Jacques the Fatalist: And His Master (28 page)

JACQUES
: When he had delivered, fitted and been paid for the axle he ran straight to my house, where he told me about the terrible predicament he was in. After I had laughed a bit I said: ‘Listen, Bugger, go and walk around the village or somewhere. I’ll get you out of it. I only ask one thing of you: that is to give me time…’

You’re smiling, Master – what do you find so funny?

JACQUES
: My friend Bugger left. I got dressed because I hadn’t got up, then I went to see his father, who no sooner set eyes on me than he let out a great yell of surprise and joy and said to me: ‘Eh! Godson! Is that you there? Where have you come from and what are you doing here so early?’

My godfather Bugger was always very fond of me so my answer was quite open: ‘It’s not so much a question of where I’ve come from but more one of how I’m going to get home.’

‘Ah! Godson, you’re becoming a rake. You and Bugger make a right pair. You’ve spent the night out.’

‘And that’s not something you can discuss with my father.’

‘And he’s quite right too, Godson. But let’s have some breakfast and see if the wine bottle can give us the answer.’

JACQUES
: I told him that I neither needed nor wanted anything to eat or drink but I was on the point of collapse from exhaustion. The old Bugger who’d been as good as the next man in his time said: ‘I know, Godson. She was a pretty girl and you really went at it, eh? Listen. Bugger has gone out. Go up into his loft and get into his bed… but a quick word before he comes back. He’s your friend. Next time you’re alone with him you tell him from me I’m not pleased with him, not at all pleased. It’s that little Justine – you know the one I mean, there’s not a boy in the village who doesn’t know her – who’s debauched him. You’d be doing me a great service if you could detach him from that creature. Before, he was what you might call a nice lad – but ever since he made her unfortunate acquaintance…

‘You’re not listening to me. Your eyes are closing. Go on up and get some rest.’

I went up. I got undressed. I lifted up the blanket and the sheets and felt all around. No Justine. Meanwhile my godfather Bugger was muttering away downstairs: ‘Children! Damned children! There’s another one breaking his father’s heart.’

Since Justine was not in the bed I suspected she might be underneath it. The loft was quite dark. I got down and ran my hands around, met one of her hands, grabbed it and pulled her towards me. Out she came from under the bed trembling. I kissed her, reassured her, and indicated that she was to go to bed. She clasped her hands, threw herself at my feet and threw her arms around my knees. I might not perhaps have been able to resist this mute scene if the loft had been lit, but when darkness does not scare people it makes
them enterprising. And anyway I was still bitter about her earlier rejection of me. By way of reply I pushed her towards the ladder which led down to the workshop.

She let out a long cry of fear.

Bugger heard this and said: ‘He must be dreaming.’

Justine fainted. Her knees gave way under her. In her delirium she said in a stifled voice: ‘He’s going to come… he’s coming… I can hear him coming up… I’m lost!’

‘No, no,’ I replied in a muffled voice. ‘Calm down, shut up, and get into bed.’

She persisted in her refusal. I held firm. She resigned herself. And then there we were the one beside the other.

JACQUES
: I don’t know whether I raped her or not. But I do know that I didn’t do her any harm and she didn’t do me any harm either!

At first she turned her mouth away from my kisses and whispered: ‘No, Jacques, no…’

At this I pretended to get out of bed and go towards the ladder. She held me back and whispered in my ear again: ‘I would never have thought you were so wicked. I can see it’s no use asking you to have pity on me, but at least promise me, swear to me…’

‘What?’

‘That Bugger will never know.’

JACQUES
: Precisely. You speak like a man who was there himself. Meanwhile Bugger my friend, impatient, worried and tired of prowling around his house waiting for me, decided to go home to his father, who said angrily: ‘You’ve been away a long time over nothing…’

Bugger replied even more angrily: ‘Didn’t I have to trim down both ends of that blasted axle which was too thick?’

‘I warned you about that but you always want to do things your way.’

‘Well, it’s always easier to take a bit more wood off than to put it on again.’

‘Take this rim and go and finish it over by the door.’

‘Why at the door?’

‘Because the noise of your tool will wake up your friend Jacques.’

‘Jacques!’

‘Yes, Jacques. He’s upstairs resting in your loft. Ah! God I feel sorry for fathers. If it’s not one thing it’s another! Well, can’t you move? Standing there like an imbecile with your head hanging, your mouth gaping and your arms akimbo isn’t going to get the work done, you know.’

Bugger my friend was furious and threw himself at the ladder. Bugger my godfather pulled him back and said: ‘Where are you going? Let the poor devil sleep. He’s worn out. If you were him would you like to have your rest disturbed?’

JACQUES
: No, Master, that’s not true. I’m very sensitive really but I keep it in reserve for an occasion when I might need it more – ‘And the foolish ones used of these riches prodigiously when they should have used of them sparingly and found they had none to use when they should have used of them prodigiously…’

In the meantime I got dressed and went down to Bugger my godfather who said to me: ‘You certainly needed that. It’s done you the world of good, that has. When you arrived here you looked like you’d just been disinterred. And now look at you! All pink and rosy like a baby fresh from the breast. Sleep is a marvellous thing! Bugger! Go down to the cellar and bring up a bottle so we can have breakfast. Now, Godson, will you eat with us?’

‘Willingly.’

The bottle had arrived and been put on the work-bench. We were standing around. Old Bugger filled his glass and mine. Bugger the Son pulled his away and said in a fierce voice: ‘I’m not thirsty so early in the day.’

‘Don’t you want a drink?’

‘No.’

‘Ah! I know what it is. Listen, Godson, Justine is in this somewhere. He went round to her house and she wasn’t there. Either that or he found her with someone else. This sulking and taking it out on the bottle isn’t natural, I tell you.’

BUGGER THE FATHER
: Let’s go.

He left and I followed. We arrived at the door of my house and I allowed him to go in alone. Being curious about what Bugger the Father was going to say to my father, I hid in a corner behind a partition where I could hear every word.

BUGGER THE FATHER
: Come on old chap, you can forgive him this time too.

‘Forgive him? What for?’

‘You’re just pretending you don’t know.’

‘I’m not pretending. I don’t know.’

‘You’re angry and you’ve got every right to be.’

‘I’m not angry.’

‘I’m telling you, you are angry.’

‘If you want me to be angry with him that suits me fine but would you mind telling me what mischief he’s been up to before I get angry.’

‘All right, three times, four times, but it’s hardly a habit. You find yourself with a crowd of young lads and girls, have a few drinks and a laugh, dance a bit. Time passes quickly, and before you know it you’re locked out.’

Lowering his voice, Bugger added: ‘They can’t hear us. Tell me honestly. Were we any wiser than they are at their age? Do you know what a bad father is? A bad father is one who has forgotten the faults of his own youth. Tell me, did we never spend a night away from home?’

‘And you tell me, Bugger old friend, did we never take up with girls our parents didn’t like?’

‘All right… So I shout louder than it hurts. Do the same.’

‘But Jacques didn’t spend the night away from home, at least not last night, I’m sure of it.’

‘Oh well, if it’s not that girl it’s another one. Anyway the long and the short of it is you’re not cross with the boy?’

‘No.’

‘And when I’m gone you won’t ill-treat him?’

‘Not at all.’

‘You promise?’

‘I promise.’

‘Word of honour?’

‘Word of honour.’

‘Well that’s that and I’m going home.’

Just when Bugger my godfather was on the doorstep my father tapped him on the shoulder and said: ‘Bugger, my friend, there’s something funny going on. Your boy and mine are a tricky pair of rogues, and I suspect they’ve put one over on us today. Time will reveal all, though. Goodbye, old friend.’

MASTER
: These things you are saying are the eternal facts of life and cannot be emphasized too much. But no matter what the story you have promised to tell me after this one is about, Jacques, you may be assured that only an idiot would not find some lesson to be learned from it. So carry on.

Reader, there is something that is worrying me, and that is that I have honoured Jacques or his master with making reflections which belong to you by right. If that is the case you can take them back without Jacques and his master taking offence.

I believe that I have also noticed that the word ‘Bugger’ displeases you. I would like to know why. It is the real name of my cartwright’s family. Their birth certificates, death certificates and marriage certificates are all signed ‘Bugger’. The descendants of Bugger occupy the same workshop today and they are all called Bugger. When their children, who are all pretty, pass by in the street, people cry out: ‘Look at the little Buggers!’

When you pronounce the word Boulle you remember one of the greatest cabinet-makers that ever lived. In Bugger’s country no one pronounces the name Bugger without remembering the greatest cartwright in living memory. The Bugger whose name is on all the pious religious publications of the beginning of this century was related to him. If ever the great-grand-nephew of Bugger distinguishes himself the name will be no less imposing to you than that of Caesar or Condé.
⁵⁷

You see there’s Bugger and Bugger like there’s William and William. If I
say simply William, that is neither William the Conqueror nor William the draper in the farce of Maître Pathelin.
⁵⁸
The name William is neither heroic nor common. And it’s the same with Bugger. Bugger without qualification is neither the famous cartwright nor one of his boring ancestors nor one of his boring descendants. In all honesty, how can a person’s name be in good or bad taste? The streets are full of hounds called Pompey. So cast off your irrational false sense of propriety or I shall have to deal with you like Lord Chatham dealt with Parliament: ‘Shh… ugar, Sugar, Sugar,’ he said to them. ‘What do you find so funny about that?’
⁵⁹

And as for me I say unto you: Bugger, Bugger, Bugger. Why shouldn’t someone be called Bugger?

As one of his officers told General Condé, the thing is there’s proud Buggers like Bugger the cartwright, good Buggers like you and me, and plain Buggers like a hell of a lot of others.