Neither the clover, nor the acanthus leaves, nor the eucalypti, nor the fig tree had been configured in the matrix of my distant desire. I had left nature the faculty of furnishing the accessories and the décor of the setting herself. Nature could have forgotten the moon and I would not have complained, but she had not forgotten anything; she had even thought about a large gray cape that Roseline was carrying. And that cape played a role.
Once Roseline was sitting down beside me, we remained mute, rather embarrassed, she because she sensed that she was sitting a little too close and that it would have been ridiculous to move away, I because I had been surprised while asleep and was searching for an excuse for that slumber. Then too, one is always confused when events are realized too well.
“There’s a hint of freshness, all the same,” said Roseline, in order to say something, making the gesture of wrapping herself in her cape and hence of isolating herself.
At that moment, there was a general attention around us, the curiosity of which I perceived clearly. I had thought the nightingale indifferent. Not at all. It uttered an extraordinarily significant appeal in order to notify another creature of its race of our human presence next to the little beach, which immediately made it known by means of a few clear modulations that it was keenly interested in that entire affair. An animate being of small dimension, perhaps a hedgehog, stirred under the foliage. A light breeze passed through the air, and caused a few thin eucalyptus leaves to fall. The fig tree affirmed that all was well, and, in front of me, on the sand, little waves with fringes of foam became still, as if to hear better.
They only heard these words, which I repeated in a low voice: “Yes, there’s a hint of freshness, all the same.”
Then I look a flap of the cape and, pretending to want to protect myself against that hint of freshness, I extended it against Roseline. She did not protest, and even indicated by an imperceptible movement that she was favorable to that protection.
At that precise moment a toad intoned a hymn with a disproportionate voice, as if it deliberately wanted to break the harmony of the landscape and the evening. Roseline started to laugh.
“It has a stentorian voice,” she said. And immediately, she added: “By the way, who was Stentor, and why is his voice celebrated?”
I turned my head slightly. The shadow had arrived softly. There was no hint of freshness. I was about to sketch an explanation, but Roseline and I suddenly stopped thinking about Stentor—unless she continued to think about him without letting it show...
POOR PORCASTRE!
In the same way that one can divide the universe into two parts, the sky and the earth, although there is a host of other possible divisions, we can say that there are within us two different beings, one superior and one inferior. I never felt that so strongly as when there was an absolute predominance within me of the inferior being.
That was produced immediately after the evening spent at the little beach. In the midst of that charming landscape, and partly with its aid, my inferior being triumphed. And the result for me was a perfect and tranquil delight in that victory.
I was conscious of that the next morning, in the fashion in which, scarcely awake, I ran to my shutters and opened them so violently that they rebounded. I was more vigorous than usual. Outside, the sun was warmer. The plants were growing with a greater ardor than the day before. I noticed that one of the good God’s creatures was marching over my window with an unaccustomed energy.
I then had the surprise of seeing my friend Porcastre surge through the garden gate. He had come to spend a few days. He was staying in the same inn. The proprietor was a very sympathetic fellow. Was I still living an eremitic life? I heard his laughter continue while he was walking back and forth in the garden.
I shouted that I was going to come downstairs. But everything was happening as if in a dream. The arrival of a friend was a very secondary contingency. I was in a state of physical intoxication.
As long as he doesn’t talk to me about philosophy, I thought.
Philosophy! And internally, on an invisible blackboard, the inferior being wrote: Nonsense!
“If you want to read Plato’s Timaeus, it’s necessary to read it in Victor Cousin’s translation. When one comes back to it, you’ll see that one comes back Victor Cousin and his translation.”
Porcastre was brandishing a tattered book, which I recognized by virtue of often having seen it sticking out of one of his pockets. In order not to waste a minute of the time I had taken to come downstairs, he had taken out Plato’s Timaeus, on which he had been mediating for five years! I almost laughed in my turn.
Poor Porcastre, thought the inferior man. He has nothing better to do than reread the Timaeus. And how skilled he is! What women he frequents! Oh, the amours of poor Porcastre!
I knew that, almost every evening, Porcastre went along the Rue Caulaincourt where he lives, took a side street not far from the cemetery and went to spend the evening in a brasserie where he found three or four local hookers.
“I like that feminine atmosphere very much,” he had told me. “We all lack femininity.”
And one evening, he had made me a long eulogy on the intelligence of a blonde with a thick neck who was known as Loulou.
“Imagine that Loulou had had a little more success. Well, she would have been exactly the type of those courtesans who once discoursed with philosophers in Athens.”
The triumph of the inferior man had suddenly rendered me sensitive to elegance. When Porcastre appeared on the threshold of the garden I was in the process of asking myself which of two jackets was the newer. Now I stared at my friend’s trousers and observed that they had no trace of a crease and fell back on themselves, rather like the trousers of zouaves.
It is a characteristic of the inferior man to allow his thoughts to show on his faces, to become stupid. I sensed that stupidity in my features, but it did not embarrass me and was rather agreeable.
“Oh, I’m not like you,” said Porcastre. “I don’t have that impeccable elegance. But it seems to me that it doesn’t sit well with your eremitic tastes.”
The idea of elegance must have tormented him. With a rapid gesture he pulled up his trousers devoid of braces, exactly as Madame Tournadieu did with her girdle.
What similitude of nature does that similitude of gesture imply? I wondered.
And while my mind was focused on that problem, Porcastre indulged in various pleasantries regarding my pretended solitude and my pretended search for perfection.
“But too bad! It’s too late. You remember that we made a bet. It still stands. I’ve fixed a delay of three days. They only start today, because you only introduced me to Mademoiselle de Lusignan an hour before my departure. Of course! You weren’t confident. But now, you have only to stand by.”
Porcastre started to laugh, with the heaviest laughter that he had in his laughter collection, and he gave me a great slap on the back.
An irresistible desire took hold of the inferior man, the desire to tell Porcastre about the scene on the little beach. It was a miracle that the one I call the superior man, and who is only less inferior, was able to recover a little authority, in order to stop the words pressing on my lips.
The inferior man made up for it by being internally scornful of the costume, language and manners of his friend, and being particularly scornful of his admiration for Loulou and his conception of women and amour. Puffed up with pride, he gazed ironically at the copy of the Timaeus that Porcastre had put back in his pocket, and he went so far as to shrug his shoulders while murmuring: “Plato’s Timaeus”—not addressed to the poor quality of the copy but to Plato himself.
And the superior being did not have the courage to protest. There was above him the nascent moon, the perfume of eucalypti, the wisdom of the fig tree, and the romantic mystery hidden by the folds of Roseline’s cape.
Nature makes use of beauty as an artifice in order to make us descend again after we have permitted ourselves to rise. Who will
ever be able to explain why nature, instead of extending a hand to us like a benevolent mother, sets traps for us and toys with our desire?
“Will you permit me to write a letter?” Porcastre asked. His face was filled with a childish ingenuousness. “I promised Loulou to give her my news as soon as I arrived.”
Poor Porcastre! I thought. But I was not sure whether Porcastre was to be pitied, and whether it might not be necessary to say: “Fortunate Porcastre!”
GRIMALDI’S VISIT
It was with a sharp surprise that I saw the silhouette of young Grimaldi in my garden.
“Say that it’s the Comte de Grimaldi,” he said to Antoinette, with a certain emphasis.
I went out immediately and invited him to sit down in the shade of the pine tree, because the spring sun was becoming a little more ardent every day.
He was naturally antipathetic to me. But I professed that sympathy is gained by reciprocity and that it is for the man who has a general sympathy for an ideal to make the first move, so I put an expression of cordial satisfaction on my face.
He made the bracelet he was wearing on his left wrist glint, and his gray-striped suit had a hint of ridicule because of the excess of its stripes. He put affectation into lifting up his trousers to show his silk socks. The force of his jaw filled me with astonishment.
“I don’t have the appearance,” he told me, “but I’m very sensitive. Yes, I’m sensitive. I have scruples. That’s why I’ve come. I’ve me to ask you for some advice. I’ve come to ask the advice of a man of experience.”
I told him that I was at his disposal, but that I was subject to error like everyone, perhaps more so.”
“To whom can one address oneself, though? Here, we’re so far from everything. The most learned man, it appears, is the pharmacist, and I don’t know him. Then, I thought that someone who reads so many books, someone of your age, might be able...”
“Yes...”
“Roseline has respectful sentiments for you, which I share...”
“Evidently...”
“What I have to ask you is so special…I’m hesitant.”
“Don’t be...”
“It isn’t to the pharmacist, naturally, that I could…there are things that only elite minds...”
“Speak.”
“I ought to tell you first that I belong to a very ancient family.”
“I’m not unaware of that.”
“Long ago, in a very distant epoch, the Grimaldis already played a role, and a great role.”
“We talked about that the other day.”
“It’s very important to explain the case that I’m going to submit to you. The Grimaldis were the kings of Monaco. I belong to a royal family. Oh, I don’t say that to glorify myself. The kings of our day are no longer in the same situation. But you’ll see that it renders my case particularly curious. Have you studied psychoanalysis?”
“Not especially, but I know what it is.”
“I’ve studied it myself. I’ve read a book by Freud. It’s very interesting. I’d read others if life wasn’t so absorbing. Well, from the viewpoint of psychoanalysis, my case is very particular. It’s a subject of study. If I had time, I’d study it as a scientist might do.”
“But what…?”
“I’ll explain everything to you. But it’s difficult to explain! And it’s delicate. It’s extremely delicate. I couldn’t tell it to anyone. Especially not women. I couldn’t tell it to Roseline, for example, even if she weren’t the cause of it. I’m telling you in confidence.”
“Of course.”
“Or rather, I’ll try to tell you, for it’s very difficult. There it is! How can I explain to you that a Grimaldi, belonging to a royal family, has within him a liking for treason?”
Grimaldi looked at me fixedly, advancing his jaw immeasurably. He was wondering what effect what he had just said had had on me. But I didn’t understand very well.
“What?”
“I have a natural inclination to treason. I bear it within me. As soon as I have an amity for a man, I search involuntarily for an opportunity to betray him. And if I have a liaison with a woman, I betray her immediately. And that given me a keen satisfaction, but I’m a little ashamed of it, all the same. How can that be explained?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s very special, very curious. But I can’t do otherwise. And I’ll tell you something even more curious. I’ve conducted research into the history of the Grimaldis. Yes, just like a historian. I’ve gone to libraries. I’ve sought information from librarians, because I’ve never had the habit of books. Well, I’ve seen that all the Grimaldis have an inclination to treason. And the further one goes back the more pronounced that inclination is. Thus, it’s the ancient Grimaldis who are the most unworthy. It’s necessary to read local history, Local history is very interesting. Grimoald, who was mayor of the palace under Childebert II, betrayed the King. You’ll tell me that that happened a long time ago. That’s nothing. A Grimaldi committed treason at Cry. Another became famous at the battle of Lepanto, but for treason. And when one reads the history of Lérins Abbey, one sees that it was a Grimaldi who led the Saracen ships, who was the cause of the pillage of the abbey, and the death of Saint Porcarius and more than five hundred monks.”
“Five hundred and three. I know the story of the monk Eleutherius.”
“Do you know it entirely? The monk Eleutherius had seen Grimaldi leaving with the Saracens. He was miraculously transported to Fréjus by sea and the inhabitants proclaimed him bishop. There was a great influx of the nobility of the land to receive the Seigneur de Lusignan, King of Cyprus, who was about to disembark. Among the nobles, Lorenzo Grimaldi, Seigneur d’Antibes, stood out. Bishop Eleutherius thought he recognized the Christian he had seen at the head of the Saracens. It was indeed him. You see the audacity of the men of my race! I have an old miniature representing the disembarkation of the King of Cyprus, holding the hand of Melusine de Lusignan. In the foreground, near the Bishop, was Lorenzo Grimaldi.
“Well, behold the mystery of heredity! The ancient miniaturist represents him with my slightly prominent jaw. He resembles me—or rather, I resemble him. And behold the mystery of things! My ancestor attempted to seduce the Dame de Lusignan, and might perhaps have succeeded—for the women of old were similar to those of today—but for the intervention of Bishop Eleutherius. And after so many years, there is a Grimaldi and a Lusignan once again, or more precisely, two Lusignans, who find themselves in the same place. I say two Lusignans, because that’s where the whole drama is.”
“What is that drama?”
“It’s about that subject that I’ve come to see you. You know that Roseline has a sister—an older sister. Well, it’s because of the innate taste for treason that is in me that I’ve tried to please Roseline’s sister. I know that there are things that one should never say. There’s a secret that must never be violated. You’ll understand me. But the case is particular. It’s very probable that she and I are going to leave together. I’m talking about Roseline’s sister. So, I wanted to ask you…only you can explain it Roseline. I don’t like to cause pain. Explain the cause of everything…a hereditary force that is in the race…a force about which one cannot do anything. One is then the victim of fatality. Fatality! Everyone is obliged to incline...”
I replied to the descendant of the kings of Monaco that I would do my best. In any case, my response was of no great importance to him. The essential thing was that he had explained the matter.
“I’d like to know whether, for example, you...”
“What?”
“Excuse my curiosity…I’d be interested to know whether you also, like me, have an inclination to betrayal?”
“No, I don’t believe so,”
“It’s annoying to be alone. I would have liked…anyway!”
He got up to leave. I saw that he was considering my house with an inexplicable sentiment of smugness.”
“You’re not badly accommodated her
e,” he said, agitating his bracelet. “I know your house well. I came here five or six years ago with a charming young woman who had rented it. She’s dead now. It’s extraordinary how one forgets people who die! One even forgets the living.”19
Having arrived at the wooden gate he wanted to say something that he had difficulty formulating.
“I hope that you don’t bear a grudge against me.”
“For what?”
“That’s true. But I’ve done well to tell you all that. It’s so curious. A Grimaldi who wasn’t able to have a Lusignan, centuries ago! And another Grimaldi, with the same square jaw, who has two Lusignans at the same time. There’s something astonishing—I’ll say more, mysterious—about that.”
THE AMOROUS RENDEZVOUS
There is a manner of arranging a rendezvous with someone that has a much more extensive range than its apparent significance of time and place. If a young woman says to you, while squeezing your hand for a long time and looking deep into your eyes: “I’ll come to dinner with you this evening…” those words go much further than the promise of sharing the evening nourishment, especially if there has been mention of that dinner beforehand as an entry into matters, and if it has been given, by allusions and reticences, the character of a sentimental gala with an amorous conclusion.
I observed in the afternoon a curious phenomenon caused by that dinner. My books had disappeared. They were no longer there at my disposal. I no longer had the faculty of picking one up, reading it and immediately obtaining an intellectual pleasure. Or rather, they were effaced and veiled; they had retreated into an inaccessible distance, and the incapacity to take one and read it came primarily from myself and a preliminary incapacity of comprehension. At any rate, I no longer had books, and the inferior being was so dominant in me that I rejoiced in it, that I regretted the time wasted, the time devoted to philosophical nonsense, and I proposed ridding my house of all those useless bindings. Yes, I called my books “bindings,” in the same way that the vulgar call paintings “frames.”
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