The Bachelors (21 page)

Léon, bowing and scraping and obviously in his element — 'Yes, ma'am . . . Certainly, ma'am . ..' — escorted Mme de Vauthiers to the garden gate, kissed her hand, and watched her disappear into a motor-car that was not sumptuous but something much better than sumptuous: a motor-car that exuded rank. The moment Mme de Vauthiers left Léon, the cheerful, most ecstatic expression she had improvised vanished as abruptly as an electric light going out. Her features fell, her face lengthened, and her expression became cold and hard. But some time after the car had moved off, as though it had taken her that long to recover her spirits, she burst into a shrill laugh and went on repeating to herself aloud. 'Goodness, what a scream! . . . Goodness, what a scream! . . .'

Meanwhile M. de Coantré stood dreamily in the garden as though under the influence of a spell such as certain holy men leave in their wake; she had revealed to him, or rather recalled, that there existed a higher order of being. Moreover, he was thrilled at having so easily risen to the occasion, so easily shown himself a man of rank, and he said to himself, 'After all, there is something in being from the same stock!' He felt that, after all, he could have arranged his life otherwise, could have kept in touch with the people of 'our sort' of whom, from a distance, he had made a bugbear but who were probably in many cases as easy to get on with as Mme de Vauthiers. And in thinking all this, M. de Coantré was right. He could quite easily have had a normal, dignified and satisfying life, if he had agreed to the small effort needed to keep his position. What he was paying for now was very little, but it was everything: he was paying for having let himself go, for what one might call (to coin a dubious but expressive phrase) 'the snowball of indiscipline'. Mothers, let this be a warning to your sons. Nevertheless, at this moment he regretted nothing, for the old Circe had engendered in him a happy image of himself. All that evening, he genuinely believed that he had made the right choice, that the Marquise de Vauthiers-Béthancourt really envied himself for having cut himself off from society etc. Thinking about the 'ravishing' house, he even went so far as to feel a twinge of regret at the idea of leaving Arago. Next morning, the effect of the philtre had worn off. 'She had me all right, that old bag! But never mind, she has a way with her.'

On the 15th, the furniture removers transported the contents of Arago to the shed Mlle de Bauret had hired. They also transported to the rue de la Glacière the belongings of M. Élie de Coëtquidan, consisting of four trunks — three small and one large — and the belongings of M. le Comte de Coantré, consisting of one small trunk and one large suitcase. All this was put in the loft. The gentlemen had sold their furniture to a local second-hand dealer at the price he offered them.

There had been a great scene with Mélanie, who was giving up service for good. M. de Coantré had embraced her. We have refrained, during the course of this narrative, from expatiating upon the relationship between M. de Coantré and Mélanie, since it was the traditional relationship between master and servant in a society devoid of authority and order, in which the first impulse of either when anything happens is to forget his place. M. de Coantré quailed before this beady-eyed slut, never dared to criticize her, surrounded her with the same extravagant attentions as he surrounded his uncle, — and when one thinks of the harshness with which he treated his mother one must regard this difference as shameful. At the slightest provocation Mélanie would threaten to leave, and M. de Coantré would panic and give in. As we have said, such sordid behaviour is traditional, and has been described a thousand times. And yet M. de Coantré regarded Mélanie as perfection itself. However much, for the past thirteen years, Mélanie had openly taken advantage of her position (though not in the matter of honesty, for she was
really
honest); however much, since time immemorial, M. de Coantré had seen servants repay the family's inexpressible kindness with sudden departure, insult, theft, calumny and blackmail — he nevertheless continued to proclaim, and even to believe, that only the common people have hearts and that compared to them the upper classes are regular monsters of unkindness. Similarly, for all that Mélanie would nearly faint at the slightest twinge in her stomach, would spend three whole days in bed because of a headache, or howl like a dog if she had a boil; and for all that most of the menservants the family had had, whether from North or South, had proved to be the most unbelievable mollycoddles, always on the verge of collapse, exhausted by the slightest effort, blaming fate on every occasion when nothing but their own will or moral resilience was at fault ('What has to be will be . . .'), it remained clear to M. de Coantré — as he had heard it repeated
ad nauseam
by 'people of our kind' — that it is only among the people that you find any backbone. The masochism of class is a splendid thing! Dear people, you would be foolish indeed not to take advantage of it! And a class in which, for a century and a half, it is eternally 4 August, certainly deserves no better.

M. de Coëtquidan decided to take his meals in town, at a restaurant where there was an adorable cat which he had fallen for. It was an expensive cat, for the restaurant was some distance away and he had to change buses to get there. Léon unearthed a cheap eating-house, but on arriving there the first day at half past twelve, he found it so full, and with such people, that he decided to return an hour later, when the people would have gone. During this hour he walked frantically. In any other neighbourhood, he would have sat down on a bench, but here, where he was known, he did not dare; for there is a certain class of people who believe that a man who sits on public benches must be a down-and-out; the next thing will be the drinking-fountain. At the restaurant he was asked if he wanted a napkin, and was afraid to say no; but, weighing up the minimal pleasure his napkin procured him against the extra franc a day it would cost him, he was overcome with gloom. He ate hurriedly, in order to reduce the risk of being seen in such a place, and without raising his eyes, as though the fact of not seeing others might prevent them from seeing him. In order not to waste anything, he ate the heads of his fried smelt, stuffed himself with bread, and ordered cheese instead of the orange he would have preferred, because cheese is more nourishing. Before leaving, he slipped the remains of the bread into his pocket.

On 1 November, in the car which was bringing them back from Fréville to Paris, Mme Émilie said to her brother (who, at over seventy years of age, was wearing plus-fours, so smart and dressy was he):

'I have an idea for poor Léon. You ought to send him to Fréville.'

'To Fréville! And have him dirty everything! You must be mad!'

'Not the house. Picot's cottage (Picot was the keeper). He could eat at Finance's. You could tell him you were offering him Picot's house for preference because you know how much he likes simple, rustic things.'

The keeper had died three weeks before; they had not found a replacement, and his cottage was empty. M. Octave considered the idea, which had taken him unawares. Obviously it could not be a permanent solution. But it would solve the immediate problem, and above all, for a time at least, relieve him of Léon's visits. They talked it over, thought about it, and finally decided on it.

Next day, M. Octave and his sister met the two gentlemen at Mme de Coantré's grave in the Montparnasse cemetery. On the way out, M. Octave took Élie aside and told him to come and see him that afternoon. Then he communicated his project to Léon.

Léon was in the seventh heaven. Nature! The countryside! And not a place where he would feel lost, but Fréville, under the Coëtquidans' wing, a place where he would be known as the nephew of the Marquis de Carabas! And at once! He could leave tomorrow if he wished! Ah, it was not in vain that he had put his trust in the family. Without a moment's hesitation, he told M. Octave that this decision, which was being transmitted to him on All Souls' Day, must have been inspired by the soul of Mme de Coantré, and M. Octave, although he did not believe in God, was obliging enough to infer that this was not impossible. M. Octave then took Léon to the boulevard Haussmann in order to give him a letter of introduction to Finance, the café proprietor at Fréville. And as it was midday, he invited him to stay to lunch, a thing he had not done for some fifteen years; knowing that his nephew was leaving, he felt he could afford to. Léon was on his best behaviour, though occasionally annoyed by M. Octave telling him that he ate too fast and so on, as though he were a ten-year-old. M. Octave gave him another five hundred francs, but it was when he handed him the keys of the keeper's house that Léon felt he had grown ten feet taller. Fréville keys! How they trusted him! He was the son of the house! When he had gone, Mme Émilie observed that he had behaved very well and that no one would ever have thought he was a fool.

On leaving his uncle's house, Léon was in the same state of happiness and warm emotion as four months before when he had wandered along the boulevard Haussmann towards the haunts of perdition. He decided to leave the day after tomorrow. In the boulevard Arago, he lingered for a time around the old house. Gardeners were cutting down the ivy from the façade and painters were repainting the railings. With a sudden impulse of forgiveness, he gave the house absolution.

M. Élie spent the following afternoon in the company of his sister, visiting boarding-houses in M. Octave's motorcar. As he wanted to return to the haunts of his youth, they searched in the neighbourhood of the rue de Lisbonne. In order to emphasize that he was starting a new life, Léon went to the hairdresser's and after his haircut ordered a shampoo. He had abandoned all the hairdressers in the district one after the other, because he had to fight every time to stop them giving him a shampoo, and he was ashamed of having to fight; for he felt sure that they did not believe him when he told them he hated getting his hair wet, and guessed that it was a question of money.

That evening, Léon and his uncle sat up late in their shabby room with its two beds side by side, like the beds of two overgrown children. They had lived for forty years under the same roof, and this was their last night together. Both were moved, especially Léon. They had so many memories in common, so many impressions, habits, mannerisms, ways of speech, words and phrases invented by the family and which could only be understood by themselves and their nearest relations. That night, they were sharply aware of all these special ties, which seemed to them to constitute a rich treasure. Léon forgot his feelings of resentment against M. Élie. M. Élie forgot that he had written an anonymous letter — oh, a long time ago — to some prospective in-laws of Léon's to tell them (it was pure calumny) that Léon had some illegitimate children. These two troglodytes looked towards the future with a sense of security, because they knew that they would remain within the framework, and, as it were, the aura, of the family. And yet each of them felt that he was going to miss the other.

All this time M. Élie was kneading a lump of bread which he had brought back from the restaurant and which his saliva and his dirty fingers had made as black and shiny as a lump of tar. Suddenly, in the middle of a piece of sentimental reminiscence, he stopped dead and began ferreting under the furniture with a wild look in his eyes.

'What is it, Uncle?' asked Léon anxiously.

'I've lost my pellet,' said the old man with a look of desperation. Léon got down on his knees and searched with him. When he saw it, he hesitated for a moment; then he remembered that it was his last evening with his uncle, and in the name of the past, the family, and his mother's memory, he picked up the ignoble little object and gave it back to him.

M. de Coantré was due to leave at one o'clock. In the morning, he had a sudden impulse to pay a last visit to the house in the boulevard Arago. He pretended he had left some secateurs in the entrance to the cellar and wanted to recover them. Opening the garden gate, he was startled to find a tennis court under construction where the lawn had been; much good it had been to look after his lawn so carefully! But all the windows were closed, and neither at the front door nor at the back was his ring answered. As he opened the gate on his way out, he must have been deeply upset, for his head began to swim and he had to hold on to the railing as he undid his collar stud and took off his hat to cool his head. But it did not last long, and by the time he set off towards the rue de la Glacière he was quite himself again.

9

T
O
CATCH
the one o'clock train, M. de Coantré arrived at the Gare St Lazare at 12.15. As there had been a great farewell scene with M. Octave two days earlier, he felt certain his uncle would not come to see him off. This filled him with a mixture of slight bitterness (the distance between the boulevard Haussmann and the station was so short that it was almost insulting not to make the journey on such an occasion) and immense relief: the greatest proof of friendship one can show to a nervous person is not to accompany him to the station, where one's unsettling presence is bound to fluster him, perhaps to the point of disaster — lost luggage, missed trains, or, at the very least, the worst seat in the compartment.

Having registered his trunk — an old, battered trunk with one of its two locks broken — but keeping his suitcase with him, he bought a ticket, choosing third class not only out of economy but because he would be among humble people. Sweating with anxiety, he was looking for his train when he saw Georges, his uncle's chauffeur, coming towards him.

'Monsieur has already bought his ticket? Monsieur le baron sent me to look after Monsieur. And first of all, here is the
Daily Mail
for Monsieur to read in the train.'

Georges handed M. de Coantré a copy of the
Daily Mail
(he pronounced
Mail
as one pronounces it, for example, in
l'Orme du Mail)
and at the same time forcibly removed his suitcase from him. M. de Coantré saw the ten-franc note he would have to give him as a tip flying away like a red balloon. 'Oh! for these few steps it's quite unnecessary. We're already at the platform.' And he pointed to the barrier, where a man was punching the tickets. 'But I have a platform ticket,' said Georges.