the lace butterfly of a bonnet on over the enormous nightcap she was already wearing.

Madame Péricand looked at her, thought there was something odd about her but couldn't say exactly what it was. Everything seemed incredible. The world was a horrible dream. She dropped down on to the verge, put Emmanuel back into Nanny's arms and said as vehemently as possible, "Now we have to get out of here," and remained on the ground, waiting for some miracle. There was none, but a donkey pulling a cart passed by. When she saw the driver slow down at the sight of her and her children, Madame Péricand's intuition took over-the intuition innate to the wealthy who can always tell when and where something can be bought.

"Stop!" Madame Péricand shouted. "Where's the nearest railway station? "

"Saint-Georges."

"How long would it take you to get there with your donkey?"

"Well, about four hours."

"Are the trains still running?"

"I've heard they are."

"Good. I'm getting in. Come on, Bernard, Nanny, bring the baby."

"But Madame, I wasn't going that way and what with going and coming back, that'll be at least eight hours."

"You'll be well paid," said Madame Péricand.

She climbed into the carriage, calculating that if the trains were running normally, she would be in Nîmes the next morning. Nîmes… her mother's dear old house, her bedroom, a bath; she nearly fainted at the thought. Would there be enough room for her on the train? "With three children," she said to herself, "I'm sure to manage it." Because of her position as the mother of a large family, Madame Péricand was usually treated like royalty and came first wherever she was… nor was she the kind of woman who allowed anyone to forget what was rightfully hers. She crossed her arms and studied the countryside victoriously.