A Life (20 page)

'Where is Rosalie now?'

The Baron answered:

'You won't see her again.'

But she insisted:

'Where is she? I want to know.'

Then he admitted that she was still with them; but he assured her that she would soon be packing her bags.

On leaving the sick girl's room, the Baron, beside himself with anger and wounded in his father's love, went to find Julien.

'Sir,' he said sharply, 'I have come to ask for an explanation for your conduct towards my daughter. You have been unfaithful to her with your maid. That is doubly shameful.'

But Julien played the innocent, and denied it hotly, on oath, as God was his witness. In any case, what proof had they? Was Jeanne not off her head? Hadn't she just suffered brain fever? Hadn't she run off into the snow one night, in a moment of delirium, at the start of her illness? And it had been precisely when she was in the middle of one of those fever fits and running round the house almost stark naked, that she claimed to have seen the maid in her husband's bed!

He lost his temper, and talked of instituting proceedings; he took vehement exception. The Baron, nonplussed, apologized, and asked his pardon, offering to shake hands on the matter, but Julien refused.

When Jeanne heard of her husband's response, she was not angry but replied:

'He's lying, Papa, but we'll prove him guilty in the end.'

And for two days she said nothing more, quietly turning the matter over in her mind.

Then, on the third morning, she demanded to see Rosalie. The Baron refused to summon the maid, saying that she had left. Jeanne would not give in, and kept insisting:

'Well, have someone go and fetch her then.'

She was already in a state of irritation when the doctor walked in. They told him everything so that he might be the judge. But suddenly Jeanne burst into tears, agitated beyond measure, and almost shouted:

'I want to see Rosalie! I want to see her!'

Then the doctor took her hand and said softly:

'Calm yourself, Madame, any undue excitement could have serious consequences. You see, you are pregnant.'

She was shocked, dumbstruck, and it seemed to her at once that she could feel something stirring within her. Then she fell silent, not even listening to what was said to her, withdrawing deep into her own thoughts. She could not sleep that night, kept awake by the novel and singular idea that a child was alive, there, in her womb; she felt sadness, for she was pained by the thought that it should be Julien's son; and she felt anxious too, worrying that he might resemble his father. The next morning she asked to see the Baron:

'Papa, my mind is made up. I want to know everything, especially now. Do you understand me, I want the whole story. And you know you're not to upset me in my present condition. So listen. Go and fetch the priest. I need him here to make sure that Rosalie tells the truth. Then, as soon as he's come, have her sent up to me, and you and Mama must stay here in the room. And above all, see that Julien suspects nothing.'

An hour later the priest walked in, fatter than ever and as breathless as Mama. He sat down next to her in an armchair, his stomach tipping forward between his splayed legs; and, mopping his brow as usual with a check handkerchief, he began with a jocular remark:

'Well, your ladyship, we're neither of us getting any thinner, are we? A fine pair we make!'

Then, turning towards the sickbed:

'And what's this I hear, my young lady? Another christening on the way, eh? Ha, ha, and not just a boat this time either!'

And then he added in a solemn voice:

'One more to fight for king and country.'

Then, after a moment's reflexion:

'Unless it's to be a fine mother . . . like you, my lady', he said, bowing in her direction.

But at that moment the far door opened. Rosalie, tearful and distraught, clung to the door frame, refusing to enter, while the

Baron urged her forward. Losing patience, he grabbed hold of her and pushed her into the room. Then she put her hands over her face and stood there, sobbing.

As soon as Jeanne saw her, she sat up in bed at once, looking whiter than her own sheets; and the thin nightshirt clinging to her chest rose and fell with the wild pounding of her heart. She was choking for air, unable to speak and barely able to breathe. Finally, in a voice breaking with emotion, she said:

'I don't need . . . to ask you . . . Just seeing you . . . standing there . . . your shame before me.'

After pausing to catch her breath, she went on:

'But I want to know everything, everything . . . every last detail. I've asked the priest to come so that it will be like confession. Do you understand?'

Standing quite still, Rosalie was almost shrieking between her clenched hands.

The Baron, who was becoming increasingly angry, grabbed hold of her arms and pulled them apart, and then forced her down onto her knees by the bed:

'Come, speak up, you must answer.'

She remained kneeling on the floor, in the posture traditionally attributed to Mary Magdalene, her bonnet at an angle, her apron on the floor, and her face once more covered with her hands that had been set free again.

Then the priest said to her:

'Now, my child, listen carefully to what is said to you and give your answer. We wish you no harm, but we must know what happened.'

Leaning out over the side of her bed, Jeanne watched her.

'It's perfectly true, isn't it,' she said, 'that you were in Julien's bed when I walked in on you both?'

Rosalie groaned through her hands:

'Yes, Madame.'

Then at once the Baroness began to cry too, with a great choking sound, and her convulsive sobs joined with those of Rosalie.

Looking straight at the maid, Jeanne asked:

'How long had it been going on?'

Rosalie stammered:

'Since 'e came.'

Jeanne did not understand. 'Since he came . . . So . . . since . . . since the spring?'

'Yes, Madame.'

'Since the moment he entered this house?'

'Yes, Madame.'

And Jeanne, as though desperate to unburden herself of her questions, interrogated her rapidly:

'But how did it happen? How did he ask you? How did he get round you? What did he say? When, and how, did you agree? How could you possibly have given yourself to him?'

And this time Rosalie parted her hands, seized with a no less desperate desire to speak, a burning need to reply:

'I dunno. It was the day 'e first come to dinner 'ere, 'e came to me room. 'e'd 'idden in the attic, like. I didn't dare scream, or there'd 've been trouble. 'e got into bed wi' me, I didn't know wot I was doing, and 'e did, like, w'at 'e wanted wi' me. I didn't say nothing coz, well, I thought 'e were nice.'

Then Jeanne, with a shriek:

'But . . . your . . . your child . . . it's his?'

Rosalie sobbed:

'Yes, Madame.'

Then they both fell silent.

All that could be heard was the sound of Rosalie and the Baroness weeping.

Jeanne, quite overcome, could feel her own eyes fill; and the tears coursed silently down her cheeks.

Her maid's child had the same father as her own! Her anger had abated now, and all she could feel within her was the gradual onset of a deep, dismal, and boundless despair.

At length she went on, but in a different voice, the choked voice of a woman crying:

'When we came back from . . . overseas . . . from our honeymoon . . . when did he start again?'

The maid, who was now completely slumped on the floor, stammered:

'The first night . . . 'e came the first night.'

Each word twisted the knife in Jeanne's heart. So, the first night, the night they returned to Les Peuples, he had left her for this girl. That's why he let her sleep alone!

She had heard enough now, she didn't want to listen to any more.

'Get out,' she shouted, 'get out.' And when Rosalie continued to lie there, in a state of collapse, Jeanne called on her father:

'Take her out, take her away!'

But the priest, who had said nothing until now, judged that the moment had come for a little sermon.

'What you have done, my girl, is very wrong, very wrong; and the good Lord will not find it easy to forgive you. Think of the hellfire that awaits you if you do not behave yourself from this day forth. Now that you have a child of your own, you must mend your ways. Her Ladyship will help you, I am sure, and we shall soon find you a husband. . .'

He would have gone on at length, but the Baron, having once more grabbed Rosalie by the shoulders, now hauled her to her feet, dragged her as far as the door, and then threw her out into the corridor as if she were a parcel.

When he returned, looking even paler than his daughter, the priest continued:

'Well, there you are. They're all the same in the country. It's terrible, but there's nothing you can do about it, and one just has to show some tolerance for natural weakness. They never get married until they're pregnant, Madame.'

And he added with a smile:

'It's almost a local custom.'

Then he added indignantly:

'Even the children are at it. Last year, for example, in the cemetery, didn't I catch a boy and a girl out of the confirmation class! I told their parents, and do you know what they said to me? ''But what can we do, Father? It's not us wot taught 'em them dirty things, we can't stop 'em."So there you are, Monsieur, your maid is just like all the others. . .'

But the Baron, who was shaking with anger, broke in:

'Her? What do I care about her? It's Julien I find outrageous. It's appalling what he's done, and I shall take my daughter away.'

And he paced up and down, working himself into a lather:

'It's appalling the way he's betrayed my daughter, absolutely appalling. He's a scoundrel, that man, a miserable, good-for-nothing blackguard, and I'll tell him so, I'll slap his face, I'll beat him to death with my stick!'

But the priest, slowly taking a pinch of snuff as he remained seated beside the weeping Baroness, was endeavouring to fulfil his mission of bringing peace and light to all, and said:

'Come now, Monsieur, if we're honest about it, he's only done what everybody does. How many husbands do you know who have remained faithful to their wives?'

And, with good-natured malice, he added:

'What about you, for example? I bet even you have had your piece of fun. Come now, hand on heart, it's true, isn't it?'

Completely taken aback, the Baron had stopped dead in front of the priest.

'Oh yes, you're just like all the others. Who knows, maybe you even helped yourself to a pretty maid like her. I tell you, everybody does the same. Your wife hasn't been any the less happy on that account, has she? You've loved her just as much, haven't you?'

The Baron stood stock-still, completely at a loss.

It was true, by God, that he had done exactly the same, and lots of times, what's more, whenever he'd had the opportunity; and he hadn't even drawn the line at doing it under the conjugal roof. And when they were pretty, he hadn't let the fact that they were his wife's maids stop him either! Did that make him a good-for-nothing wretch? Why did he take such a stern view of Julien's conduct when it had never even occurred to him that his own was in any way to blame?

And the Baroness, still quite breathless from her sobbing, had the shadow of a smile on her lips as she remembered her husband's philandering, for she was the sentimental type, quick to soften and to look on things with a kindly eye, the kind of person for whom amorous adventures are simply part of life.

Jeanne lay prostrated and motionless on the bed, staring into the distance and reflecting bitterly. Something Rosalie had said kept coming back, wounding. her in her soul, drilling its way into her heart: 'I didn't say nothing coz well, I thought 'e were nice.'

She, too, had thought he was nice; and it was solely for that reason that she had given herself, bound herself for life, renounced all other aspirations, all the plans she had had, all those things waiting to be discovered. She had fallen into this marriage, into this gaping pit, only to climb back to the surface again and find herself surrounded by this wretchedness and misery and despair, and all because, like Rosalie, she had thought he was nice!

The door burst open. Julien appeared with a furious look on his face. He had seen Rosalie wailing on the staircase and had come to discover what was going on, realizing that something was afoot and that no doubt the maid had talked. The sight of the priest rooted him to the spot.

In a trembling but even voice, he asked:

'What's up? What's happening?'

The Baron, who had felt so violent a moment or two earlier, did not dare say anything, fearing that his son-in-law might use the priest's own argument and cite him as an example. Mama was weeping even more profusely; but Jeanne had propped herself up on her fists and was staring, panting, at this man who had brought her so much cruel suffering. She stammered:

'What's happening is that we know everything now, that we know all about your despicable behaviour ever since . . . ever since the very first day you set foot in this house. What's happening is that the maid's child is yours . . . yours . . . as mine is . . . they'll be brothers. . . .' A wave of unbearable pain swept over her at this thought, and she fell back on the bed, weeping uncontrollably.

He stood there open-mouthed, not knowing what to say or do. The priest intervened once again:

'Come, come, my young lady, we mustn't get ourselves into such a state. You must be reasonable.'

He stood up, approached the bed, and placed his warm hand on the forehead of the despairing woman. This simple contact  soothed her strangely; she relaxed at once, as if this strong, coarse hand that was used to making gestures of absolution and offering comforting caresses had brought her a mysterious peace in its touch.

Still standing there, the kindly soul continued:

'Madame, one must always forgive. You have suffered a great misfortune, but God, in his mercy, has compensated you for it, since you are to bear a child. This child will be your consolation. And it is in this child's name that I beg you, that I call on you, to forgive Monsieur Julien the error of his ways. It will provide a new bond between you, an earnest of his faithfulness in the future. Can you remain separated in your heart from him whose flesh you bear within your body?'