He did not realize it but, carried away by his thoughts, he was swaying forward and backward on the seat in a slow, strange rhythm, in time with the motion of the train; and so it was that, in moments of fatigue or stress, his body found itself repeating the rocking movement that had soothed earlier generations of rabbis bent over the holy book, money changers over their gold coins, and tailors over their workbenches.
He looked up and caught sight of himself in the mirror. He sighed and gently put his hand to his forehead. Then it came to him in a flash: “That’s what I’m suffering from … that’s what’s making me pay with my body and my spirit. Centuries of misery, sickness, and oppression … millions of poor, feeble, tired bones have gone toward creating mine.”
He suddenly remembered one or two friends who had died, nobody quite knew why, after retiring to a life in the country and playing golf; they felt uncomfortable being rich and idle. The familiar yeast of worries started fermenting, poisoning his blood. Yes, for the moment, at any rate, he was free from exile, poverty, and need, but their indelible mark remained. No, no! It was humiliating, impossible … He was a rich French bourgeois, pure and simple! And what about his children? Ah! His children … “They’ll be happier than I’ve been,” he thought, with deep and passionate hope. “They’ll be happy!”
As he listened to the train rumbling through the sleeping countryside he gradually dozed off. Then, at last, he was there.
The train pulled into the little station at Texin, the stop for the Sestres’ château. He had asked his driver to send a telegram to tell them when he was arriving. Three of his friends were there: Louis Geoffroy, Robert de Sestres, and Jean Sicard. They gathered around him.
“You poor man! How appalling! You could have been killed!”
He walked among them, smilingly answering their questions; they all spoke the same language, they dressed in the same way, they had the same habits and the same tastes. As they approached the car together, he began to feel happier and more confident. The painful impression left by his meeting with the Jew began to fade. Only his body, shivering with cold in spite of his warm English clothes, and his oversensitive nerves acknowledged their ancient inheritance.
Robert de Sestres sighed deeply. “What fine weather!”
“Isn’t it?” said Christian Rabinovitch. “Isn’t it? A bit cold, but so bracing …”
And surreptitiously he covered his icy ears with his hands and got into the car.
La femme de don Juan
[ DON JUAN’S WIFE ]
August 2, 1938
Mademoiselle,
I hope that Mademoiselle will forgive her old servant for addressing her in this way. I know that she’s married, and I saw in Le Figaro the happy news of the birth of little Jean-Marie and his sister. I respectfully congratulate Mademoiselle. The babies must be two and four years old now. I’m sure they are very sweet! It’s the nicest age, when children belong entirely to their mothers.
To me, however, she will always be Mademoiselle Monique, as I haven’t seen her since she was twelve, when I was in service with her parents. I apologize again for taking this liberty.
Mademoiselle, I have hesitated for a long time before deciding to write this letter. The things I have to say are so serious and so important to the Family that it would certainly be better to say them in person. But Mademoiselle lives in Strasbourg and has two small children. It’s a difficult time for everyone, and I don’t think she would leave Strasbourg for Paris in order to go and see an old servant she’s probably forgotten, even if I do have things of the utmost seriousness to tell her about her Parents. After all, the dead are well and truly dead, and one couldn’t expect anyone to make such a long and expensive journey to listen to old stories that may not affect Mademoiselle anymore. She can rest assured that I don’t blame her. Life is life, and everyone has their own to live.
As for coming to visit Mademoiselle, I cannot, as I am ill in the hospital. In a few days I am to have an operation on a nasty tumor, which I do not think I will survive. I was very upset about it at first. I’m fifty-two. I’d put some money aside and have a little house in my native village, Souprosse, in the Landes. I always thought I would work until I was fifty-five and then live quietly at home. You get tired of living in other people’s houses in the end, especially when you’re no longer young. But, as they say, Man proposes and God disposes, and that’s so true.
I know that I have only a few days left, so I decided to put it all down in writing. Mademoiselle will do as she pleases—it’s her Family business, nothing to do with me—but I’ll have a clear conscience and no fears about what might happen after my Death, as I do at the moment with the worry about those letters I have.
In order to explain everything properly to Mademoiselle, I’m going to leave this letter and then come back to it and finish it gradually during the week. When you think about the past, you want to describe everything, but you can’t avoid a choice. It’s very difficult. But I have a week ahead of me: the operation is next Tuesday. They could have done it sooner but, as it’s summer, there are not many patients; and as the insurance companies pay them by the day, they like to keep patients in longer, which is what they’re doing. So Mademoiselle Monique will, I hope, be patient enough to read this letter right to the end.
August 3
Mademoiselle was so young when poor Monsieur died that I ask myself what she knows and what she doesn’t.
I came to the Family when we still lived on the Avenue Hoche. Mademoiselle Monique was six, Monsieur Robert two, and Monsieur René was not yet walking. Monsieur was very handsome, so handsome that the pictures Mademoiselle certainly has can’t give any idea. Since, after what happened, Mademoiselle and her Brothers were all brought up by Madame’s Family, I imagine she knows everything there is to know about Monsieur’s behavior. The Countess, Mademoiselle’s Grandmother, did not like her son-in-law. In some ways you can understand it. It’s the natural jealousy of a Mother. Oh! Mademoiselle Monique, if God had given me children, I would have been jealous of their love, so fearful for their happiness, that I would have killed the man who betrayed my daughter! Mademoiselle, when I took up my place at Avenue Hoche, all the chambermaids stayed six or seven months, never longer. Can Mademoiselle understand why now she’s married and knows a bit about life?
I was already thirty-four. I had had some education; I went to school until I was fourteen, thanks to my poor mother’s sacrifices. I can never be grateful enough to her, even now, although I’ve forgotten so much. I wasn’t like those poor girls who don’t know anything. They believe everything they’re told and think life is like in the films. If I’d looked at anyone, he would have had to have been from my world and not a Rich Man who can only give a poor girl kisses that are paid for later with bitter tears. I wasn’t tempted. The truth is, I was always quite at ease with Monsieur, but it was impossible not to see how handsome and seductive he was, with his devil-may-care manner, his magnificent teeth, and the little mustache he had above his beautiful lips. He was generous and, Mademoiselle Monique, generous Men are rare. He loved women, and it wasn’t just to have a fling or to boast about his exploits; it was a grand passion, every time. He got bored quickly, but at the beginning the flames burned intensely. He was still very youthful. He was, in fact, very young: two years younger than Madame.
Mademoiselle certainly knows that he and Madame were first cousins, brought up together, and that all the Money was on Madame’s side of the family. Otherwise he would never have married anyone, and certainly not Madame, who, poor thing, was not at all pretty. I know she was ill after the terrible event and, until her Death, lived mostly in Switzerland. Mademoiselle probably doesn’t remember what her mother was like before? She was no plainer than anyone else. She even had beautiful eyes. But her body was clumsy, too tall and too thin, and her arms and legs seemed to get in the way. She walked with long strides in flat shoes, like a man. She had no confidence, no grace. She was neither stylish nor charming. The Countess r
eprimanded her, even at her age, as if she were a little girl, telling her she was ugly and awkward. She must have really tormented Madame when she was young. The Countess, who had been beautiful in her youth, was annoyed that her daughter was so unlike her and worried about what would become of her. The truth is, Mademoiselle Monique, a woman has to be pretty to be happy. Madame knew that she wasn’t at all beautiful, poor thing, and it made her despair. But as she was also very intelligent, she realized you have to have a Role in life, and that her Role could not be that of the pretty little wife. She was very serious-minded and very well educated, she played a lot of Music, and she was highly regarded, both in Society and also in the Family, which is always more critical than Society. People said, “She’s a Saint,” and that she put up with Monsieur’s escapades like women used to in the old days, whereas now it’s divorce straightaway, I’ll go my way, you go yours, and never mind the children!
Madame behaved as though she did not see anything, and that was very sensible, people said, since she loved her Husband. Nobody doubted her love for him. All the women ran after Monsieur. When he abandoned them, they were even crazier about him. Does Mademoiselle understand what women are like? People said it was perfectly natural to adore a Husband as handsome and popular as he was. He was nice to her. He made her unhappy with his Affairs, of course, but he was always very polite and respectful: “Yes, as you wish, Nicole, you’re right, Nicole.” He never spoke in any other way to her, at least not in front of other people, and I often heard him say to Mademoiselle and her little brothers, “You must love your mama, my dears. She’s the best mama in the world. You must obey her and please her in everything.” His beautiful eyes sparkled as if he was laughing at what he was saying, but I think that was just the way he looked, he couldn’t help it, and that really he spoke from the bottom of his heart. He respected his Wife very much. You couldn’t say he was horrid to the children. But he didn’t take much notice of them, although when they were ill, I saw how worried he was. He didn’t know how to play with children, nor how to speak to them. A kiss, a lump of sugar dipped in his coffee when he ate at home, one couldn’t ask more of him. Children bored him, to tell the truth. Say what you like, they’re rare, Men who like children. For mothers it’s their flesh and blood, but for them …
As for Madame, they said she lived only for the children and that later on they would worship her as a Saint. But she was as cold and stiff with the little ones as she was with everyone else. It wasn’t her fault: she was shy and dreaded being laughed at. But one could say that you didn’t have a very happy childhood. That’s maybe why I loved Mademoiselle, who was as affectionate and sensible as a little woman.
August 5
Mademoiselle, I didn’t write yesterday because I was very tired, but mainly because I am reaching a very painful time for Mademoiselle. I fear I may distress her by talking about it, yet I must, so that Mademoiselle can understand properly what happened. I ask for Forgiveness with all my heart if I hurt her.
It must have been just twelve years ago this autumn. It started with an affair with Baroness Debeers. I saw in Le Figaro this summer that she lost a twenty-year-old son in a flying accident. I read the Society and Domestic Situations columns in Le Figaro so as not to lose track of people I knew when I was young. It’s nice, in some ways, to follow people through life; but how short it is, Mademoiselle Monique! It’s frightening to read about a young girl one knew as a kitchen maid looking for a position as a pastry cook, along with her daughter as chambermaid. Life goes past in the twinkling of an eye. Although you never think about it when you’re young, and so much the better!
As for the Baroness, it’s unbelievable she’s lost a son who was already twenty years old. I can see her still! Now there was a woman who knew how to dress! I can remember one evening at home, the Baroness had come to dinner. I was helping the butler to serve cocktails, and I could see her clearly. People were talking about Monsieur and the Baroness, saying they’d been together since the previous spring. It had never lasted that long with Monsieur. So I had a good look at them. My goodness, that woman was beautiful! She was wearing a red dress that covered her modestly at the front, but showed her bare back. She had just returned from Biarritz and her skin was golden. The effect created by having a dress cut high at the front and décolleté at the back has since become quite common, but then it was the first time anyone had seen it in Society and, Mademoiselle Monique, the eyes of those Gentlemen … I feel as though I can see them still. Men are animals, it has to be said.
Nobody believed that it would be serious for either of them. In High Society—and I’ve seen a great deal of it, Mademoiselle!—love affairs were more for public display than showing real feelings. A bit of fun, some pretty dresses and fine underwear, a few pinpricks to one’s pride and a bit of jealousy here and there, then good-bye and on to another one. But it must really have been love for Monsieur and his lady friend. After all, love comes like a thief, grabs us by the heart, and we don’t even know its name. For Monsieur, who’d had so many women, it seemed as though it was the first time. Always cheerful and mocking, he had become all pale and sad. As for her, she devoured him with her eyes. We were starting to tell each other we could feel a divorce on the way.
They must both have wanted a divorce, but the Money on Madame’s side held Monsieur back. And maybe the children. I wouldn’t want to make Mademoiselle think badly of her poor Parents, nor allow her to believe that she and her brothers were forgotten in all these complications. I’ll say it again, Monsieur was definitely not a bad man. I’m sure the thought of divorce scared him because of the children, but more especially, it has to be said, because of the money. It’s not that Monsieur loved money. He was much too well brought up for that. But since his marriage he had never been without it, and we are slaves to habit. Anyway, whether it was that or something else, even if it seems sad to Mademoiselle and makes her think bitter thoughts about her parents and her childhood, the fact is they are both dead. God has judged them, as He alone has the right to do since we should not judge anyone, especially not our Parents, who should be sacred to us; and now that Mademoiselle is a mother, she must believe the same thing.
Naturally, Mademoiselle Monique, in front of the servants people tried to hide things, but it’s impossible. A snatch of conversation overheard as you go to make the beds, a tearstained handkerchief under a pillow, a trace of powder on a jacket, that’s all you need. They think we’re spying on them and that we’re prying into their affairs … but I can assure Mademoiselle that we’re not interested in our employers’ business. Often things disgust us to the point where we would prefer not to see them, but if they are staring you in the face? Unless you’re a machine, you can’t help taking an interest in the people who give you your daily bread. That’s why Mademoiselle need not worry. Everything I’m telling her, everything I have to say, is the truth, I swear before God.
August 6
Mademoiselle Monique, it was November 2nd twelve years ago, I’ll never forget it. The weather was very bleak. Not exactly raining, more a sort of misty drizzle. I don’t like weather like that; it’s depressing and ever since that day I’ve not been able to stand it. We’d been in the country since September, at Madame’s Parents’, for the hunting, like every year. There were fires in every room. It was the end of the season. All the guests were leaving. We were due to go back to Paris a fortnight later. But the Baroness was, of course, still there.
It all started that morning. Monsieur and his Lady Friend were in the park, in a part of it where nobody ever went. As the house was sold after everything that happened, neither Mademoiselle nor her brothers probably remember it. All three children had chicken pox and were sleeping in a separate part of the house, which in some ways was a blessing, as they didn’t know straightaway what had happened. We could tell them a little bit at a time, very gently, since everyone tried to be as kind as possible toward those poor innocent little children. A Tragedy like that is sad when there are childre
n.
So the undergardener told me he’d seen Monsieur and the Baroness walking together in a deserted part of the grounds. They were close together and talking quietly as they walked. It wasn’t a lovers’ conversation; they looked far too serious. They were almost certainly discussing divorce and money. The Baroness wasn’t rich. With her, it was the opposite of the situation in our house—it was her Husband who had the Fortune. Nevertheless, she was ready to follow Monsieur, which makes one understand how madly she loved him. Of course, for a Woman in Society, she was making a huge sacrifice for him.
We have lunch. After the meal, Madame follows Monsieur and says (there was nobody left except for the butler clearing the table—I heard it all from him), “I need to talk to you, Henry.”
“I don’t have time,” says Monsieur. “I’m sorry, Nicole.”
“But it’s very important,” says Madame, detaining him.
Still with his eye on the doorway through which the Baroness and the other guests have just gone out, he then replies, “This evening, Nicole, without fail.”
Madame insists. Monsieur says he’d ordered the car, that he’s in a hurry, that he has an errand to run in Le Blanc, eighteen kilometers away.
“I’ll come with you,” says Madame.
Madame goes upstairs. Everyone can see she looks distraught. The butler then says that she must have seen the two of them together that morning, and that’s what was tormenting her. As for me, I stay silent.
So Madame goes up to her room and rings for me to get her coat. I bring her good vicuña coat. It was still raining, and there was very little light. I help her get dressed and she pulls on a little purple felt hat. I can see her still: she shook so much in front of her mirror she couldn’t get her hat on.
Dimanche and Other Stories (Vintage International) Page 11
