Meanwhile I was completely petrified. I had hardly heard the Chevalier’s speech. I cried out: ‘Ah! Unworthy man! Ah! Chevalier! You, you, my friend!’
‘Yes, I was, and I am still, since, in order to free you from the snares of this creature, I am revealing a secret which is more hers than mine. But what makes me really sorry is that you have received from her nothing to compensate you for all that you have done for her.’
Here Jacques started to laugh and whistle.
– But this is just like Collé’s Vérité dans le vin…71
Reader, you don’t know what you are talking about. You are so concerned with showing how intelligent you are that you end up being stupid. It is so little a case of in vino veritas that it is in fact the opposite – it is untruth in the wine. I have been rude to you. I am sorry and I beg your pardon.
MASTER: My anger subsided little by little. I embraced the Chevalier, who sat down again in his chair with his elbows on the table and fists clenched over his eyes. He did not dare to look at me.
JACQUES: He was so upset! And you had the kindness to console him!
(And Jacques carried on whistling.)
MASTER: It seemed to me that the best thing to do was to turn the thing into a joke. At every light-hearted word the downcast Chevalier said to me: ‘There can be no other man like you. You are unique. You are worth a hundred times more than me. I doubt if I would have had the generosity or the strength to forgive you a similar wrong and you are treating it all light-heartedly. That is unheard of. My friend, what could I do that could ever make amends?… Ah! No, no, that is not the kind of thing one can make amends for. Never, never will I forget either my crime or your leniency. Those are two deeds which are profoundly engraved on my heart… I will remember one so that I may detest myself, the other so that I may admire you and so that my affection for you will increase.’
‘Come along, Chevalier, think no more of it. You are making too much of your action and mine. Let us drink. To your health. Chevalier, to my own health then, since you do not wish us to drink to yours…’
Little by little the Chevalier took heart. He then told me all the details of his betrayal, heaping upon himself the hardest epithets. He tore the daughter, her mother, her father, her aunts and her whole family to pieces and he showed them to be a bunch of rogues unworthy of me but only too worthy of him. Those were his own words.
JACQUES: And that is why I advise women never to sleep with people who get drunk. I despise your Chevalier hardly less for his indiscretion in love than for his treachery in friendship. What the devil! He had only to… be an honest man and tell you straight away… But listen, Monsieur, I still think he’s a blackguard, a frightful blackguard. I no longer know how all this will end and I am afraid lest he cheat you again in being honest with you. Release me, release yourself quickly from the inn and the company of that man…
At this point Jacques picked up his gourd again, forgetting that it contained neither tisane nor wine. His master started laughing. Jacques coughed non-stop for nearly ten minutes afterwards. His master took out his watch and his snuff-box and carried on with his story, which I will interrupt, if you don’t mind, if only to annoy Jacques by proving to him that it was not written up above, as he believed, that he would always be interrupted and his master would never be.
MASTER: ‘After what you have told me I hope that you will never ever see them again.’
‘Me, see them again! But what infuriates me is to go away without taking revenge. They have betrayed, manipulated and robbed a worthy man. They have taken unfair advantage of the passion and weakness of another worthy man – for I still dare to think of myself as such – to lead him into one abomination after another. They have exposed two friends to hate each other, perhaps to tear out each other’s throat, because, after all, my dear friend, you must admit that, if you had discovered my unworthy conduct, you are brave and you might perhaps have felt such resentment at it that…’
‘No, it would not have been as bad as that. Why should it? And for whom? Because of a deed which nobody could guarantee they might not commit? Is she my wife? And even if she were? Is she my daughter? No, she’s a little guttersnipe, and you believe that for a little guttersnipe… Come along, my friend, let us forget all about that and drink. Agathe is young, lively, white, shapely, plump… with the firmest body? The softest skin? Making love to her must have been delightful and I imagine that the pleasure of being in her arms could hardly have left you much time to think of your friends.’
‘It is beyond doubt that, if the charms of the person concerned and physical pleasure could mitigate the offence, no one on this earth could be less guilty than me.’
‘Ah! Now then, Chevalier, I will backtrack a little. I withdraw my forgiveness and wish to impose one condition on pardoning your betrayal.’
‘Speak, my friend, command me, tell me. Must I throw myself out of the window, hang myself, drown myself, plunge this knife into my chest…’
At that moment the Chevalier grabbed a knife which was on the table, pulled off his collar, opened his shirt and, wild-eyed, with his right hand placed the point of the knife on his left clavicle and seemed to be just waiting for my order to dispatch himself in the manner of the ancients.
‘That’s not what I meant, Chevalier, put the knife down.’
‘I will not. I deserve it. Give me the signal.’
‘Put that useless knife down, I tell you. I don’t put such a high price on your pardon…’
However, the point of the knife was still hovering over his left clavicle. I grabbed his hand, snatched the knife away from him and threw it far away from me. Then, moving the bottle close to his glass and filling it full, I spoke to him: ‘First of all let us drink and then you will know what terrible terms I am imposing for your forgiveness. So, Agathe is delicious then, voluptuous?’
‘Ah, my friend, if only you knew like I do.’
‘But wait. Let them bring us a bottle of champagne and then you can tell me the story of one of your nights. Charming traitor, your absolution comes at the end of the story. Go on, begin… Didn’t you hear me?’
‘I heard you.’
‘Does the sentence seem too harsh to you?’
‘No.’
‘You are thinking.’
‘I am thinking.’
‘What did I ask you?’
‘For the story of one of my nights with Agathe.’
‘That’s right.’
Meanwhile the Chevalier was measuring me from head to toe and saying to himself: ‘Same size, more or less the same age, and although there are some differences there won’t be any light and in her mind’s eye she’ll be expecting me and won’t suspect a thing…’
‘But, Chevalier, what are you thinking of? Your glass is still full and you haven’t started.’
‘I am thinking, my friend, I have thought it out. Everything is worked out. Embrace me. We will have our vengeance, yes, we will have it. It is a dastardly trick on my part, but, if it is unworthy of me, it certainly isn’t unworthy of that little hussy. You asked me to tell the story of one of my nights, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, is that too much to ask?’
‘No, but what if, instead of the story, I could get you the night itself?’
‘That would be even better.’
(Jacques started whistling.)
At that the Chevalier took two keys out of his pocket, one small, the other large.
‘The small one’, he said to me, ‘is the latch-key to the front door. The large one is for Agathe’s dressing-room. There they are. Both of them are at your service. This has been my routine every day for about the past six months. Yours will be the same. The windows of her room are at the front, as you know. I walk up and down the street for as long as I see them lit up. A pot of basil placed outside is the agreed signal, and when I see that I go up to the front door, open it, go in, shut it behind me and go upstairs as quietly as I can. Then I turn down the little corridor which is on the
right. The first door on the left of this corridor, as you know, is hers. I unlock this door with the big key and go into the little dressing-room which is on the right, where I find a little night candle, by the light of which I undress at my leisure. Agathe leaves the door to her bedroom ajar and I go through and go to her in her bed. Do you understand that?’
‘Very well.’
‘Since there are people all around us we keep quiet.’
‘And then I imagine that you’ve got better things to do than talk.’
‘If anything goes wrong I can always jump out of her bed and shut myself in the dressing-room. However, that has never happened. Our normal practice is to part around four o’clock in the morning. When pleasure or sleep keeps us later, we get up together. She goes downstairs and I stay in the dressing-room where I get dressed, read, rest and wait until I can safely appear. Then I go downstairs, say hello and embrace her as if I had just arrived.’
‘Are you expected tonight?’
‘I am expected every night.’
‘And will you let me take your place?’
‘With all my heart. I don’t mind at all if you prefer the night itself to the story, but what I would like is…’
‘Say it. There is hardly anything that I do not feel courageous enough to do to oblige you.’
‘What I would like is for you to stay in her arms till daylight and then I could arrive and surprise you.’
‘Oh, no, Chevalier, that would be too wicked.’
‘Too wicked? I am not as wicked as you think. Beforehand I would get undressed in the dressing-room.’
‘Come along, Chevalier, you have the devil in you. Anyhow it’s impossible. If you give me the keys you won’t have them any more.’
‘Ah! My friend, you are so stupid!’
‘Yes, but not all that stupid, it seems to me.’
‘And why could we not go in together? You would go to Agathe and I would stay in the dressing-room until you gave a signal we agreed on.’
‘My God, that is so absurd, so mad, that it wouldn’t take much for me to keep this trick up my sleeve for one of the other nights.’
‘Ah! I understand. Your plan is to take your revenge more than once.’
‘If you agree.’
‘Absolutely.’
JACQUES: Your Chevalier is upsetting all my theories. I thought that…
MASTER: You thought?
JACQUES: No, Monsieur, you may continue.
MASTER: We drank and we said a hundred extravagant things about the night which was coming, the following nights and the night when Agathe would find herself between the Chevalier and me. The Chevalier’s mood changed back to one of delightful merriment and the subject of our conversation was hardly a sad one. He laid down for me rules of nocturnal conduct which were not all equally easy to follow, but after a long succession of well-spent nights I was sure of upholding the honour of the Chevalier on my first night, no matter how wonderful he maintained he was. And then there were endless details on the talents, perfections and facilities offered by Agathe. The Chevalier combined the headiness of passion and that of wine with incredible skill. The hour chosen for our escapade or vengeance seemed to come all too slowly. Nevertheless we got up from table. The Chevalier paid. It was the first time he had ever done that. We got into our carriage. We were drunk, and our coachman and valets were even drunker than us.
Reader, what is there to prevent me from throwing the coachman, the horses, the carriage, the masters and their valets into a ditch? If the ditch scares you, what is there to prevent me from bringing them safe and sound into town where I could have their coach collide with another in which I could place some other young drunkards? Offensive words would be spoken, then a quarrel, swords drawn and a full-scale brawl. If you don’t like brawls, what is there to stop me from substituting Mlle Agathe and one of her aunts for these young people? But there was none of that. The Chevalier and Jacques’ master arrived in Paris. The latter took the Chevalier’s clothes. It was midnight and they were underneath Agathe’s windows. The light went out. The pot of basil was in its place. They went down to the end of the road and back again for the last time, the Chevalier rehearsing the drill with his friend. They went up to the door. The Chevalier unlocked it and let Jacques’ master in, keeping the pass-key to the street door, and giving him the key to the corridor room. Then the Chevalier closed the door and went off. After this little detail, laconically related, Jacques’ master carried on talking and said: ‘The building was familiar to me. I went upstairs on tiptoe, opened the door into the corridor, shut it, and went into the dressing-room where I found the little night light. I undressed. The bedroom door was ajar. I went through and into the alcove where Agathe was still awake. I opened the curtains around her bed and at the same moment felt two bare arms throw themselves around me and pull me closer. I let myself go, got into bed, and was overwhelmed with caresses which I returned. There I was, the happiest man who ever lived, and I still was when…’
Here Jacques’ master noticed that Jacques was sleeping or pretending to sleep and said: ‘You are sleeping, you are sleeping, you scoundrel, at the most interesting part of my story…’
This was just what Jacques had been anticipating.
‘Will you wake up?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because if I wake up my sore throat might wake up as well and I think it would be better for both of us if we rested.’
And Jacques let his head hang forward.
‘You’ll break your neck riding like that.’
‘Of course, if that is what is written up above. Were you not in Mlle Agathe’s arms?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you not happy there?’
‘Very happy.’
‘Well, stay there then.’
‘Long may I stay there, you mean to say.’
‘At least until I hear the story of Desglands’ spot.’
MASTER: You are avenging yourself, you traitor.
JACQUES: What if I am, Master? After you have interrupted the story of my loves with a thousand questions and as many whims, without the least murmur on my part, can I not beg you to interrupt your own to tell me the story of Desglands’ spot, that good man to whom I owe so much, who took me out of the surgeon’s house at the very moment when, because of shortage of money, I knew not what was to become of me, and at whose house I met Denise, Denise without whom I would not have spoken one word to you this whole journey? My Master, my dear Master, the story of Desglands’ spot. You may be as brief as you like and in the meantime the drowsiness which grips me and of which I am not the master will disappear and you may count on all my attention.
MASTER (shrugging his shoulders): In the neighbourhood of Desglands, there was a charming widow who had several qualities in common with a well-known courtesan of the last century. She was discreet by reason but libertine by temperament and regretted the next day the follies of the day before. She spent her whole life going from pleasure to remorse and remorse to pleasure, without the habit of pleasure lessening her remorse and without the habit of remorse lessening her taste for pleasure. I knew her towards the end of her life, when she used to say that at long last she had escaped from two great enemies. Her husband, who was lenient about the only fault which he could reproach her for, complained about her while she was alive and missed her for a long time after her death. He claimed that it would have been as ridiculous for him to prevent his wife from taking lovers as to prevent her from drinking. He forgave her the multitude of her conquests because of the discrimination she showed in her choice. She never allowed a stupid or wicked man to pay her court; her favours were always the reward of talent or probity. To say of a man that he was or had been her lover was to certify that he was a man of worth. Because she was aware of her inconstant nature she never pledged fidelity. She used to say: ‘I have only made one false oath in my life, and that was the first.’
After the decline of those
feelings she inspired or felt, friendship remained. Never was there a more striking example of the difference between probity and morality. One could not say that she had morals, but at the same time one had to admit that it was difficult to find a more honest person. Her parish priest saw her but rarely at the foot of his altar but he found her purse open at all times to help the poor. She used to say jokingly of religion and the law that they were a pair of crutches which were not to be taken away from those who had weak limbs. Women who feared their husbands being in her company desired their children to be so.
After Jacques had muttered from between clenched teeth: ‘You will pay for that damned portrait’, he added: ‘Were you in love with this woman?’
MASTER: I would certainly have become so had not Desglands got there first. Desglands fell in love with her.
JACQUES: Monsieur, could it be that the story of his spot and that of his loves are so closely linked the one to the other that one cannot separate them?
MASTER: They can be separated. The spot is an incident. The story is the account of everything which happened while they were in love.
JACQUES: And did a lot of things happen?
MASTER: A lot.
JACQUES: In that case, if you are going to give each one the same length as you have given to the portrait of the heroine we won’t get to the end of this much before Whitsun, and that will be the end of the story of your loves and mine.
Jacques the Fatalist: And His Master Page 28
