I banished my recent misgivings, which I now saw as morbid and unnecessary, an echo of fears which had nothing to do with this bright day. Though others around me seemed as purposeful as ever my own steps slowed in a sensuous appreciation of the light and the warmth and that blessed sense of relief at being back where I felt strongest, bravest. I decided to leave the museum to the following day, and walked in a measured and unreflecting fashion to the Place Saint-Sulpice, almost glad now that I knew no one well but all in a recognizable spirit of fraternity. It was only when the sun was obscured by a passing dullness, forerunner perhaps of the mist that would once more descend towards evening, that I went again into the great church, for a sight of those women in black, come faithfully to record their requests—for health, for the future of a beloved son, for relief from pain—that retained their validity even if the request were not granted. Such faith was unknown to me; my life had to be lived pragmatically, and any dislocations and disappointments made good out of my own poor resources. I regretted this but accepted it as inevitable. This was made possible by the surrounding urban splendour, and plans were already forming in my head for a return which might follow in due course and which I might prolong into a future for which I now felt a certain hope.
I was glad too that I had managed to settle, in some mysterious way, the business of Françoise’s presence in the hotel, and felt bewildered that this had preoccupied me at such length and with so little purpose. Lightness was all. I should be able to greet her without a shadow, and she would know, from my genuine pleasure at seeing her, that she could do the same. But then she had always managed to do this; her ability went with the brightness of the air, the straightness of the streets, the ever-commanding perspectives of the city which she graced with such assurance. For a moment I was saddened by the contrast between her insouciance and my own laborious calculations, and on the heels of this came a slight failure of nerve. The day had invigorated me, but now there was the night to contend with, and ahead of me a long Saturday when I should be left without an illusion of company. This was the time of day when I could look forward to Philip’s presence, though this was rarely announced in advance: he knew where to find me and acted accordingly. Already this had become customary, and I saw and was convinced of its advantages. That I was seeking some escape from it did not impress me: I saw this as natural.
When the sun was finally veiled I turned back to the hotel. In the distance I saw someone who looked like Michael— same red scarf, same untidy hair—but when he turned round it was clear that it was someone completely different.
15
‘ON VOUS ATTEND EN BAS, MADEMOISELLE.’
I shivered in my thin jacket, having surmised, correctly as it turned out, that this was no occasion for off-duty English Sunday scruffiness. A white mist blanketed the window, foreclosing all but immediate perspectives. I had been ready for nearly an hour.
Mme Mauvoisin seemed equally constrained, as she led me out to the car. In the passenger seat sat an old man wrapped in what looked like a cashmere coat, with a muffler tied tightly round his neck. I inclined my head through the window.
‘Emma Roberts,’ I announced.
An ivory hand was passed out. ‘Enchanté, Mademoiselle. Je connais très bien votre pays, New York, Washington. J’étais en poste à New York dans les années cinquante. J’étais très bien là-bas. Connaissez-vous les Beckmann? Des gens adorables.’
‘Monsieur, je suis anglaise.’
‘Ah.’ His enthusiasm dwindled as he lost interest, apparently for all time, and turned his head away. Mme Mauvoisin laid a consoling hand on her father’s arm and motioned me into the back of the car. A silence was observed which had less to do with this oddly formal occasion than with M. de Robillard’s momentary humiliation, for which I was responsible. I felt for him, for his obvious disorientation, for this moment of feebleness of which he was too aware. As Mme Mauvoisin patted his arm in a gesture that was clearly habitual his face relaxed. We sat silent in the car, careful not to disturb him. Within a few minutes he had subsided into a light doze. Mme Mauvoisin and I exchanged a meaningful glance. The journey would be equally silent.
The familiar landscape was shrouded in the same white mist that had greeted me through the windows of my room, thickening as we left Paris and blanketing the countryside through which we passed swiftly. There seemed to be no other cars on the road, and few people. In the occasional village figures could be observed at the doors of churches. The sun, an even whiter blur, struggled unavailingly to break through. My heart went out, not only to M. de Robillard and his daughter, but to Mme Desnoyers whose entertainment seemed threatened by this uncompromising weather. My first sight of the house was an equally white blur at the end of a creaking road. Gravel crunched as we entered the drive. When the car drew up to take its place among several others, the sun made an effort and broke through. As if to signal that proceedings had begun, voices could be heard, and I could see, on the terrace, a small crowd of people, none of whom I recognized.
When M. de Robillard was extricated from the car and led over to Mme Desnoyers I saw those faces last encountered at that first evening at the house: Mme Dulong, Mme de Freyssinet, the Bachelards, and of course Mme de Lairac, who seemed to be as much the hostess as Mme Desnoyers herself. Their colour was high; they were onstage. Mme Desnoyers greeted me abstractedly and nodded her approval as I allowed M. de Robillard to take my arm. She herself seemed exalted: two spots of colour burned on her cheekbones and I was aware of her rasping breath. Again I felt a sadness that all this effort might have come too late. But then I saw Françoise, no longer in her usual black but in a smart Chanel jacket and short pleated skirt. She looked beautiful, gracious: she too was onstage.
We moved into the dining room, which had been transformed for the occasion: three round tables had been set up; the usual dining table had been pushed back against the wall and now held a large glistening salmon with cucumber scales, a Brie, a Vacherin, and a giant bowl of raspberries. Fernand, in his white jacket, stood stiffly to attention; two girls in blue overalls, acquaintances of his, or possibly relatives, awaited his orders. Mariette, who had brought the salmon to its state of perfection, was out of sight. We were assigned to our tables in no particular order. One was presided over by Mme Desnoyers, one by Françoise, and one by Jean-Charles de Lairac. The significance of this was lost on no one. No indication was given that this order of precedence had been noted, but it was equally significant that Mme de Lairac had judged it correct to abandon her usual place at her son’s side and sit at Françoise’s table, just as if she were merely another guest.
I was opposite Jean-Charles, who favoured me with the insistent stare by which he had first announced himself. He stood out, not because he was in any way remarkable, but because he was the only able-bodied man there. Indeed there were few men, so few that I had a woman on my left. On my right was M. de Robillard, who had started to tackle his bread as soon as he had sat down. On his right was his faithful daughter. At a sign from Mme Desnoyers, Fernand broke into the salmon, divided it into rather small portions, and sent the girls round with the plates. Clearly no expense had been spared. I was relieved that I was not as unsuitably dressed as usual, and tried to enjoy myself. This was not easy. I was cold, the salmon was cold, and at one point M. de Robillard’s petit pain shot off his plate and landed in my lap. Fortunately no one had noticed, not even M. de Robillard himself.
I could just see the back of Françoise’s head. She was in conversation with another elderly man, at what I thought of as the grown-ups’ table. She had given no sign of recognition other than the bright smile with which she had greeted me. I was doubly grateful for the knowledge that I should be returned to Paris fairly soon and resolved, if possible, to catch a late train back to London.
The lady on my left, to whom I had paid little attention, now engaged me in conversation. I had perhaps overlooked her owing to my supervisory duties with M. de Robillard, but also, it has to be said, because
of her eager humble expression: a poor relation, I had concluded, whose role was to be Mme Desnoyers’s loyal admirer. This was almost the case. She introduced herself as Aline Mercier, and said she was a neighbour. But she was also a relation, if not necessarily a close one: her grandmother and Mme Desnoyers’s grandmother had been sisters. She had lost touch with Mme Desnoyers until she had moved to this part of the world on the death of her husband, anxious to be near someone she knew, or knew of, since she had no children. She told me all this in a light insistent voice which needed no response from me: indeed there was little I could make, since she seemed intent on bringing me up to date with her affairs. Her husband had been ill for many months, she said, and after his death the flat had been too big for her and she was lonely. It was she who suggested moving to Sucy-en-Brie, although she had no intention of underlining the family connection. But wasn’t Françoise a lovely girl? I agreed. Mme Mercier’s face shone with affection and with a sort of proprietary longing, from which I deduced that she was not a frequent guest at L’Ermitage, although qualified, perhaps, by her very eagerness, her humility. Clearly she had not done well for herself, or not as well as Mme Desnoyers. Their common background may have been humbler than Mme Desnoyers would have cared to admit. She had been introduced to me as ‘Aline Mercier, la plus fidèle des amies’, acknowledging her but not identifying her. Mme Mercier had offered a grateful smile, accepting without question the relegation from relation to acquaintance. Of the whole gathering she appeared to be enjoying herself possibly more than anyone else in the room.
In the larger of the two salons the long windows had been opened on to what was now a brilliant day. Few, however, ventured out onto the terrace. I took my place next to M. de Robillard and was soon joined by Mme Mercier. I felt like a child between two parents, and made an effort to sit up straight. My inclination was to relax entirely, now that I knew I had acquitted myself with due propriety, but a glance at the rest of the company told me that if any of the other guests felt a mild slackening of their attention this was not apparent. Fortunately the meal had not been lavish enough to induce sleepiness. At my side Mme Mercier, who seemed willing to endow our brief acquaintance with all the goodwill at her command, continued her roll call of appreciations in her curiously penetrating voice, to which I responded encouragingly, though no encouragement was needed. Françoise, passing by, gave me a brilliant smile, in which there was a tremor of complicity. A slight shift in Mme Mauvoisin’s taut posture was the sign that she was anxious to leave. As, it seemed, were one or two of the other guests, too well-mannered to linger, but willing to take their leave in as elaborate a fashion as seemed decreed by the beautiful room, the sun which had endowed the occasion with the ultimate accolade, and the figure of Mme Desnoyers as she continued her own appreciative comments directed indiscriminately at her friends, most of whom had now risen from their chairs. Jean-Charles, I was interested to note, had rejoined his mother, as if this were a natural pairing, but I also noted the casual expertise with which he assessed my appearance and the decisiveness with which he signalled to one of the maids to remove his mother’s precipitantly balanced coffee cup. This she did meekly, as if it were customary.
I was already composing my letter, in my best Cornelian French, as I took my leave of Mme Desnoyers. Here I was overshadowed by the warmth of Mme Mercier’s salutations, as well as by M. de Robillard’s reminiscences. The guests were queueing up, as at a wedding reception, for now a general exodus had been agreed upon. Mme Desnoyers greeted everyone as if they had just arrived. It struck me, and perhaps others, that she was not quite well. Her spirits were unflagging, her attention unrelenting, but her colour was too high, her breath effortful. Sheer discipline, which I could only admire, kept her on her feet. Françoise, equally determined, took her place at her mother’s side. She managed to say that she was so glad to see me and that she would telephone later that evening, but I told her that I should be leaving for London and would talk to her soon. Fixed in my mind was the image of my quiet flat, where I suddenly longed to be. Then I was out in the blessed air. The weather, as if to indicate closure, had dulled down and the mist was rising. I stood by the car, while M. de Robillard was led back inside, presumably to a bathroom. Around me cars started up, but there was no cordial raising of voices. Propriety reigned. There had not been a single note of intimacy in the entire proceedings.
The journey back to Paris was conducted in silence, in deference to M. de Robillard’s light slumber. I was grateful for this. I was feeling mildly alienated, as if the whole affair had taken place in a time warp, or in a fête galante by Watteau or Fragonard. It was quite easy to transpose those guests into one of those colloquies in which nothing is explicit but in which ritual exchanges take place. In many of those images there is an outsider, a figure in harlequin costume: a hand is laid on a breast; one assumes that love, or something more savage, is in the air. There had been none of this at L’Ermitage. Even the presumed lovers had behaved like obedient children. What had been missing, I now realized, was that spark, that hint of lubricity which the whole assembly would have recognized, perhaps with an indulgent smile. Instead there had been a courtliness that was merely dull. One had to admire, as I was sure not only I did, the extreme discipline which kept everyone playing their part. And yet the radiant artificiality of Françoise, the ironic assiduity of Jean-Charles, were somehow disturbing. I preferred my old friend in her more iconoclastic moments, or as I had first seen her in the library, dispensing a generous gaiety towards mild-mannered strangers, gratifying them with her not quite mocking attention before they turned their minds to more exacting study. I wished with all my heart that she would manage to save her own life from the conformity that threatened her. It takes a kind of genius to save one’s own life, the sort of genius that I so signally lacked. But if Françoise, who possessed that kind of genius, could manage to extricate herself from the trap which those ferocious parents had devised, I was sure that there would be a quiet and secret smile of commendation on the part of those who would be publicly scandalized.
Mme Mauvoisin dropped me back at the hotel, which was kind of her since she lived near the Parc Monceau. Again we thanked each other warmly, but in lowered voices: M. de Robillard was not to be disturbed. I stood on the pavement until the car moved away, half-wishing that she had had a mind to prolong the exchange. I longed to discuss what I had seen, and suddenly missed my mother, who would have enjoyed every detail. I was tired; the whole event had been a strain, exactly as I had anticipated. In fact my feelings had been premonitory. Although nothing dreadful had happened I had been prepared for dangers that had not materialized, and this had coloured my appreciation of what had been a purely formal, purely decorative occasion. Any uneasiness I had felt had been my own affair. I turned into the hotel with none of the relief that I should have felt. There seemed little point in either staying or leaving. The letter I should write as soon as I was back in London would be a masterpiece of insincerity. But that was quite in order, for insincerity had been the keynote throughout the day.
My most conscious need was for air, for exercise, for a long walk. I felt as if I had been in too rarefied an atmosphere for far too long. Did those people ever wander about, ruminative, unreflecting, unmotivated? Or, what was more likely, were they always under strict control, even on Sundays? The English Sunday was an amiable affair, unstructured, unsupervised, underdressed. The idea of sitting up straight and making polite conversation belonged in a foreign setting untouched by satire. Neither mode was particularly enjoyable; both were, in their different ways, accepted without question. The fact that Sundays were always slightly disappointing was more or less taken for granted.
Since there was nothing to detain me I took a cab to the station. Through the window I viewed the normal Sunday activities, unassuming people strolling, looking in shop windows, issuing from museums, activities in which I had once joined. My return to this place suddenly seemed problematic, devoid of context. Despite the experti
se of the behaviour I had recently witnessed I felt discomforted. How was I now to greet Françoise, from whom all spontaneity had been removed? I was used to her as a cynical guide, ready to take on the world, alive to her mother’s subterfuges and determined to resist them. Now I saw that she was more like her mother than I had divined, that she had gone over to the side of people whose cynicism was in fact superior to her own. I had been a guest whose appreciation could be counted on but who was not supposed to have an opinion, a subordinate with no function other than that of standing by. I did not underestimate their kindness in inviting me, and indeed had been aware of my steady smile, for nothing less would be appropriate, but it was as if I had been present at a Sunday matinée at the Comédie Française, at which one took one’s place in the audience, duly admiring the strophe and antistrophe, and relieved when it was time to leave one’s seat and get back to one’s less than noble life. Perhaps I had more in common than I realized with Aline Mercier, grateful for the attention, a part she played to perfection. The excellence of her performance, which had seemed perfectly sincere, derived from the fact that she had grown old in the part. The danger was that I might do the same.
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