by Colette
‘Now, now, are all of you here?’ scolded Mademoiselle, who, as usual, was visiting her personal resentments on our innocent heads. ‘Whether you are or not, we’re leaving now. I’ve no desire to hang … to wait about here for an hour. Get into line – and quicker than lightning!’
We needn’t have hurried! Up there, on that enormous platform, we marked time for ages, for the Minister lingered endlessly over his coffee and all that went with it. The crowd, herded like sheep down below, looked up at us and laughed, with the sweating faces of people who have lunched heavily … The ‘Society’ ladies had brought campstools; the innkeeper from the Rue du Cloître had set out benches, which he was hiring out at two sous a place; and the boys and girls had piled on to them, shoving each other; all those people, tipsy, coarse, and cheerful, waited patiently, exchanging loud ribaldries which they shouted to each other from a distance with tremendous laughs. From time to time, a little girl in white forced her way through to the steps of the platform, climbed up and got herself hustled and pushed into the back rows by Mademoiselle whose nerves were on edge from all these delays and who was champing her bit under her eye-veil. She was even more furious on account of little Aimée who was making great play with her long lashes and her lovely eyes at a group of draper’s assistants who had bicycled over from Villeneuve.
A great ‘Ah!’ heaved the crowd towards the doors of the banqueting-room which had just opened to let out the Minister, even redder and more perspiring than this morning, followed by his escort of black dress-suits. Already people made way for him with more familiarity, with smiles of recognition: if he stayed here three days, the rural policemen would be tapping him on the stomach, asking him for a tobacconist’s shop for his daughter-in-law who’s got three children, poor girl, and no husband.
Mademoiselle massed us on the right-hand side of the platform, for the Minister and his confederates were going to sit on this row of seats, the better to hear us sing. Their Lordships installed themselves; Dutertre, the colour of Russia leather, was laughing and talking too loud, drunk, as if by accident. Mademoiselle threatened us under her breath with appalling punishments if we sang out of tune, and off we went with the Hymn to Nature:
‘Lo, the sky is tinged with morning,
Glowing beams grow brighter yet:
Haste, arise! the day is dawning,
Honest toil demands our sweat!’
(If it’s not content with the sweat of the official cortège, honest toil must demand a great deal!)
The small voices were a little lost in the open air; I did my very utmost to superintend the ‘seconds’ and the ‘thirds’ simultaneously. Monsieur Jean Dupuy vaguely followed the beat by nodding his head; he was sleepy, dreaming of the report in the Petit Parisien. The whole-hearted applause woke him up; he stood up, went forward and clumsily complimented Mademoiselle Sergent who promptly turned shy, stared at the ground and retired into her shell … Queer woman!
We were dislodged and the pupils of the boys’ School took our place. They had come to bray in chorus a completely imbecile song:
‘Sursum corda! Sursum corda!
Up all hearts! this noble order
Be the cry that spurs our soul!
Rally, brothers, thrust aside
All that might our wills divide,
March on firmly to the goal!
Fling cold selfishness away,
Traitors, who for wealth betray,
Are not such a bitter foe
To the burning love we owe
As patriots to … etc., etc …’
After them, the brass-band of the main town, ‘The Friendly Club of Fresnois’, came to shatter our ears. It was excessively boring, all this! If I could only find a peaceful corner … And then, since no one was paying the least attention to us, upon my word, I left without telling anyone. I went back home, I undressed and I lay down till dinnertime. Why not? I should be fresher at the ball!
At nine o’clock, I was standing on the steps in front of the house, breathing in the coolness that was falling at last. At the top of the street, under the triumphal arch, ripened paper balloons in the shape of huge coloured fruits. All ready, my gloves on, a white hood under my arm, a white fan clasped in my fingers, I waited for Marie and Anaïs who were coming to fetch me … Light footsteps and well-known voices were heard approaching down the street, it was my two friends … I protested:
‘Are you mad? To leave for the ball at half past nine! But the room won’t even be lit up – it’s ridiculous!’
‘My dear, Mademoiselle said: “It’ll begin at half past eight. In this part of the world, they’re like that, you can’t make them wait. They’ll rush off to the ball as soon as they’ve wiped their mouths!” That’s what she said.’
‘All the more reason not to imitate the boys and girls round here! If the “dress-suits” dance tonight, they’ll arrive about eleven, as people do in Paris, and we shall already have lost our bloom from dancing! Come into the garden for a little with me.’
They followed me, much against their wills, into the dusky tree-lined paths where my cat Fanchette, dressed in white, like us, was dancing after moths, capering like a crazy creature … She mistrusted the sound of strange voices and climbed up into a fir-tree, from which her eyes followed us, like two tiny green lanterns. In any case, Fanchette despised me these days: what with the examination, and the opening of the Schools, I was never there any more. I no longer caught her flies, quantities of flies, that I impaled in a row on a hatpin and which she picked off delicately in order to eat them, coughing occasionally because of a wing stuck uncomfortably in her throat; I hardly ever gave her coarse cooking-chocolate now or the bodies of butterflies, which she adored, and sometimes, in the evening, I went so far as to forget to ‘make her room’ between two volumes of Larousse – patience, Fanchette darling! Soon I shall have all the time in the world to tease you and make you jump through a hoop because, alas! I shall never be going back to the School …
Anaïs and Marie could not keep still and only answered me with absent-minded Yeses and Noes – their legs were itching to dance. All right, we would go since they were so desperately keen to be off! ‘But you’ll see that our lady mistresses won’t even have come downstairs!’
‘Oh! You know, they’ve only got to come down the little inside staircase to find themselves right in the ballroom; they’ll take a peep now and then through the little door to see whether it’s the right moment to make their entrance.’
‘Exactly. Whereas if we arrive too early, we’ll look utter fools, all by ourselves – except for three cats and a calf – in that enormous room!’
‘Oh! You’re simply maddening, Claudine! Look? if there’s nobody there, we’ll go up the little staircase and rout out the boarders and we’ll go downstairs again when the dancers have arrived!’
‘All right. In that case, I’m quite willing.’
To think I had feared that this great room would be a desert! It was already more than half-full of couples who were gyrating to the strains of a mixed orchestra (mounted on the garlanded platform at the end of the room); an orchestra composed of Trouillard and other local violinists, trombonists and cornet-players mingled with sections of ‘The Friendly Club of Fresnois’ in gold-braided caps. All of them were blowing, scraping, and banging, far from in unison but with tremendous spirit.
We had to push our way through the hedge of people who were looking on and cluttering up the main doorway. Both the double doors were flung open for it was here, you realize, that a self-constituted vigilance committee took up its station! It was here that disapproving remarks and cackles were exchanged about the young girls’ dresses and the frequency with which certain couples danced together. ‘My dear! Fancy showing as much of one’s skin as that! What a little hussy!’
‘Yes, and showing what? Just bones!’
‘Four times, four times running she’s danced with Monmond! If only I were her mother, I’d give her what-for to teach her a lesson, I’d send he
r straight home to bed!’
‘Those gentlemen from Paris, they don’t dance like we do here.’
‘They certainly don’t! You’d think they were afraid of getting themselves broken, they exert themselves so little. Now, our boys here, that’s something like! They enjoy themselves without minding how hard they go at it!’
It was the truth, even though Monmond, a brilliant dancer, was restraining himself from doing flying leaps with outspread legs, ‘with reference to’ the presence of the people from Paris. A dashing young spark, Monmond, over whom there was fierce rivalry! A lawyer’s clerk, with a girl’s face and black curly hair, how could you expect anyone to resist him!
We made a timid entrance, between two figures of a quadrille, and we walked slowly and deliberately across the room to go and seat ourselves on a sofa against the wall – three model little girls.
I had been fairly sure, in fact, I had seen for myself that my dress suited me and that my hair and my wreath made my little face look very far from contemptible – but the sly glances and the suddenly rigid countenances of the girls who were resting and fanning themselves made me quite convinced of it and I felt more at ease. I could examine the room without apprehension.
The ‘dress-suits’, ah! there weren’t many of them! All the official group had taken the six o’clock train; farewell to the Minister, the General, the Prefect and their suite. There remained some five or six young men, mere secretaries, but pleasant and civilized, who were standing in a corner and seemed to be prodigiously amused at this hall, the like of which they had obviously never seen before. The rest of the male dancers? All the boys and young men of Montigny and its neighbourhood, two or three in badly cut evening clothes, the rest in morning-coats; paltry accoutrements for this evening’s party that was supposed to be an official occasion.
The female dancers consisted entirely of young girls, for, in this primitive countryside, a woman ceases to dance as soon as she is married. They had spared no expense tonight, the young ones! Dresses of pink muslin and blue muslin that made the swarthy complexions of these little country girls look almost black, hair that was too sleek and not puffed out enough, white cotton gloves, and, in spite of the assertions of the gossips in the doorway, necks that were not cut nearly low enough; the bodices stopped their décolletage too soon, just where the flesh became white, firm, and rounded.
The orchestra warned the couples to set to partners and, amidst the fan-strokes of the skirts that brushed our knees, I saw my First Communion partner, Claire, languid and altogether charming, pass by in the arms of the handsome assistant-master, Antonin Rabastens, who was waltzing furiously, wearing a white carnation in his buttonhole.
Our lady mistresses had still not come down (I was keeping assiduous watch on the little door of the secret staircase, through which they would appear) when a gentleman, one of the ‘dress-suits’, came and made his bow to me. I let myself be swept off; he was not unattractive; too tall for me, but solidly built, and he waltzed well, without squeezing me too tight, and looking down at me with an amused expression …
How idiotic I am! I ought to have been aware of nothing else but the pleasure of dancing, of the pure joy of being invited before Anaïs who was staring at my partner with an envious eye … and, yet, during that waltz, I was conscious only of unhappiness, of a sadness, foolish perhaps, but so acute that I could only just keep back my tears … Why? Ah, because … – no, I can’t be utterly sincere, I can only give a hint or two … I felt my soul overwhelmed with sorrow because, though I’m not in the least fond of dancing, I should have liked to dance with someone whom I adored with all my heart. I should have liked that someone there so that I could relieve my tension by telling him everything that I confided only to Fanchette or to my pillow (and not even to my diary) because I so wildly needed that someone, and this humiliated me, and I would never surrender myself except to the someone whom I should completely love and completely know – dreams, in short, that would never be realized!
My tall waltzer did not fail to ask me:
‘You like dancing, Mademoiselle?’
‘No, Monsieur.’
‘But then … why are you dancing?’
‘Because I’d rather be doing even that than nothing at all.’
We went twice round the room in silence and then he began again:
‘May one observe that your two companions serve you as admirable foils?’
‘Oh, heavens, yes, you may! All the same Marie is quite attractive.’
‘You said?’
‘I said that the one in blue isn’t ugly.’
‘I … don’t much appreciate that type of beauty … Will you allow me to ask you here and now for the next waltz?’
‘Yes, certainly.’
‘You haven’t a dance-programme?’
‘That doesn’t matter: I know everyone here, I shan’t forget.’
He took me back to my seat and had hardly turned his back before Anaïs complimented me with one of her most supercilious ‘My dears!’
‘Yes, he really is charming, isn’t he? And you’d never believe how amusing it is to hear him talk!’
‘Oh! Everyone knows your luck’s right in today! I’ve been asked for the next dance, by Féfed.’
‘And me,’ said Marie, who was radiant, ‘by Monmond! Ah! Here comes Mademoiselle!’
Here, in fact came both ladies. They stood framed in turn in the little doorway at the far end of the room; first, little Aimée who had only changed into an evening top, an all-white, filmy bodice from which emerged delicate dimpled shoulders and slim, rounded arms; in her hair, just above the ear, white and yellow roses made the golden eyes look more golden still – they had no need of them to make them sparkle!
Mademoiselle Sergent, still in black, but trimmed with sequins this time, wore a dress that was cut only very slightly low at the neck, revealing firm, amber-tinted flesh. Her foaming hair cast a warm shadow over her ill-favoured face and made her eyes shine out; she really looked quite well. Behind her came the serpentine train of the boarders, in white, high-necked dresses, all very commonplace. Luce rushed up to tell me that she made herself ‘décolletée’ by tucking in the top of her dress, in spite of her sister’s opposition. She had been right to do so. Almost at the same moment Dutertre entered by the big main door; red, excited, and talking too loud.
On account of the rumours that circulated in the town, the whole room was keenly watching these simultaneous entries of the future Deputy and his protégé. But neither of them fluttered an eyelash: Dutertre went straight up to Mademoiselle Sergent, greeted her and, as the orchestra was just beginning a polka, he boldly swept her off with him. She, flushed and with her eyes half-closed, did not talk at all and danced … very gracefully, upon my word! The couples re-formed and attention was turned elsewhere.
Having conducted the Headmistress back to her place, the District Superintendent came up to me – a flattering attention, very much remarked. He mazurkaed violently, without waltzing, but whirling round too much, squeezing me too tight and talking too much into my hair:
‘You’re as pretty as a cherub!’
‘In the first place, Doctor, why do you call me “tu”, like a child? I’m practically grown-up.’
‘No, have I got to restrain myself? Just look at this grown-up person! … Oh, your hair and that white wreath! How I’d love to take it off you!’
‘I swear that you won’t be the one who’ll take it off!’
‘Be quiet, or I’ll kiss you in front of everyone!’
‘No one would be surprised – they’ve seen you do it to so many others …’
‘True. But why won’t you come and see me? It’s not fear that stops you, you’ve got thoroughly naughty eyes … You see, I’ll catch you again one of these days; don’t laugh, you’ll end up by making me lose my temper!’
‘Pooh! Don’t make yourself out so wicked – I don’t believe you.’
He laughed, showing his teeth, and I thought to myself:
‘Talk as much as you like: next winter, I’ll be in Paris and you’ll never run into me there!’
After me, he went off to whirl round with little Aimée, while Monmond, in an alpaca morning-coat, invited me to dance. I didn’t refuse, certainly not! Provided they’re wearing gloves, I’m very willing to dance with the local boys (the ones I know well) who are charming to me, in their way. Then I danced again with my tall ‘dress-suit’ of the first waltz up till the moment when I took a little breather during a quadrille so as not to get flushed and also because quadrilles seem to me ridiculous. Claire joined me, gentle and languishing, softened tonight with a melancholy that became her. I questioned her:
‘Tell me, is everyone talking about you because the handsome schoolmaster’s so assiduous?’
‘Oh, do you think so? … They can’t say anything, because there’s nothing to say.’
‘Come on! You’re not going to pretend to make mysteries with me, are you?’
‘Good heavens, no! But it’s the truth – there really is nothing! … Look, we’ve met twice, tonight’s the third time. He talks in a way that’s absolutely … captivating! And just now he asked me if I ever went for walks in the evening in the Fir Plantation.’
‘Everyone knows what that means. What’s your answer going to be?’
She smiled, without speaking, with a hesitant, yet longing expression. She would go. They’re odd, these little girls! Here was one who was pretty and gentle, docile and sentimental, and who, from the age of fourteen, had got herself deserted by half a dozen lovers in succession. She didn’t know how to manage them. It was true that I shouldn’t have the least idea how to manage them either, in spite of all the magnificent arguments I put up.
A vague giddiness was coming over me, from spinning round and, above all, from watching others spin round. Nearly all the ‘dress-suits’ had left, but Dutertre was whirling round with tremendous enthusiasm, dancing with all the girls he found attractive or who were merely very young. He swept them off their feet, turned their heads, crushed them nearly to death and left them dazed, but highly flattered. After midnight, the hall became, from minute to minute, a homelier affair; now that the ‘foreigners’ had gone, everyone was among their own friends again, the public of Trouillard’s little dancing and drinking place on holidays – only one had more room to move in this big, gaily-decorated room and the chandelier gave a better light than the three oil-lamps of the cabaret. The presence of Doctor Dutertre did not make the boys feel shy, very much the reverse; already Monmond had stopped restraining his feet from sliding over the parquet floor. They flew, those feet, they sprang up above people’s heads or shot wildly apart in prodigious ‘splits’. The girls admired him and giggled into their handkerchiefs scented with cheap eau-de-Cologne. ‘My dear, isn’t he a scream? There’s nobody like him!’
