French Decadent Tales (Oxford World's Classics) (12 page)

‘A few moments later, as the evening had suddenly cooled, I came back to a sense of reality. I rose abruptly and raised the door-knocker a second time, and looked at the laughing house.

‘But scarcely had I glanced at it than I was forced to stop short again, and this time I wondered if I were not the plaything of some hallucination.

‘Was it the same house I had seen just moments ago? But what age would I give it
now
, with those deep fissures visible through the pale
leaves?—The edifice seemed foreign; the windowpanes lit up by the rays of the dying sun glowed with a peculiar intensity; the hospitable porch still welcomed me up its three steps; but, looking more closely at the grey slabs, I saw they had just been polished, and bore the trace of carved letters. I knew then they had been taken from the neighbouring graveyard—its black crosses now quite apparent, close by me, at about a hundred paces. The house seemed so changed it made me shudder, and the knocker, when I let it drop, echoed through the place like a death-knell.

‘These kind of
sights
, being more psychological than physical, vanish rapidly. Yes, absolutely no doubt about it, I had been the victim of the kind of intellectual exhaustion I mentioned earlier. Anxious to see a human face that would help dispel the vision, I lifted the latch without waiting and went in.

‘The door, with the weight of a large clock, closed behind me.

‘I was in a long corridor, at the other end of which, descending the staircase with a candle in her hand, was Nanon, the old housekeeper, smiling broadly.

‘ “Monsieur Xavier!”… she exclaimed, overjoyed to see me.

‘ “Good evening, my dear Nanon,” I replied, swiftly handing over to her my suitcase and my gun. (My overcoat I had forgotten in my room at the Soleil d’Or.)

‘I went up the stairs, and a minute later I clasped my old friend in my arms.

‘The mutual affection in our first exchanges, and the melancholy caused by the time that had elapsed, weighed on my friend and I for a few moments.—Nanon came in with the lamp and announced that supper was ready.

‘ “My dear Maucombe,” I told him, giving him my arm as we went down, “intellectual companionship is a lasting joy, and I see that we feel the same about it.”

‘ “There are Christian spirits whose divine kinship binds them closely,” he replied. “Yes.—The world has beliefs less ‘reasonable’ that command adepts to sacrifice, in their name, their own blood, their happiness and their duty. They are called fanatics!” he concluded, smiling. “Let us choose, as our faith, the most useful, since we are free, and we become our belief.”

‘ “The fact that two and two makes four,” I replied, “is very mysterious in itself.”

‘We went into the dining room. During the meal, once he had gently reproved me for neglecting him so long, the Abbé talked to me about the village.

‘He told me about the country round about, and a few stories touching upon the local nobility.

‘He regaled me with his own hunting stories and his angling triumphs: he was, in short, charmingly affable and lively.

‘And all the while, like a swift go-between, Nanon bustled around us, her magnificent coif shaking like a multitude of wings.

‘When I rolled a cigarette as we took coffee, Maucombe, who was a former officer in the dragoons, did the same; we puffed away in silence for a while, each thinking his own thoughts, and I observed my host closely.

‘The priest was a tall man, about forty-five years old. Long grey hair encircled his lean, firm face. His eyes shone with mystical intelligence. His features were regular and ascetic, his body lithe, unbowed by the years. He moved easily in his long soutane. Steeped in knowledge and gentleness, his words were uttered in a well-modulated voice, issuing from healthy lungs. In short, he seemed to be in rude health: the years had scarcely worn him.

‘He invited me into his little study-sitting room.

‘The wear of travel and lack of sleep left me feeling shivery; the evening was very cold, a herald of winter. So it was a comfort when my knees were warmed by a fire of vine-shoots blazing between a couple of logs.

‘Our feet on the fender, sunk deep in our armchairs of brown leather, we spoke, naturally, of God.

‘I was tired: I merely listened.

‘ “To conclude, then,” Maucombe said to me as he rose from his chair, “we are here to bear witness—through our works, our thoughts, our words, and our struggle against Nature—to bear witness
whether or not we weigh in the scale
.”

‘And he finished with a quotation from Joseph de Maistre:
*
“Between Man and God, there is only Pride.”

‘ “That notwithstanding,” I replied, “we have the honour of living (we children, spoiled by nature) in a brilliant century, do we not?”

‘ “Let us favour rather the Light of the centuries,” he replied with a smile.

‘We had reached the landing, candles in our hands.

‘A long corridor, parallel to the one below, separated my room from that of my host:—He insisted on settling me in himself. We went in; he looked around to see that nothing I might need was missing, and then, as we shook hands and bade each other goodnight, a lively flare from my candle lit up his face.—This time I shuddered!

‘Was it a dying man, standing there near the bed? The face before me was not, could not, be the same as that at supper! Or rather, if I could recognize it vaguely, it was as though I had not really seen it until now. I understood in a trice: the Abbé was giving me, this time in human form, the
second
sensation, that through some obscure analogy I had first experienced from his house.

‘The head I now beheld was grave, and very pale, as pale as death, with lowered eyelids. Had he forgotten I was standing there? Was he praying? What was the matter with him?—His whole demeanour became suddenly of such solemnity that I closed my eyes. When I opened them, a second later, the good Abbé was still there—but now I recognized him!—The relief! His friendly smile dispelled my anguish. The impression had lasted less than the time it took to frame a question. It was a seizure, a kind of hallucination.

‘For the second time, Maucombe bade me goodnight, and retired.

‘Once I was alone: “A deep sleep, that is what I need!” I thought.

‘Helplessly, I thought of Death; I offered my soul up to God’s keeping and got into bed.

‘One of the odd things about extreme tiredness is that sleep does not come immediately. Every hunter is agreed on the point. It is notorious.

‘I was expecting to fall asleep, quickly and deeply. I had laid great store on getting a good night’s sleep. But after ten minutes had elapsed, I had to accept that this nervous state was not to be tranquillized. I heard groans and creaks coming from the walls and the woodwork. The death-watch beetle,
*
without a doubt. Every tiny sound in the night found an echo in my being, like an electric shock.

‘Outside, black branches thrashed together in the wind. Sprigs of ivy tapped continuously at my window. Above all, my hearing was as strained and acute as that experienced by men dying of hunger.

‘ “It’s because I had two cups of coffee!”

‘Raising myself with my elbow on the pillow, I started to stare fixedly at the light of my candle, on the bedside table. I stared at it between my eyelashes, with the expression of someone deeply lost in thought.

‘A little stoup of holy water, of coloured china, with its branch of holy boxwood, was fixed above my bed. Brusquely, I splashed my eyelids with holy water to cool them, then I put out the candle and closed my eyes. Sleep was approaching: my fever was calmed.

‘I was drifting into sleep.

‘Three sharp, urgent taps sounded at the door.

‘ “What the…?” I said, starting up.

‘I realized then that I had already entered my first sleep. I didn’t know where I was. I thought I was in Paris. Some types of sleep lead to these foolish lapses of memory. Having almost instantly lost awareness of the principal cause of my waking, I stretched my limbs voluptuously, completely unconscious of the situation.

‘ “Wait a moment,” I said suddenly, “didn’t someone knock?—Who can possibly be calling…?”

‘It was then that a shadowy notion dawned on me, that I was not in Paris but in a Breton presbytery, staying with the Abbé Maucombe.

‘In a flash I was standing in the middle of the room.

‘My first impression, along with the sudden cold under my feet, was of a strong light. The full moon, above the church, was shining directly into my window, through the white curtains, and its pale, desert-like flame was playing on the parquet.

‘It was past midnight.

‘Morbid ideas ran through my head. What was it? The shadow was extraordinary.

‘As I approached the door, an ember-light, coming from the keyhole, played over my hand and wrist.

‘There was someone behind the door: they had really knocked.

‘And yet, at two steps from the latch, I stopped short.

‘One thing seemed odd to me: the
nature
of the patch that was running over my hand. It was an icy, blood-red gleam which did not give light.—And how was it that there was no light coming through from the bottom of the door, that led into the corridor?—To speak truly, what was coming through from the keyhole seemed to me something like the sulphurous gaze of an owl!

‘At that moment, the church clock struck the hour, outside in the night wind.

‘ “Who’s there?” I demanded, in a hoarse whisper.

‘The gleam went out:—I went closer…

‘But the door opened wide, slowly and silently.

‘Standing opposite me, in the corridor, was a tall, dark figure—a priest with a three-cornered hat on his head. The moon illuminated him entirely, everything except for his face: all I could see was the glare of his eyeballs that looked at me with unblinking solemnity.

‘An exhalation from the other world hung about my visitor, and his appearance oppressed my soul. Seized by a terror that was mounting to its paroxysm, I stared at the desolate personage in silence.

‘Suddenly, the priest raised his arms slowly towards me. He was offering me something heavy and vague. It was a coat. A large black coat, a travelling coat. He held it out to me, as if he wanted me to take it!…

‘I closed my eyes, to avoid seeing that. Oh, I didn’t want to see that! But a night bird, with a frightful screech, passed between us, and the breeze from its wingbeats, brushing my eyelids, made me open them. I sensed it was flying about the room.

‘Then, with a low groan of anguish—I was too shocked to cry out—I slammed the door closed with both hands stretched out at arm’s length and gave a violent turn of the key in the lock, in a state of frenzy, my hair standing up on my head!

‘And none of this, strangely, seemed to make the slightest sound.

‘It was more than my organism could take. I was fully awake. I sat up in bed, arms braced tensely in front of me; I was chilled; my forehead was soaked in sweat; my heart was beating wildly in my chest.

‘ “What a horrible dream!” I told myself.

‘And yet my unconquerable anxiety remained. It took me a full minute even to
dare
stretch out my arm and grope for the matches. I dreaded the feel, in the darkness, of an icy hand seizing mine and giving it a friendly squeeze.

‘I started nervously when I heard the matches rustle under my fingers in the iron candlestick. I relit the candle.

‘Instantly, I felt better. Light, that divine vibration, disperses a funereal ambience and comforts night-time terrors.

‘Having resolved to drink a glass of cold water to complete my recovery, I got out of bed.

‘Passing in front of the window, I noticed one thing: the moon was exactly as it had been in my dream, even though I had not seen it before going to bed; and going to check the door, candle in my hand, I found that the key had been given one turn in the lock,
from inside the room
, which I certainly had not done before going to sleep.

‘At these fresh discoveries, I glanced around me. The whole episode seemed to me increasingly unusual. I went back to bed, and reclining against my pillow I tried to reason things through, and prove to my own satisfaction that all I had experienced was a particularly vivid bit of sleepwalking; but I was less and less convinced. Then tiredness came over me like a wave, enfolded my black thoughts, and put me and my anguish to sleep.

‘When I awoke, the room was flooded with sunlight.

‘It was a gladsome morning. My watch, hanging from the bedpost, showed ten o’clock. There is nothing, surely, that so lifts the spirits as a morning radiant with sunlight. Especially when you feel the call of the countryside outside, all balmy with a light wind in the trees and the thorny thickets, and the ditches grown over with flowers still wet with dew!

‘I dressed rapidly, forgetful now of the night’s grim beginning.

‘Completely revivified by repeated ablutions in cold water, I went downstairs.

‘The Abbé Maucombe was waiting for me in the dining room: the table was laid, and he was reading a newspaper.

‘We shook hands:

‘ “Did you have a good night, my dear Xavier?” he inquired of me.

‘ “Excellent!” I replied distractedly (out of habit and paying not the slightest attention to what I was saying).

‘The truth is, simply, that I had a hearty appetite.

‘Then Nanon came in with our breakfast.

‘During the meal, our conversation was both tranquil and joyful. The man who lives a saintly life, and he alone, knows such joy and how to communicate it.

‘All of a sudden, I recalled my dream.

‘ “By the way,” I exclaimed, “I’ve just remembered that I had a most singular dream, my dear Abbé. It was so strange… how can I describe it? Let’s see… striking? astonishing? terrifying?—I leave you to be the judge.”

‘And as I peeled an apple, I started to recount, in the greatest detail, the sombre hallucination that had visited me as I fell asleep.

‘I had got to the moment when the priest was about to make me the
gesture
of offering me the coat, but
before I had started my phrase
—the dining-room door opened. With the lack of ceremony common
to rectors’ housekeepers, Nanon came in, walking through the sunbeam, and interrupting me in full flow, handed me a paper: