This year promised to be no different from all those which had preceded it. They had been met at the station by Xavier, who had murmured, ‘Aunt,’ and ‘Maud,’ while kissing them on both cheeks. They had arrived during the siesta hour and had the impression that they had put everyone out. Nevertheless Germaine was waiting for them on the terrace, her fractious smile in place, her eyes darting from side to side in an attempt to deflect Xavier from disappearing. Maud, in one of her new tight-waisted full-skirted dresses, stepped forward obediently to present her face for her aunt’s kisses: she thought she appeared to some advantage, and had prepared her entrance to impress whatever guests might be lurking in the hall, but, ‘Good heavens, Maud,’ said her aunt. ‘This is the country. We don’t dress up here. By all means change for dinner—we all do that. And I’m sure you look very nice,’ she added in a kindlier tone, seeing the girl recoil, her affront masked by apparent indifference. ‘Did you bring something simpler? I think something simpler would be more suitable, don’t you?’ Aware that she had hurt them both, for she was not completely insensitive, she waved them gaily indoors. When Maud descended to the morning-room, where coffee was provided, half an hour later, she was complimented on her brown cotton skirt and white cotton blouse. Her only consolation was the knowledge that the blouse, short sleeved, open necked, and slightly too small, showed off her beautiful arms to advantage. Nevertheless she was mortified by the prospect of having to wear blouse and skirt for the rest of her stay, and resolved to keep out of the way as much as possible.
This was something she was used to do. She knew, as if it had been programmed in advance, that her cousin would ask her if she would like to take a walk, that they would indeed walk round the garden, always referred to as the park, that he would ask her how her English studies were progressing, and that she, finding this subject boring, and fearful of revealing too much of her impatience—for rigorous control would be demanded of both her mother and herself on this visit, which they both knew to be a form of charity—would quickly deflect the question and in her turn ask Xavier if he had written any new poems lately, and if so, whether he could bear to let her read them. He always did, and this was a further opportunity for her to express appreciation, for appreciation, she knew, was expected of them both, and in this way she could play her small part. Xavier was destined for his uncle’s bank, the uncle being in fact a second cousin of his father, but he had confided to her that he would much rather devote himself to poetry. She sympathised, discerning in him a desire for independence, albeit weaker than her own, but he was obedient and would not disappoint his mother.
‘If you are on the terrace later I could show them to you,’ he said. ‘At least I could leave them with you. I have a friend coming to stay, and I shall have to collect him from the station. I know you’ll take care of them. Perhaps we could have a proper talk in a day or two.’
‘How long is your friend staying?’ asked Maud.
‘David? A couple of weeks, I think. He is English. I met him last year in Cambridge. I’m sure you’ll like him.’
Of that he had no doubt: all the girls he had known during that visit to Cambridge, made to perfect his English, which was already good, had seemed to like David. Yet, stealing an appreciative but experienced sidelong glance at Maud, Xavier thought she might be the exception to the rule. She was untouched, that was quite clear: her stern and remote expression, which she had inherited from her mother, made her seem older than her nineteen years. And he discerned in her, as well as her obstinacy, a certain fearfulness that had kept her at home and had inhibited whatever desires she had, or must have, in that rather splendid body. She was handsome, he could see that, but she was rigid, cautious: that stern expression on her golden face (the slight tan having been acquired during the afternoons she spent with her mother, sitting in the garden of the Château d’Eau) was not likely to appeal to his worldly friend, who had seemed, during that month in Cambridge, to appreciate easier, livelier girls, given to shrieking their delight, and willing to stay up all night, moving from one party to another. At least he hoped she would not appeal: he did not want an awkward situation on his hands, and he intended to keep his mother from expressing her disapproval. Of his aunt’s reaction he was quite sure: he knew her to be a prude, was used to his mother’s commiserations, and preferred to keep on purely formal terms with a woman who, he suspected, had designs on him. He did not intend to hand over his friend to her scrutiny.
Over and above those considerations, however, was a desire to keep that friend out of harm’s way, and to detach him from the company that his mother was sure to provide, in the shape of the two silly nieces of their nearest neighbours, the Dubuissons, or Du Buissons, as they preferred to style themselves, and who would inevitably stroll over with tennis racquets on the following afternoon. He half wanted to pursue his own interest in David, who, during that month in Cambridge, had inspired in him feelings he had not hitherto suspected. When he had appeared in the doorway of Xavier’s lodgings in Selwyn College and asked him if he had everything he wanted, and whether he knew his way about, explaining that he himself was a recent graduate who had taken on a summer job of showing these students—most of them tourists, Americans for the most part, tempted by the prospect of a month at a Cambridge college, some of them even determined to do a little work—around the university and the city and providing them with such entertainment as might be covered by their fee.
‘I have a list of the lectures,’ Xavier had said; he was one of those prepared to work hard. ‘But it is very kind of you.’ He was charmed by the Englishness of this caller, his height, his graceful body in a blue open-necked shirt and cotton trousers, his abundant curling hair growing low on his forehead, and his thin hawklike nose. He thought him splendid-looking, and felt a glow of appreciation at being included in this man’s company, however briefly. He allowed himself to be taken out to a pub, where he drank a pint of powerful English beer, although he had been planning a studious walk. The beer made him sleep through the afternoon, so that he missed a lecture. When he awoke he told himself that this must stop, but when David looked in after dinner and announced that there was some sort of party going on at a friend’s flat, it seemed natural to fall in with him. That had been the pattern of the succeeding days and nights. Little work got done; on the other hand his conversational English benefited from the bewildering turnover of girlfriends who swam in David’s wake and who were willing to be temporarily diverted by this charming if awkward Frenchman, with his so careful blazer and tie. By the end of a week he had flirted with three girls and had slept with one of them, a procedure which he enjoyed less than anticipated. The talk with these girls was always of David, as if the girls regretted his absence, as if they were still alert to the sound of his name, even if they had to pronounce it themselves.
At the end of the second week it had seemed impossible to capture the attention of these girls for any length of time, nor, in truth, did he find them attractive, with their big feet and their noisy voices, certainly not as attractive as David, who emerged from various bedrooms, looking amused and restless, as if ever ready for the next partner. When he realised the extent of his friend’s power over him, Xavier became very thoughtful, locked his door in the evenings, and resolved to return to France and to obey his mother, who wished him to marry someone suitable as soon as possible, so that he could begin his apprenticeship at the bank with a full panoply of honourable attributes. David, who was intelligent, had sensed this, had not pressed his advantages, and had invited Xavier not to any more louche parties but to his parents’ lavish flat in Chelsea, and then, for two successive weekends, to their house in Worcestershire. In the presence of a wealth he had not suspected, Xavier felt impressed, unsure of himself, but the parents were offhandedly kind and asked him the sort of questions of which his own parents would have approved. At home David’s sexuality disappeared as though it had never been. The absence of any kind of saturnalia, of any female company at all, reassured Xavie
r, who thought his earlier feelings must have been the effect of drunkenness. He was allowed to play a splendid piano in the Worcestershire drawing-room, and began, cautiously, to feel at ease with himself once more. When he issued his invitation to spend the following summer at La Gaillarderie the invitation was graciously accepted. A year later, it occurred to him that this may not have been such a good idea. His own feelings, now that he had gained some insight into them, were under control, but now there was Maud to be considered. He shrugged his shoulders. Maud was old enough to look after herself. Besides, there might be some antipathy between them, some mutual disapproval. David, he knew, did not take kindly to disapproval, and Maud had a scathing eye. He dismissed the knowledge that her scathing eye, together with her distant gaze and imperious expression, were summoned up to conceal a very real feeling of inadequacy. He had noted the inexpensive blouse and skirt. She was not only untouched, he told himself: she was disastrously unprepared.
Maud, sitting on the terrace with her mother and her aunt, and once more caressing her wide skirts—for they were all now changed for the evening—reflected that if she had risked upsetting her mother she could at this moment be with her friend Julie in the latter’s villa in Corsica. In the end some residual affection, something like pity for that unrelenting mother, had made her drop the subject shortly after she had introduced it. She loved her mother, but tried to distance herself from that same mother’s plans for her: she had been ashamed, on more than one occasion, of her mother’s unforced enthusiasm whenever she invited Julie and Julie’s brother Lucien to tea—and Lucien was not even an acceptable escort, in her mother’s opinion. She was determined to conduct any flirtation that came her way out of her mother’s sight, if that were possible. So far the matter had not arisen, nor had she seriously thought to thwart her mother’s plans for her. Sadly, she realised that those plans were all too obvious, and felt a resentment that brought in its wake that unwanted pity. Only she knew how her mother looked forward to Sunday afternoons at the cinema, knew of her secret admiration for certain highly stylised actresses. Only she knew how much it cost her mother to spend two weeks under the humiliating patronage of her sister, for the pleasure of eating that sister’s excellent food, even if it came with a full complement of unwanted advice. And for the odd excursion by car, if Xavier were not too busy. And, always and above all, for the chance to meet Xavier’s friends, to be in the front row, as it were, when he brought those friends home. In return for these various advantages Nadine played her part, was agreeable and self-effacing, and was pleased to see that Maud’s good manners reflected her own.
It was the witching hour, ‘between dog and wolf’, as Germaine never failed to observe. On the terrace they sat momentarily silent, becalmed by the beauty of the summer evening. A golden light lay on the park; beyond the spacious lawns the trees of the little wood stood motionless. From the house they could hear the distant voices of the servants, who indeed seemed to talk all the time; it was agreeable for once, thought Maud, to know that they were being taken care of, or rather that her mother was being taken care of. She herself endured these summer visits much as she would have endured an enforced stay in some foreign country, in which, for reasons which were mysterious to her, she was detained against her will. Briefly, and almost tenderly, she thought of Dijon, and its monotonous but acceptable routines, in comparison with which this place was both more challenging and more abrasive. She felt no sense of affinity with her aunt, although she responded in a mild way to Xavier’s courtesies. She was conscious of her lack of status, conscious too of a very real social inflexibility, which frequently mortified her. She could not laugh and joke and flirt, as other girls seemed to be able to do. In a way it suited her to sit silent on the terrace, at this late golden hour, Xavier absent, her mother and her aunt for once not exerting their formidable and conflicting wills.
She acknowledged the beauty of the setting, although she thought beauty an altogether extravagant term, whether it was applied to poetry or scenery or the harmonious features of an attractive face. She told herself that she had not yet encountered beauty, in its purest form. What she meant by that was not quite clear to her; in the meantime she rejected what she thought of as imitations. She was aware of opposing a certain resistance to the world, yet all the time she was secretly prepared for that resistance to be overcome. She longed for a lover, one whom she did not know. She would, she was convinced, recognise that stranger, would appropriate him, away from watchful eyes. But this was her secret, the secret that kept her own eyes downcast and her fine lips pressed prudishly together. It would be managed eventually: it would have to be managed. For now her silence, as always, would be the best concealment.
Maud watched a solitary leaf fall to the grass, the first no doubt of the coming autumn, although the sky now held the whiteness of a late summer evening. She admired her foot in its narrow ballerina shoe and suppressed a yawn.
‘Tomorrow there will be company for you, Maud,’ said her aunt, who had seen the slight grimace but who was uncharacteristically well disposed at this time of day. ‘The girls will be coming over. You remember Marie-Paule and Patricia, don’t you?’ Maud remembered them, without enthusiasm. ‘They will want to play tennis with Xavier and his friend. Perhaps they will give you a game, Maud. Did you bring a racquet? No? Well, I’m sure Xavier can find a spare one. Or perhaps you would like to go into Meaux with your mother? Xavier might be able to drive you, although you’ll have to take a taxi back. Ah! I think I can hear the car!’ She got to her feet. ‘Yes! It’s Xavier back from the station with his friend. Good. I know dinner has been ready for a few minutes, and Marie gets so put out … Here they are.’
Maud and her mother stood up in honour of the epochal arrival of Xavier’s friend, who now emerged from the car, rose to his full amazing height, and with every appearance of pleasure surveyed the house.
‘Mother,’ said Xavier, ‘may I present my friend, David Tyler?’
‘So good of you to invite me,’ murmured the visitor. ‘I wonder if I might have a quick bath before dinner? I seem to have been travelling for most of the day.’
Mme de Bretteville, who was not used to having her hand kissed by so handsome a stranger, and who was agreeably impressed by his manners—by his courtliness, in fact—said, in a voice which was only minimally flustered, ‘By all means … Xavier will show you … And if there is anything you want …’
‘So kind. I usually bathe in the evening, if that is all right with you. But of course you must tell me the house rules. I don’t want to be a nuisance.’
When he reappeared they all—Maud, Xavier, Xavier’s mother, Maud’s mother—gazed at him as if he had successfully survived some initiation ceremony. Across the dinner table they inhaled the aroma of Yardley’s lavender soap. The dinner was ruined, but seeing him eat with such good appetite they felt that this did not, for once, matter. Conversation, largely between Mme de Bretteville and the guest, was delicate, muted, almost flirtatious.
‘And have you chosen a profession?’ enquired Mme de Bretteville with a girlish smile.
‘Advertising,’ said the guest, manoeuvring a burnt and adhesive slice of apple fritter to his mouth.
‘Fascinating,’ approved Mme de Bretteville, ardently. ‘And such an enterprising choice.’
‘Not really,’ he said, gazing into her eyes. ‘My father owns an agency.’
Maud, noting that this man was probably very wicked, suppressed a smile. At this stage the honour of her family, of her mother and herself, was uppermost in her mind. She was by no means averse to her aunt being made to look a fool. In herself she registered nothing more portentous than an agreeable lightening of the spirits. This holiday might, with a bit of luck, be a little more entertaining than the others.
FIVE
FROM THE RUE LAUGIER ONE CAN TAKE ONE OF THREE MAIN walks. One can turn left into the Avenue de Wagram and go due north until one hears the shunting of the trains in the goods yard beyond the rue de Tocquevi
lle. Another, more promising, way leads one through the Place des Ternes, again along the shorter arm of the Avenue de Wagram to the Place de l’Etoile. The third, and most attractive, takes one to the Place des Ternes, then down the rue du Fauborg Saint-Honoré, which leads straight to the Place du Palais Royal and the centre.
By the end of this third day Harrison had taken all these routes, preferring the third, which released him from the oppression of all the commanding avenues and delivered him to a more recognisable Paris, the city he remembered from previous visits and which he flattered himself he knew quite well. But on those previous visits he had not been alone, had been with his parents, or with Bibi, had taken the Métro with an air of triumph at how easy it all was. Now he felt duty bound to walk, had in fact walked several miles, only to discover that crossing the wide streets was hazardous, even in this month of August, when Paris was supposed to be empty. His head buzzed with noise; he drank too much coffee, just for an excuse to sit down. He would have worried about the amount of money he was spending, had he not been aware of the fact that in the bank, at home—for he supposed that London was now home—was the comfortable sum left to him by Mr Sheed. Nevertheless it pleased him to think of himself as a poor student: indeed, for several reasons he felt a sense of genuine penury which for the moment he did nothing to dismiss. In this place, so large, larger than he remembered it, and so unexpectedly adult, the feeling of penury, of caution, even of suspicion, felt authentic, as if it had been dictated that he should be cut down to size. On more than one occasion the thought had struck him that he was not up to this. In view of his proposal to see the world, in the guise of an amused traveller, his present state of mind was disconcerting. Temporary, of course, but disconcerting nevertheless.
Incidents in the Rue Laugier Page 5
