Two days later, for Gérard is a good spy, she came in triumphantly with her report when she brought me my morning chocolate. Without appearing to have any such intention, she had managed to extract from the gardener from next door everything he knew on the subject.
‘They’re unassuming people who live very simply. Mme Duvert is the widow of a departmental head in the ministry of defence who died of a chest complaint a year ago and left her with only a modest pension. Her son, Paul Duvert, whom she adores, is a perfect young man, capable of great achievements, as he was a brilliant student, but because of his delicate health a little too much tied to his mother’s apron strings. They live in a little house on the edge of Sénart forest, where they retired to after the father’s death.’
And that’s it, I don’t know any more than that. But what I do know is that I am still under the spell cast by that youthful and poetic vision. Am I destined not to be quite as tranquil as all that in this supposed retreat of mine?
The weather was delicious. I spent hours going for walks or carriage rides, I was out of doors all the time.
A few days afterwards, I set off in the direction of Sénart forest. This forest interested me.
I was striding boldly along – you wouldn’t have recognised me – oblivious of my carriage, left on the main Epinay road, and of the storm that was rumbling in the background, when suddenly I realised I had ventured too far and lost my way. Already, fat drops of rain were beginning to fall on my dress of pink lawn, wetting my open-work stockings and the little shoes that were more accustomed to plush cushions.
So, startled like a bird caught out of its nest, I hurried ahead, looking along each path, throwing questioning glances at the sky and the ground, when suddenly I saw, emerging from the trees close by, a young lad also in a hurry.
‘I say, my friend,’ I called, going over to him, ‘can you show me the path that goes to les Alouettes?’ I remembered leaving my carriage not far from there.
‘Ain’t from these parts. Don’t know the place,’ he said with a gormless air. ‘But, hey, just up there, at the keeper’s house, they’ll tell you all right.’
A few metres further on, a roof of red tiles stood out sharply against the grey sky.
That’s it then, I thought. Come on, chin up!
And hitching up my skirts like a true countrywoman, I made for the house as directed. There I would wait for the storm to end whilst these good people hurried off to fetch my carriage.
But suddenly there was a tremendous clap of thunder and, frightened out of my wits, I almost fell into the arms of the forest warden coming to see who it was stumbling up to his door.
‘The young man’s not hurt, he isn’t hurt, calm yourself, pretty lady!’
Totally bewildered, I understood not a word the good fellow was saying.
‘Just a moment,’ I gasped, ‘I don’t know what you mean… I’ve come to ask for shelter until this storm blows itself out and I can get back to my carriage up on the road.’
The forest keeper realised I knew nothing, and hastened to explain, in obsequious tones: ‘Then come in, madame, but I’ve got to warn you straight off, surprises like this don’t do anyone no good. We’ve got a poor young feller through there who’s still out cold. Brigitte’s rubbing his temples for all she’s worth and he’s still not come round. When the storm broke I was just finishing my rounds and I heard this bicycle bell ringing behind me, all urgent, and this bicycle hurtled past like a thunderbolt. Then crash! I see this young man that’s riding it hit a marker stone a few metres further up the path. I run as fast as my old legs will let me and, lordy, he’s in a terrible state. I pick him up, I get my arm round him and, as it’s not so far from here, we manage to drag ourselves back to the cottage. But, bless me, the effort’s been too much and he’s passed out!’
‘Let’s go and see him,’ I replied, ‘and if I can be of any use…’
He led me into a rather dark room serving as kitchen and bedroom combined.
On a wicker armchair, placed against the foot of a double bed with a serge cover pulled over it, a young man, his head thrown back, his arms hanging loose, sprawled as if asleep. His distorted features still betrayed his state of shock, and from beneath the disordered and rain-flattened curls of his silky brown hair, a thread of blood trickled down his pale forehead.
I went over. Heavens, it was him! My Florentine poet! My young friend, the one I couldn’t get out of my mind!
In the gloom of the large room I hadn’t recognised him at first. Quivering with fright and happiness at the same time, and while the forester’s wife was holding out my bottle of smelling salts, I used my handkerchief to staunch the blood beading his brow. But since nothing seemed to bring him back to life, I squatted by his knees, overcome with terror, took his limp hands in mine, and I surprised myself, I who had never prayed, by pleading: ‘My God, save him!’
Was I afraid, already, of losing a joy I had hardly possessed? Oh, my happy dream!!
Then I became aware of a change, as if some liquid warmth was beginning to flow through him. A pink flush spread over his cheeks and his drooping eyelids fluttered lightly.
Suddenly he opened his eyes wide. Oh, my friend, those eyes! What wells of tenderness! What stirrings of trust and love in the look he gave me!
It may surprise you, my friend, but a fit of bashfulness came over me, yes, me! And making a violent effort to conceal my confusion, I abruptly stood up.
‘Do you feel any better now, monsieur?’ I enquired, with convincing nonchalance.
And as if a little ashamed of his weakness: ‘Thank you, forgive me’ he stammered, ‘and if these most kind people could help me back on my bicycle…’
‘Wouldn’t you rather take advantage of my carriage?’ I ventured, encouraged by the forester, who was explaining to him that such a course would be most unwise, and in any case the bicycle in question was in pieces.
Chance had thus engineered an opportunity to be alone with him and I was secretly delighted, I confess. We drove along in the fresh-scented air that follows rain. The bushes and hedgerows sparkled with pearls in the light of the setting sun, and in my soul I felt a deep beatitude, a thing I had never yet experienced.
And he, expression animated and eyes shining, stumbled over himself to express his warm gratitude: I had saved his life; whilst I… jealously preserving this sweet moment, kept silent, fearing that any fulsome words of mine would make him lose his intensity.
After a while we came to a small house, nestled in a thicket of greenery, where he lived with his mother.
‘This is it,’ he said.
At the same moment Mme Duvert appeared on the steps, beneath an arch of clematis and honeysuckle. Raising a pair of binoculars, she began to scan the horizon anxiously, feverishly, peering in every direction. Then suddenly she let the glasses fall and stared in amazement at the splendid carriage drawing to a halt outside her door.
‘Mother!’ exclaimed my young friend as, still staggering a little, he clambered down.
It was indeed the woman whose distinguished appearance had already impressed me.
‘This is Madame de Valneige, mother. I owe it to her that I’m back here safe and sound.’
And even as she stared wonderingly at me, Mme Duvert, in great agitation, plied us with questions. She wanted to know everything; the three of us were all talking at once.
‘But excuse me,’ she said, suddenly interrupting the flood of words. ‘Let me first of all say how extremely grateful I am, and then won’t you please come in. We can get to know one another a little better and we shall be able to talk more comfortably.’
Instinctively I took a step back. One never quite forgets one’s beginnings in life. Faint stirrings of my former pureness, memories of little Louise Aubertin from the Touraine rose in my heart, with the result that I was crippled by scruples. How could I possibly deceive this unimpeachable mother, allow my frills to brush against her irreproachable widow’s black? Could I breathe the honest ai
r of this peaceful house without choking on it?
So, declining under all manner of pretexts this friendly offer, I got back into the carriage, whilst Paul Duvert followed my departure with a long and troubled gaze.
But no sooner had I returned to my solitude, to my dreaming, than I realised I was a fool, a complete fool!
What on earth was I doing? They had thrown wide the door of this welcoming house, I was being offered a readymade friendship, the way was clear for me to turn into reality a thing I already dreamed of: seeing Paul Duvert, seeing him often, and, because of an idiotic sense of delicacy, I was closing that door in my own face, and perhaps closing that heart too!
The very violence of my regrets informed me what my feelings really were. It had happened already! The arrow had pierced me! I was in love! I was in love!
I was in love with Paul Duvert. This child, with his frank yet mysterious gaze, his poet’s brow, his guileless heart, was something quite new to me, and had strangely disturbed me.
What I felt inside was akin to an illness. If it makes sense to say so, I would call it an exquisite illness, a thing I would have liked to be rid of and wanted to retain, a thing that filled me with fear and with pleasure, which threw me into a panic of fright and hope.
Once again I was trembling at the prospect of reaching out towards a happiness that I have never been able to grasp. Once again I was trembling at the thought of believing for a while only to relapse into doubt!
What makes me think, then, that I shall find in this youthfulness the thing which, in the whole of my career, already lengthy, I have never found? Why should this child, then, be the spark that sets the dry wood ablaze? Why do I think I shall love this Paul Duvert, with his humility, when I am a woman who has remained as marble in the arms of the most brilliant of men? Yes, I told myself all these things, I lectured myself, I made efforts to put it out of my mind, but I was in love, yes I was in love and I was feeling it properly for the first time in my life!
If only he would come, my young hero, if only he would come to me! But would he call on me here? It was true, I had done him some small service, which he would not, perhaps, forget. But on the other hand, Gérard hadn’t mentioned that Mme Duvert was such a possessive mother, always anxious, always concerned to guard her son from the pitfalls along life’s road. And if, by chance, in spite of her solitary life, she knew the name of Josiane de Valneige, then would that not make me the deepest of pitfalls, the most dangerous, the most to be feared!
And I waited, me, like a convent girl at the first stirrings of her heart consulting the daisies in the fields: he won’t come, he will come, he won’t come, he will!!!
XV
To the Same
I had been playing this little game for a week and he had not come!
Since I couldn’t possibly leave the house, going for walks was out of the question.
I left my blinds down and remained determinedly at home, wandering up and down in a haze of rice powder and drifts of smoke from my Russian cigarettes. One afternoon, towards five, I heard a timid pull at the bell. I don’t believe there had been more than ten callers in all my time at Brunoy and I listened with senses alert.
At the same moment, almost as flustered as if it had been for her, Gérard came in to say: ‘It’s him, madame, it’s him!’
‘Him, what do you mean…? Someone we don’t want to see?’
‘No, not at all… it’s the young man… you know, M. Paul Duvert, and he’s…’
‘Gérard, oh my good Gérard! Quick, put my hair up! Quick, my blue dress!’ It was important to me to be correct.
And I, who kept the greatest of men waiting, who used to enjoy letting them languish in the anteroom, I was trembling so much I couldn’t fasten my dress.
Nevertheless – ah, the power of habit! – before making my appearance, as I stood in front of my dressing mirror, I pulled myself together: I was beautiful, although a little pale; and I entered the drawing room.
M. Paul Duvert was standing over by the wall, bending a little to look at my portrait, you know, the pastel by Gallex. He bowed low in greeting, with a ceremonious gaucheness that was rather sweet, and spoke as if he had learned his speech by heart: ‘Forgive me, madame, for coming so belatedly to thank you… a little unwell since my accident…’
‘There was no need to thank me,’ I told him, extending a hand stiffly. ‘I was happy to render you some small service. Let us talk of it no further, if you please.’
The ice was broken, but for a long moment he said nothing more, and neither did I.
The silence, however, was becoming awkward; and, forcing myself to say something: ‘Madame your mother is well?’ I ventured.
Once we had set foot on the safe ground of mundane politenesses and well-trodden banalities, which often veil deep feeling, sincere emotion, we talked for nearly an hour.
His eyes were alight now, like those banked-up fires where a flame suddenly leaps out, his face was flushed with hopefulness and the rapid chatter that fell from his lips told me a great deal more than he was striving not to tell me…
As for me, I was watching him, radiant, thrilled, never interrupting for fear of breaking the spell of my own joy, when without warning he jumped abruptly to his feet.
‘I’m sure it must be getting late… in your company, madame, one forgets the time, and my mother will be waiting for me, growing anxious perhaps. She is so good, my mother!’
‘In that case I must not detain you,’ I replied, rising with regret. ‘But we shall meet again soon, yes?’
And kissing my hand with trembling lips, he lowered his voice to a bare murmur, as if lowering one’s voice were tantamount to making a declaration, and said: ‘Thank you, until very soon! You make me very happy.’
I do believe Gérard might have been eavesdropping, for she was instantly there on the other side of the door, ready to show him out.
XVI
To the Same
Ah, my friend! I am the happiest of women and the most unhappy: I am in love! I love, I love!!!
Since that visit, I seem to have vaulted the entire distance separating earth from heaven in a single flap of my wings, and in this great leap to have shaken off all the dust that still clung to my feet!
Ah, I understand now what they mean, a simple cottage and its beating heart! But, dreadful to relate, this is the very moment my past comes back to haunt me, it smothers me, as if it was determined to make happiness impossible for me!
To have in my heart a pristine love which my mere breath would tarnish, to be concealing, behind my factitious beauty, uglinesses he knows nothing about, to be almost groaning with misery precisely because I have found at last a long sought after happiness, it is awful, my friend, and it is cruel!
Oh, don’t say, ‘That poor Valneige, it’s all gone to her head again, she’s letting herself get carried away, she’s in cloud-cuckoo-land.’ Don’t say, ‘This is no different from all the other times, it’ll all be over in half a day!’ No, no, believe me, I don’t want it to be like that, this is something on another scale altogether. This has started a whole new set of strings vibrating inside me, there’s a sea-change taking place inside my whole being. I am alive, I feel, I think, I speak, I breathe, I walk, I drink and eat in a totally different way.
Yes, this time I love with the kind of love by which you live or die. And I want to live by it, I do, live by it for a long time, live with all my body and all my soul.
XVII
Jean Leblois to Josiane de Valneige
I am delighted, my friend, by everything I read. Finally! Finally, this could be true happiness! But I have to tell you that there is one shadow over the satisfaction I feel: I am fearful to see you love in such a way someone so young; and fearful of what you have still to tell me. Oh, if only you had been able to keep your feelings under control! That would perhaps have been the wiser course. But I do not feel at all confident. Don’t be cross with me for sending futile advice after the event, and believe, as ev
er, that I am your devoted friend.
J.L.
XVIII
Josiane de Valneige to Jean Leblois
You’re getting old, my dear, you’re getting old!
Your excellent, if sleep-inducing advice comes too late.
One does not tell one’s heart: Halt!
After being thirsty all my life, do you think, my poor friend, I am not going to drink my fill at the first clear stream I chance on? Do you think that after shivering in my sumptuous surroundings like a penniless creature out on the streets I am not going to wrap myself in comfort and joy at the first caress of the sun?
It would not be human, my good friend; in fact it would be stupid.
Haven’t I already amassed, looking back, a sufficient store of suffering and regret? Didn’t I tell you that the other day? So permit me now to glean a few grains, if that’s possible, of true happiness in a love that is free from all impurities.
This is life, this is life!
As for that mother, whom I had at first cast as a baleful spirit, I have to say she was not as fearsome as all that. It appeared she was a good woman, gentle and well-disposed even… admittedly, she clearly… didn’t know. But rest assured, I did not challenge her love for her son, I was not jealous. He was so obviously a person to be loved, to be adored, that sooner than not love him at all I would have loved him like a mother, like a sister.
You don’t understand that, do you? And I don’t doubt you’re saying to yourself: that’s not Josiane talking!
Chasing the Dream Page 8
