“No, indeed. I’m only a layman...in musical terms, that is…incapable of teaching anything but the catechism. But Sister Marthe has been to Paris; she received an excellent education, and between ourselves, her life has even been a trifle romantic. I’d tell you about it if it weren’t so late.” He fished out his watch, lost in the pocket of his soutane. “I thought so! Eleven o’clock! It’s practically debauchery. Here we are at the presbytery, young man. Au revoir—until tomorrow morning. I’m counting on you.”
With that, Laurent returned to the château. He went to bed and to sleep—a peaceful sleep—without giving any further thought to the curé or to Sister Marthe. The mystery of the organ was clarified; there was no longer anything interesting about it.
III
Early the next morning, Laurent got up. A light mist covered the depths of the valley like a fine gauze. Feeling fine, Laurent opened his window, stepped through and went to the village rapidly. When he arrived at the presbytery he saw the aged curé walking in his garden, his breviary in his hand.
“Ah! You’re punctual, it appears, Doctor. Well, come in, and come and look at my roses. But that scarcely interests you, I see—you’d rather hear the story of Sister Marthe. Look, sit down here, under this honeysuckle bower...
“Sister Marthe was brought up in Paris, in a large convent, very famous, which she had entered as a child. She was an orphan, it’s said, and no one came to see her. In the vacations, when the other little girls returned joyfully to the paternal hearth, she stayed at the convent, all alone, with the superior and the other nuns. She wasn’t entirely abandoned, though, for she had a guardian, a very rich and very serious gentleman, who came to visit her at rare intervals to inform himself regarding her work, her pleasures and her troubles, bringing her bonbons, toys and books.
“One day, the superior called Angèle—that was Sister Marthe’s name prior to her novitiate—and said: ‘My child, a great misfortune has struck you. Your guardian has died suddenly. Have courage, my dear daughter, and pray for him.’
“The next day, the superior summoned Angèle again. ‘My daughter, the destines of God are impenetrable. You are not a orphan, because your mother is not dead. She is unfortunate; she is poor; she is asking for you. Would you like to go and live with her?’
“‘Oh yes!’ Angèle cried.
“The superior sighed sadly, embraced Angèle, and Angèle left.”
“Well, we’re now in the heart of romanticism,” said Laurent.
“Alas, the rest is not at all romantic. Angèle’s mother was a peasant woman, a true peasant woman who had once been quite pretty and flighty. You understand me, don’t you? And you understand who Angèle’s guardian was? With him dead, having died without a testament, Angèle and her mother were abandoned. The two of them lived thus in black poverty, especially harsh for Angèle, who was not used to working in the fields or to domestic chores. Think of it! To pass from the richest convent in Paris to a miserable thatched cottage!”
“Does Sister Marthe know that her guardian was her father?”
“Oh, great God, no!” said the curé. “Her mother’s honor must be sacred in the eyes of a child. No one has ever had the courage to tell her the truth, and I wouldn’t have told you the whole story if I didn’t take you for a gallant man, incapable of an indiscretion. The superior of the convent in Paris told me everything, but Sister Marthe doesn’t know, and has no need to know, any more...
“To conclude, I’ll tell you that Angèle’s mother soon died. The poor child, entirely abandoned, wrote to the superior of the convent, declaring that she wanted to be a nun. And, in fact, what other future was there for her? She had received the education of a great lady; could she become a peasant again? So young Angèle went back to the convent, and she was sent to us here in order to complete her novitiate.
“Unfortunately, her health is very fragile. Each of the dolorous events of her life has taken its toll on her delicate organism. She’s very nervous, almost unhealthily nervous, and subject to serious crises that she hides as best she can, and which can’t help but make us anxious. Apart from her malady of the chest, there’s some affliction of the nervous system—a neurosis, as you say. George has told me that you’ve studied that kind of malady. Truly, I believe that you might be able to do a great deal for her. Now, let’s go to see her, for the ceremony is at ten, and time is a little short.”
The superior of the Plancheuille school, a stout, smiling woman, seemed very pleased when the curé announced that he had brought a doctor from Paris to see Sister Marthe.
“Come in, Messieurs; I’ll send for our dear sister. Oh, for sure, she takes it very badly when I talk to her about a doctor. She claims that she isn’t ill. Alas, how wrong she is, poor child! No matter what I say to her, she doesn’t want to be treated. But I’ll decide that anyway, and it’s necessary for her to take some care of her health. Wait here for a moment, Messieurs; I’ll bring her to you her momentarily.”
Laurent and the curé remained standing in a large, cold, damp and somber room. The sole ornament was a large rustic crucifix. No chairs, just wooden benches set against the walls, and a geographical map of France hanging alongside the crucifix.
When Sister Marthe came in, it was as if a ray of sunlight were penetrating.
Laurent started in surprise.
Sister Marthe was chastity and grace personified. The severe costume of a nun brought out, with an astonishing imagistic vigor, the pensive eyes, the pale and pure forehead, the blonde hair which, at the back, overflowed the white nimbus of the bonnet, and the pale, diaphanous hands...
It was almost an apparition. Laurent felt troubled, moved, and charmed.
“But Monsieur le Curé,” she said, “you’re really too kind. You know that I’m not ill.”
“On the contrary, my child, I know that you’re suffering. You have a fever every evening, and it’s high time to think about seeking treatment. My young friend Doctor Laurent Verdine, here, is going to examine you, to question you, and he’ll tell you what you need to do in order to get better.”
“Very well, Monsieur le Curé,” said Sister Marthe, blushing slightly. “I’ll submit, for the sake of obedience.”
Then Laurent, slightly emotional, took Sister Marthe’s hand. She really did have a slight fever. Then he placed his ear lightly against her chest, and asked a few questions to which the young nun replied in a low voice.
“That’s good, Sister,” he said eventually. “It’s nothing serious, I assure you. I’ll tell your superior what it’s necessary to do.”
She raised her beautiful eyes to look at him. “Thank you, Monsieur,” she said
Laurent bowed.
“May I go now, Monsieur le Curé?” she added. “My little girls are waiting for me.”
“Yes, my child,” said the priest. “You can go.”
Laurent followed her with his eyes until the door had closed. At that moment, the superior came in through another door.
“Well, Doctor, what do you think of our Sister Marthe?”
“Alas, she seems to me to be quite ill. I can prescribe a few medicaments for her, but I confess that I don’t have much confidence. What can we do with drugs against a pulmonary lesion? Let’s try, though. Here’s a prescription, which it’s necessary to have filled: sachets of tannin, and two drops of this arsenical liquor every morning. But what the poor girl needs is vivifying sea air. Not the foggy Ocean but the Mediterranean, with a mild and comforting climate. It’s already nearly autumn; it’s necessary that Sister Marthe doesn’t spend the winter here. Send her to Algiers, Nice or Malta. She must go—her life depends on it.”
The superior sighed. “We’ll try, Monsieur le Docteur. A voyage…that’s really not very easy; it needs money, a lot of money…but we’ll do our best...”
IV
In villages, burials are touching celebrations, both more solemn and simpler than the sumptuous and pretentious ceremonies of towns.
Peasants of both sexes and all ages had arrived
at the Château de Plancheuille. They had put on their Sunday clothes, and, slightly awkwardly, they filed into the chapel, timid and respectful, fearful of being observed but parading their observant eyes in all directions.
A few relatives of the deceased had come from Paris. They came in after the General and George and sat in the front benches. Laurent was sitting to one side, very close to the organ. He saw Sister Marthe arrive, followed by little girls. The naïve and curious gazes of the children paused on Laurent for a few seconds. As for Sister Marthe, she went past him without looking at him. However, Laurent thought he saw her blush. Then he blushed too, stupidly and nonsensically, without knowing why. But the more indignant he became at his stupidity, the deeper he sensed his blush becoming.
Immediately, Sister Marthe sat down at the organ, and the children sang a hymn. Laurent, placed slightly behind her, admired the chaste profile of the young woman, obliquely illuminated obliquely by the sun’s rays coming through the stained glass windows. Angèle’s pure beauty, the voices of the young children, the song of the organ, the meditation of the audience, and the semi-contained tears of the General and George, were more than sufficient to stir the soul of a poet.
A contained emotion gripped Laurent—and the hardened and impenitent skeptic sensed religious sentiments vibrating within him: the vague and sublime aspiration toward the unknown that is in the depths of every human being.
As soon as the mass had finished, Laurent approached Sister Marthe and said a few words to her in a low voice. She got up immediately, and Laurent took her place at the organ. He felt as if he were inspired, and he played with an extraordinary passion the hymn that he had heard Sister Marthe play the previous evening, Gounod’s Ave Maria.
The little chapel of Plancheuille had never resounded with such pathetic, heart-rending tones; the entire audience was profoundly moved. Sister Marthe, standing beside the organ, listened as if transported by ecstasy. The General and George wept.
V
Laurent had sworn to himself that he would leave for Paris that evening, but they insisted so forcefully that he must stay that he could not tear himself away. The General had taken him aside after lunch and said to him, with tears in his eyes: “No, my friend, you can’t abandon us like that. Look, my dear Maman’s nephews and cousins don’t care about us—they’ve already flown away to their business and their pleasures, and we’re alone again, alone with our grief. How empty the château will be now! What sadness, what lugubrious sadness! Oh, I’m not talking about George. She was his grandmother, not his mother, so the heartbreak is less great. Then again, he’s young, he adores his wife, he has his future ahead of him; his life is just beginning—but my life is finishing, and without amity…come on! It’s settled. You’ll stay. You’ll keep me company for a few days more. We’ll talk about my poor Maman; we’ll go hunting; we’ll philosophize together.”
Laurent stayed.
That same day he went for a long walk with George and the General, but he was distracted, preoccupied and anxious. He tried to pull himself together, to arrest the crazy course of the dreams that were traversing his mind. Sister Marthe! Sister Marthe! What folly it was to think about Sister Marthe! Why had he stayed? Was it in order to see her again, to abandon himself to absurd dreams, a thousand times absurd? Well, no, it was to yield to the General’s pleas…and yet, in the depths of his consciousness, he understood that it was for Sister Marthe that he had stayed: in order to see her again, perhaps to cure her. But he knew full well that she could not be cured. Can consumption be cured? And a bitter anguish gripped him at the thought that the poor girl was condemned to death.
Truly, he said to himself, there’s nothing in that to make one sad; I’ve already seen so many poor consumptive young women!
That fine reasoning remained completely futile; the image of Sister Marthe did not quit him once during the walk.
It was long, that walk. They did not get back until nightfall. As they went past the chapel, Laurent noticed that the door was closed. Doubtless Sister Marthe had come, as usual, to play the organ, and then she had gone again. What a pity to have got back so late! Instead of that insipid stroll through the meadows and the forests, similar to all the meadows and forests in the world, he might have been able to talk to Sister Marthe, to see her, to sit down beside her. What a pity!
Dinner was less silent than the previous day. Making an effort to be cheerful, George attempted to dissipate the sadness that weighed upon the foreheads of his young wife and his father. The General lent himself to his efforts with a good grace; he chatted, as he was able to chat, with grace and bonhomie. But Laurent did not cheer up.
“Come on, Laurent,” the General said to him, “tell us where and how you learned to play the organ. Was it in the forests of the Amazon or the pavilions of the École de Médecine?”
“Oh, Father,” said George, “don’t you know that Laurent has all the talents? He’s a voyager, a hunter, a musician, a physician, and even a magnetizer.”
“What!” said the General. “You believe in magnetism?”
“I’m obliged to believe in it,” said Laurent, smiling.
“That must be very interesting,” said Claire.
“Interesting Madame, certainly,” said Laurent, “and even a little more than interesting—but there are harsh compensations. Believe me, it’s a painful torture, and ever new, to witness marvelous phenomena that one doesn’t understand, and is aware that one might never understand. How many times, also, have I stopped before a mystery too great and a shadow too profound? A German poet tells the story of a certain sorcerer who discovers the magic word that would make a gnome appear. The gnome arrives and brings water, as any correctly-summoned gnome must do—but the poor sorcerer does not know the other magic word necessary to stop the spell commenced, with the result that the infernal gnome continues to pour out water, He pours and pour without end; it’s impossible to suspend his work, so the unfortunate magician ends up drowned. That’s our history, Madame. We evoke, somewhat at hazard, forces that we don’t understand, and when it’s a matter of putting them back in order, we’re impotent.”
“In sum, what can you do?” George asked.
“Not much, but something. For example, we can create personalities.”
“Personalities!” said the general. “In fact, I’ve heard talk of that, but I’ve never understood it very well.”
“Oh, it’s not very complicated. There are multiple existences within us, within our soul, which seems unique. Within each of us, a number of different persons are active, each of whom has their own thoughts and their particular character. If one searched hard, one would find that each of us has the cloth of a saint, and adventurer, a debauchee or a criminal. Well, by means of magnetism, we can cause all those latent individuals hidden within us, concealed by the principal personality that is oneself, to appear. In any case, all those individuals that hide within us are also oneself, and our self is the ensemble of all those individuals...
“In truth, I don’t know whether I’m making myself comprehensible, but it appears quite clear to me. I know a lady who is the simplest bourgeois wife in the world, who knows nothing but her knitting and her cooking. She likes intercourse and thinks of nothing but her husband and children. But as soon as she is in a magnetic trace, she has a horror of those base occupations. Away with all those vile things! She detests domesticity, her children and husband, wants to see the Eternal face to face and laments no longer being able to be a virgin and martyr.”
“In that case,” said Claire, “which is the more authentic of the two women? Is it the saint or the housewife?”
“They’re both authentic, and all the more so because they’re unaware of one another. On awakening, all is forgotten. Nothing remains—absolutely nothing—in the memory. It’s a complete forgetfulness, a profound destruction of all memories, an immense ignorance that is always surprising, so absolute is it. On the other hand, I don’t know why it’s surprising, because we all resemble tha
t somnambulist to some degree. Yes, truly, Madame, we carry within us, without knowing it, the seeds of all the sentiments and al the passions, and we don’t know the true springs of our life much better than the somnambulists know the characters they play.”
When the curé arrived, at the end of the meal, they were still talking about magnetism.
“Say what you like,” the worthy man affirmed, “but those are unhealthy experiments, which are sooner or later deadly to those who carry them out. Oh, be wary, young man! There’s some diabolical perfidy beneath that invention. Perhaps you don’t believe in the devil, but I believe in him firmly. Quaerens quem devoret,24 the tempter prowls around us, and he sometimes adopts the mask of science, the better to abuse us.”
Laurent smiled without responding. He was thinking that the tempter can take all forms, including that of a chaste nun.
VI
The next day, Laurent performed prodigies of diplomacy to ensure that they return to the château at an early hour. He succeeded, one way and another. At four o’clock, everyone was back. But he did not go to his room, and headed for the chapel. He looked around prudently, as if he feared that he might be under surveillance, but he did not see anyone, and he went in.
He had no thought of hiding, but he did not want to be seen. He sat down in the shadows, on a bench placed behind the pulpit, and waited there, his throat constructed and his heart palpitating with emotion, neither more nor less than if it were a matter of an amorous rendezvous. The setting sun cast red, blue and green rays through the stained glass windows, and the humble church was bathed in a great calm, a religious silence.
This is the way the worst follies commence, Laurent thought. Will she come? Why shouldn’t she come, since she has the habit of coming here every evening?
Suddenly, the chapel door closed. Yes, it really was Sister Marthe. She advanced toward the organ.
Then Laurent stood up and took a step forward.
On the Brink of the World's End Page 7
