Francisco took his easel to Collioure. His particular friends of the time had a very large attic where there was room for all to work, and there he took up his stand.
This was lonely for Madeleine, and when he took to sleeping there, it was more so. She did not tell her mother or anyone else—she would never have done so at any time, but now that she was so withdrawn from them it would have been even less possible: for she was withdrawn from them, although Francisco blamed her for being entirely on their side, not with him at all: that was the root of all their quarreling.
She said as she lay there alone, watching the light of the street lamp swinging madly on the ceiling as the gale of the equinox took it, she said that it was better to watch it and know that he was on dry land than to watch it and think of him at sea. She said this, but she was saying it against her knowledge—a knowledge that she would not formulate or allow to appear whole, but which grew so substantial and familiar in those last weeks that she was not surprised, not fundamentally surprised, however cruelly shocked she was, when she came home one day from Me. Roig’s house and found Francisco pale and strange in the middle of his possessions, packing them—his only. He spoke as if he were drunk, but he was not drunk. He had meant to get out alone, unseen; he had not thought he would be disturbed, and when he saw her he was uncertain what attitude to take. He had not prepared one. There was a terrible embarrassment between them, as if they were naked in front of strangers.
He saw that she did not intend to scream or fight and asked her to find his blue suit.
She said “Have you got your best shirts?”
He said “I took them last week,” and after a second he flushed an ugly dark color, because he had lain with her since then.
She said “Do you want this?” It was her portrait that he had painted in the autumn. It was his best piece of work: it was framed. He said Yes, to put it by the other paintings stacked by the door; but he did not look and his voice was hardly recognizable.
They did not say anything more, and she went out of the room: she did not watch him pick up the load of things, the too-many parcels, bundles; go awkwardly out, down the stairs, put the things down, open the door, pick them up, and bolt out. His feet went sounding up the street, for he had shoes on; and in a minute the hollow wind slammed the door after him.
At the crossroads he jerked into the car, into the back seat, and the woman in front, after a glance at his face, started the engine and drove rapidly away on the white road of the coast.
He sat there in the back, abandoned to the movement of the car: he had never felt anything like this in his life. It was as if his whole being, the whole of the inside of his body, were bleeding, bleeding. The pain was something utterly beyond his experience.
It did not surprise him that his face was wet with tears: he leaned forward and let one roll on to the back of his hand.
What, what was he? A hero? Had he done something extremely brave? How terribly he was suffering: how terribly an artist must suffer. How shockingly wide is the range of an artist’s feelings, he thought, only an artist could suffer so much: and the tears rolled on.
CHAPTER THREE
“BUT, MY DEAR ALAIN, how very yellow your face appears,” she said, settling down comfortably, now that she had got him alone at last.
“My dear Aunt Margot,” he replied, “I suppose it does.”
“But, my dear Alain,” she said in a kindly but serious tone, leaning forward and tapping him on the knee, “why is it so yellow?”
A vision of the Luong river, sliding dark and smooth in the suffocating gloom; the matted forest steaming in the thunderous rain; paddy fields, lichee trees, mushroom hats, flashed across his mind; but he despaired of his ability to describe the causes and the circumstances of his face’s yellowness, and replied vaguely, “It is the climate, you know.”
“The climate? Yes; and the food, no doubt. I cannot think that the climate has so much to do with it, or the people here would be blue, if not yellow and black as well. There never was such a disagreeable climate as this, with its unhealthy dryness and clouds of dust, and the dreadful wind that never stops except in midsummer, when you need it. This last winter . . . I am sure I was better off in the Pas-de-Calais, where at least it does not pretend to be warm, and where the houses are properly built for the winter. But Alain, you would be far better with a wife to look after your house and see that you are properly fed: these birds’ nests and extraordinary dishes—mice, sharks’ fins—I don’t know indeed, but they cannot be good for you in the long run, however interesting at first, as curiosities.”
“You are a friend to marriage, Aunt Margot: you rarely miss an opportunity of recommending me to take some young woman or other back with me. Yet the idea of Xavier having a wife again does not seem to please you?”
“Ah, that! No, indeed. And I am surprised that you should refer to it so lightly, Alain; if you knew how it grieved me, I am sure you would not do so.”
“Tell me, has anything definite happened since you wrote to me last?”
“I wrote to you last in—” With her lips pursed and her eyes thrown up to the ceiling she numbered the days, weeks, months. “No. I cannot say that anything definite has happened, if you mean by that has he publicly announced that he is going to marry her, or has he been taken off in a strait jacket to the madhouse. That is where he would be if I had my way: I often tell him so. No: it has gone on in the same fashion, but now of course it is still more widely known. I have had letters of sympathy from Mme. Marty in Toulouse and from André at Constantine.”
“I cannot see what it has to do with them. But when you say it is going on in the same fashion, what exactly do you mean? I have not gathered an exact impression: judging from Côme’s remarks I should have supposed the girl to be a flaunting Jezebel, Xavier’s acknowledged mistress—practically a common woman. But then, as I remember, she was very often with you before her marriage; and I cannot reconcile that with a very high degree of open depravity.” He smiled tentatively, having intended to be a little facetious. However, his aunt frowned and said coldly, “No; I do not suppose you can.” She paused; and then, with an air of almost masculine candor, quite characteristic of her, she said, “I do not know what Côme has said, but I should say that it is certainly untrue. This girl is not a bad girl at all. She sees her advantage, and she wishes to profit by it: that is all. If it were not that her gain is our loss, I should have nothing to say, nothing at all. But as it is . . . No. This question apart, I have nothing to say against Madeleine: indeed, I had a real affection for her. When she was a young girl I was very fond of her—too fond of her, perhaps—and when her good-for-nothing husband ran off I was exceedingly sorry for Madeleine. Even now I should be sorry if she were unhappy. No: I do not say that she is vicious or dishonest. But I do say that for us she is the enemy, and must be fought like one.”
“So there is no moral issue?”
“Yes, there is a moral issue. She should not take advantage of Xavier’s lunacy.”
“Is she his mistress?”
“I do not think so. I cannot say, of course. From what I know of her I should say that she was virtuous; though it is true that she has a much more secretive nature than I liked, even then; and her marriage changed her a great deal. But I should certainly say that she is not his mistress, if for no other reason than that it would not answer her purpose. If it paid her to play the whore, it would be a different matter; though even then, I would not say for certain.”
“You say that she takes advantage of Xavier’s madness. I take it, then, that there is no inclination on her side—she does not care for him at all?”
“Care for him? Why of course not, Alain: how could you ask such a simple question? Think of Xavier’s age and his appearance. He looks exactly like a dried old goat; you know he does. But of course, you never saw Francisco Cortade when he was grown up.”
“The husband?”
“Yes. He was no good at all, no good whatever: but, my d
ear Alain, he looked like what’s-his-name in the thing.”
“Did he, though?”
“He did indeed. And still does, of course, wherever he is. He would make three of Xavier and still leave some to spare. A big, straight young fellow, very good-looking. Rather too good-looking for my taste, all gleaming teeth and curly hair, you know. But I must admit that he was not flashy, like most of the youths here who think themselves handsome, and he did not even look too much of a lout when he was dressed in his best clothes. He was not the sort who would wear well at all: no; there was too much youthful charm altogether; but he was exactly the kind of young man who would make a silly girl’s heart turn right over. I could understand her perfectly well, although I never was a romantically inclined woman: and although I disapproved I thought that forty years ago I might have felt the same. I would never have acted as she did, of course; but I might have thought about it. And besides being so good-looking, he had that helplessness that is so appealing to an affectionate nature: that is to say, he appeared to have it. He appeared an ingenuous young man, too. However . . . No; I am convinced that Madeleine is eating her heart out for him. But even if she were not, I cannot see her looking at Xavier with anything but a businesslike eye. After all, he is twice her age, and even my dear sister-in-law, if she were alive now, could not call him anything but a dried-up old stick.”
“Sometimes one finds girls madly enamored of men as old as their fathers. It is not so rare, either. And then again, Xavier is not actually decrepit, is he? If he were thinking of marrying, re-marrying, a handsome, well-connected dowry, are you sure that you would think of him as such an old man?”
“Well, perhaps not. But that really has nothing to do with the case, has it? There is no dowry or connection here.”
“So she is entirely mercenary?”
“Yes. Though prudent would be a better word. Prudential motives, they say, don’t they? Though if we are to be entirely just to the girl I should say that I do not think she has her heart in the affair: I think it is mainly her family pushing her on. Though no doubt she sees her advantage as clearly as anybody.”
“The family. That is the Pou-naous in the arcades.”
“Yes. The father has the vineyard next to ours at the Puig d’en Calbo: there is not much harm in him. It is Mimi l’Empereur who is the dangerous one. She is Madeleine’s aunt.”
“I know her. Strong-minded woman.”
“Yes. She always ruled that family—both the others have always been afraid of her—and she is the one who is pushing the girl on. Her motive is clear enough, of course.”
“Has she some special motive?”
“You cannot have forgotten that old René l’Empereur is the one who has the tobacco license? Her father-in-law.”
“No no. I know him well: a very agreeable old man. He was in the East for a long time and he loves to talk about it. I must go and see him soon. A very kind old man: he gave me a cigarette when I was twelve.”
“No doubt. But he is mortal, nevertheless, and since the evacuation he has been very infirm. Some day, probably quite soon, Mimi is going to want the license for herself or her husband. It is a thriving concern, and nowadays, since the war, there are so many people with claims to a tobacconist’s license—resistants, deportees, victims of atrocities, and so on, as well as the wounded men and soldiers’ widows—so many of them that Mimi will find it very difficult unless she has some real power to stand up for her. Xavier, of course, could arrange an affair of that kind in two minutes. She has courted him for years with her singing in the choir; but obviously this is a far better method of securing his interest.”
“I thought the Pou-naous were Protestants.”
“They are. But not Mimi: she was always a much more sensible woman than her sisters and she always preferred the church to the temple, even when she was a child. Then she quarreled with the old pasteur—something to do with the Christmas singing, I believe—and never went to the temple again. She was married in church.”
“She never persuaded her sisters or Madeleine to leave the temple?”
“Oh no, there was no zealous, burning conversion, you know; she was just like the other people here—displeased with one, they drift to the other, but a lukewarm drift. No, her sisters, especially Thérèse (Dominique never goes anywhere) continued to go to the temple: sometimes Madeleine would be in the church—she helped Mimi decorate the chapels sometimes—but in general she went to the temple, and she was married there.”
“That’s bad.”
“From the point of view of Xavier, you mean? Yes. There would have been little danger if she had been married properly: I will say this for Xavier, he is not one of your modern, lax, easy-going Catholics. And even now I do not think he would put his principles aside, mad though he is.”
“No doubt you are right. But tell me, how did it all begin? That is what I have never understood from your letters.”
“It began very simply. When her husband left her she was very, very unhappy. Her family would not leave her alone for a second, and she often came to see me, not so much for comfort as for refuge. I was foolish enough to encourage her to spend more and more time typing for Xavier—occupation and distraction, I thought. I say I was foolish enough to do so, and if you wish to be very modern and clever you may say that is why I resent the present situation so bitterly. I would not own this to anyone else, Alain, but I was a fool, a fool.” She clasped her hands with exasperation. “I never thought for a moment—but of course I should have thought. Xavier was handling her divorce, and I suppose the scabrous details excited him. I can think of no other explanation: he has always been a cold, bloodless sort of a man, the model of rectitude. You could have left him alone with—with—oh, with any form of temptation that even Côme could imagine, with his obscene library that he thinks nobody knows about.”
“Her divorce? How does that agree with her eating her heart out for him?”
“It was her father. He was like a wild boar with anger: he was at Xavier’s house the moment he heard of it—that was a week or ten days after Francisco had gone. She had kept it to herself all that time, and it was only because Francisco had left a paper at the mairie and the mairie people talked that the family heard about it at all.”
“What in the world did he want to leave a paper at the mairie for?”
“Oh, to state that he was deserting Madeleine and that he was entirely at fault, so that there could be a divorce without any difficulty. It is the usual thing.”
“Oh? I did not know.”
“Well, as soon as he had this paper he was round at Xavier’s door, roaring like a lion. It is entirely his doing, the divorce. He is paying for it, of course, and he keeps pressing Xavier to hurry it on, whatever it costs. They are afraid that she would have him back if he were to return.”
“That would be a solution.”
“He would never dare come back. Her father would kill him. His own father, old Camairerrou, said he would hold him for Jean Pou-naou to stab where he liked.”
“Could she not go to him?”
“If she knew where he was she could; at least, in theory. But I have no doubt that she would much rather be burnt alive than do so.”
“Oh.” (A pause.) “You were telling me how it began.”
“Yes. That was the situation, you understand: the girl wretchedly unhappy, running away from anyone who wanted to talk about the affair (and it was the best piece of gossip they had had in the town for a very long time) shut up for hours with Xavier, who is, at least, a quiet and tactful man. And there is Xavier, suddenly brought into contact with a girl in a wild, devil-may-care state of mind, abandoned and (perhaps I wrong him) easily to be taken advantage of. He has her for hours at his side, while he is dealing with these papers that must, I presume, raise carnal ideas in his mind. And at the same time I am sitting here like a fool, having encouraged the disaster to take place.
“And then, when the mischief was done, I began to hear things. Tongues
must have been wagging before, for by the time that I heard the beginning of the scandal it was quite well-formed, not mere dribs and drabs of guesswork. You do not have to tell me that it was ill-natured, malicious gossip by ignorant, idle, foolish women: I know that perfectly well. And I know, too, that when gossip has a certain ring it is always true: if you were an old woman, Alain, and if you had gossiped as much as I have, you would know that ring, and you would not think that you could dismiss an unpleasant piece of news just by saying, ‘Oh, it’s only gossip.’ ” Alain made a disclaiming gesture, and his aunt went on, “Xavier moved his rooms around: he changed his study to the room in the corner of the courtyard on the left of the door, you know? and moved his clerk into a room on the other side of the hall, and he had the typewriter put into the little room behind his new study. It made me very uneasy, this new arrangement, and I hinted to Xavier that it might be unfortunate for Madeleine if there were any gossip about her. He made no reply and I noticed that he was much more carefully dressed than usual. I think I must have chosen my moment very badly. About a week later I asked him, apropos of a novel about a legal family, whether it was not very dangerous for a lawyer to have an affair with a woman who was also his client. He said Yes, it was; very. He knew perfectly well what I meant, and he was so angry in his silent way that I was on edge with alarm. However, I gathered all my forces and asked him whether he knew what was being said. He did not answer. But on the Thursday that followed, in the evening, he said that it would be a foolhardy imbecile who would meddle with his affairs, and that he would have the greatest pleasure in the world in laying a man by the leg, or a woman or a child, laying them by the leg for the rest of the term of their natural lives, if they dared tattle about him.
“I learned in the morning that Marinette—really, she has very little sense, although she is your aunt—had been so criminally stupid as to go to the shop and have a long talk with Dominique and Thérèse Pou-naou. She had not consulted me, of course: and of course all she accomplished was to put ideas into their heads and to set them on. They may not be very intelligent (though they are certainly cleverer than your Aunt Marinette) but they know enough to come in out of the rain, or to try to pick up a piece of gold if they see it lying in the gutter. And of course, her stupid, interfering visit came back to Xavier’s ears almost as soon as she had left.
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