The Bachelors (22 page)

So Georges was going to notice that M. de Coantré was travelling third! Léon could have settled in a second-class compartment, and then moved to a third when the chauffeur had gone. But this operation seemed to him positively Himalayan, for not a minute had passed since his arrival at the station when he did not think the train was going to leave the very next minute: it was obviously impossible, for lack of time. Then he made a heroic decision.

'I've lost my ticket,' he said, searching through his pockets. 'I'll have to buy another.'

'I'll go,' said Georges, 'if Monsieur will wait here.'

'No, no!' cried the count, who wanted to change his third-class ticket for a second, whereas Georges would have to pay the full price for a second.

'Monsieur will only have to wait a moment. First class?'

'No, second. But I'll go myself, I'd rather. Please!'

'So Monsieur doesn't trust me!'

'Of course I trust you,' M. de Coantré stammered out, getting more and more agitated and not daring to say another word now that he was being taken like this. 'All right, go ahead, but for God's sake be quick!' He gave him a hundred francs.

He waited by the ticket-barrier with his suitcase at his feet, in a state of extreme annoyance. So, thanks to this creature — and his dear uncle — he would have to pay for two tickets, a second and a third! Worse still, Georges seemed to be taking a long time: the train was going to leave! And he had his ticket in his pocket, and had only to settle into his seat — but Georges would be sure to track him down! It was all so frightful that one hasn't the heart to describe it. At last Georges returned, and M. de Coantré, in a state of nerves bordering on frenzy, felt he could not give him less than a twenty-franc tip.

Throughout the whole journey, which lasted five hours, M. de Coantré failed to recover his spirits. M. Octave's gesture had cost him sixty-six francs (forty-six francs for the second-class ticket and twenty for Georges). He could have wept. He had decided that, as soon as the train started, he would take his first puff at a pipe he had bought the day before, a 'Jacob' clay pipe, the stem of which he had bound with string, which he intended to season carefully, and which was to be the symbol of his new life — a new life and, as it were, a new youth, for he had smoked 'Jacob's throughout his stay at Chatenay, but not since. And now he was in such a bad humour that he had no wish to christen this pipe, and perhaps could not have done so without being sick. He had thrown the
Daily Mail
under the seat unopened. After a time, having decided that this punishment was too mild, he picked the paper up and took it to the W.C. where he left it in full view on top of the sanitary bin.

The journey was one long string of anxieties: anxiety in the train, in case it was late and missed the bus, or the bus was full, or they forgot his luggage; anxiety in the bus, in case the man Finance was supposed to be sending with a wheelbarrow to the place where M. de Coantré was to get off failed to turn up. What would become of him then, waiting alone at the side of the road after dark, with his suitcase and his trunk, two kilometres from the château? When he thought of it his mouth went dry. And he went on repeating to himself, 'As if old Octave couldn't have lent me his car!' When you do someone a favour you must never do it by half measures; you must go the whole hog or not at all, otherwise you will make an enemy.

At the bus-stop, the man was waiting by the roadside. Oh conscientious fellow, to arrive at the rendezvous at the appointed time! Oh noble specimen of a vanished species, I lift my hat to you! The man put the trunk and suitcase on his wheelbarrow, and they set off through the forest.

Suddenly M. de Coantré was transformed. A forest is a healing place — or so it would appear. Léon absorbed the aroma of Nature as one absorbs the aroma of a church, so compact and powerful was the scent of the forest — a scent of sugary moisture — on this St Martin's summer day. The scent of the forest! It was the scent of Chatenay once more. Was it possible that this wonderfully precious thing, Nature, could go on existing all the time while one ignored it and felt obliged to live away from it instead of gorging oneself on it to the exclusion of everything else! He became steeped in this smell like a sponge swollen with water. It seemed to him as though the leaves of the trees were smoothing the wrinkles on his forehead. He would have liked to grasp the air in the palms of his hands and press it to his face. He pulled back his shoulders, as proud as if he were showing off a brand new apple-green suit. His gait was that of a clockwork toy, or of a drunken man — unbelievably different from what it was in Paris. Oh newfound youth! Oh thrilling metamorphosis! The certainty that he could still be happy shone forth in this ageing man, the conviction that he possessed at last what he had always desired and what had been destined for him from time immemorial.

They walked on for two kilometres. The man was an agricultural labourer. M. de Coantré wanted to dazzle him with his woodland knowledge: with childish pride he named the different species of trees, talked of trees being 'rolled' by the wind, from which one can extract the pith like lead from a pencil, criticized the administration of the forest: ill-kept cutting lines, 'premature' plants which were devouring their neighbours and which should have been cut down, etc. . . . And he trotted steadily along on. his little legs, having difficulty in keeping up with the labourer in spite of his loaded wheelbarrow, but eager to show him that he was no soft Parisian but a hard-baked countryman.

At last they reached the château, an indifferent building to which M. de Coantré took an instant dislike because it reminded him of wealth. They deposited his luggage in the keeper's cottage, not without a complicated rigmarole from M. de Coantré explaining that it was he himself who had chosen to live there rather than in the château, out of love for simple, natural things: he all but quoted Jean-Jacques Rousseau. The man was to escort him to Fréville, and not wanting to keep him waiting (that courtesy of his!) Léon merely glanced inside the house, which consisted of one big room, a kitchen, and a lumber-room. It had been built to M. Octave's own specifications, and he himself, to show his esteem for manual labour, had insisted on lending a hand with it. Disguised as a bricklayer and mixing with the workers — to their great inconvenience — he played at being a manual labourer for several hours on two or three occasions, not forgetting to have himself photographed in this get-up. (The pictures showed him looking fifteen years older, an elderly man exhausted by a physical effort well beyond his age and strength.) M. Octave adored, at smart dinner parties, to remark casually to his gorgeous neighbour: 'When I was a bricklayer . . .' Raised eyebrows. 'But yes, madame, I myself built my keeper's cottage.' And then he would extemporize on one of his favourite themes, the dignity of manual labour.

M. de Coantré and his guide went off to Fréville, which was six or seven hundred yards from the château.

There is something so splendid about the grasping proprietor of a cheap eating-house being called Finance that it would be regarded as absurd if it happened in a novel, reminding one of those simple-minded novelists who think they can bring a bailiff to life by calling him Graball or an avaricious peasant by calling him Graspgrain — puerile and hackneyed conventions which will last as long as the French novel. So in the course of these pages we shall call Finance by his wife's maiden name, Chandelier.

Chandelier gave M. de Coantré a warm welcome. It was 'M. le Comte' this and 'M. le Comte' that. The men at the tables stopped chattering and silently contemplated this preposterous count. Chandelier was a man of about forty-five, fattish, blond, with a full, pink face, who adopted a forced heartiness when he spoke to M. de Coantré, and suddenly a hard expression when he addressed his wife or the waitress. On the whole he looked like a wild boar, but one which was mainly fattened pig. It was agreed that while the weather remained fine, M. de Coantré would eat at the inn. Later on, if it was necessary, the waitress's son would take the meals to the château. 'We'll manage somehow.'

Léon had dinner. Chandelier came and chatted to him, about his family and his 'worries' (for a self-respecting man
must
have 'worries'). Léon talked again about 'rolled' and 'premature' trees, not forgetting the 'cutting lines'. He was bathed in happiness: the substantial meal had raised his new-found self-esteem even higher. Chandelier asked if he might offer him a glass of brandy out of friendship.

Next morning Léon, hungry for the forest, dressed himself up like a tramp and spent the day among the trees. He had first of all looked for a suitable branch and cut himself a stick. Like the 'Jacob' pipe, a stick was indispensable as a symbol of his new life, and he would have suffered if he had not had one straight away.

A painter could have depicted the landscape with two colours only, green and brown. M. de Coantré walked on a thick carpet of dead leaves, whose brownish-yellow hue turned almost pink in the distance, and through withered bracken. The tall forest pines, all leaning away from the sea wind, swayed slowly like submarine plants. Here and there a tree-trunk lay on the ground with its branches sticking up like the horns of a dead buffalo. No sound could be heard but the cawing of an occasional crow or the cry of some little tree-creeper as it climbed. But the faint, distant murmur of traffic on the main road brought to this solitude a reminder of humanity, like land glimpsed from the open sea.

The next day was also spent in the forest, in a similar state of euphoria. Léon wrote in lyrical vein to his two uncles, to Pinpin and to Mélanie. The day after that it rained, and the disadvantage of having to go down to the village to lunch made itself felt. In the evening the waitress's son brought in the meal, which had to be heated up. 'Of course old Octave didn't think about this problem of meals. It's always the same. He isn't practical!' And you, dear count, do
you
happen to be
practical
by any chance?

The following day, there was more rain and lunch was brought up, but it was appreciably less good than at the inn. It had been agreed that the boy should do the house every other day. He was a greyish-yellow child, with grimy hands and knees and teeth rotted by cider. Since he knew and understood nothing, Léon guessed that the only thing he would get from this so-called help would be the ruinous fatigue which an untrained servant causes.

In the afternoon he could think of nothing to do. Now that his worries had been dissipated he lacked a solid base. It was like the rather sinister silence of a motor-boat when the engine breaks down at sea. And then, in an old den like Arago where nothing was ever thrown away in case it was needed, there was always something to be done. As there was no armchair in the keeper's house (' The rural life is all very nice, but it has its limitations . . .'), he spent the whole day lying on the bed waiting for dinner-time, his head unbelievably empty, cursing the log fire which, on the first day, had so delighted him (gramophone record:
The Poetry of the Log Fire
: 'A living presence! A companion! Something better than those trashy modern inventions! . . .') but which now forced him to get up every five minutes to re-arrange something in the fire-place.

At half past seven the boy, who was supposed to bring the dinner at seven, had still not arrived. At eight o'clock, still no one. No doubt they had not sent him because of the rain. This off-hand behaviour shattered Léon. He weighed up the pros and cons of going out in the rain or going to bed without any dinner, and finally went to bed, his heart full of bitterness. Chandelier! Another guardian angel whose wings had begun to moult.

Next day Chandelier excused himself. The boy could no longer 'come up': his mother needed him at meal-times. For the housework, M. de Coantré might come to some arrangement with old mother Poublanc's daughter.

'But, if I may say so, it's no kind of life for monsieur to be leading up there in winter in such conditions. Monsieur is his own master, of course; but if monsieur wants to live an open-air life and at the same time be looked after properly, why not take a room in the village? Even here, if monsieur liked, we could clear the daughter's room, which we've been using as a store-room ever since she got married. We could make a fine room for him!'

'I should be only too delighted,' said M. de Coantré guilelessly, 'but you see — I don't know whether M. de Coëtquidan told you — I'm absolutely penniless. I can't afford any extra expense if I can avoid it.'

Country people do not take the trouble to hide their feelings. Within a second — like characters in a play — a sort of mask came over the faces of the two Chandeliers; their jaws dropped, the light went out of their eyes; and as if they were choking, they said not a word. No sound could be heard but the powerful, majestic, insistent tick-tock of the clock on the wall. An atmosphere of calamity invaded the room, as sharp and as cold as if the windows had suddenly been flung wide open.

That day the weather was cold and dry. Léon, in the forest, literally no longer
saw
the scenery: he was too preoccupied — 'drawing up plans'. He decided to buy tinned food and eat at home, and to do his own housework.

That evening after dinner Chandelier presented him with the bill. Léon had only been there a week, but, alarmed by his admission that morning, the man wanted to make sure. Léon paid the bill without checking it. When he looked at it afterwards, he saw that Chandelier had included the brandy he had 'stood' him on the first day.

He said he was going to do his own housework, that he had been advised to take exercise. He noticed that Chandelier no longer spoke to him in the third person. On the first day it had been 'Monsieur le Comte' at every turn, so much so that Léon, conscious of the absurdity of the title being applied to a poor devil in his situation, had begged the innkeeper to refrain from using it. Then it had been the third person without the title, which Léon, humble as he was, considered
proper.
Now it was 'you'.

M. Octave, in writing to Chandelier, had told him that Léon wanted a 'rest cure', and that he was by nature 'a little eccentric'. He had said not a word about his penury, assuming that the innkeeper would soon find out for himself. Chandelier, for his part, had got used to the idea that all noblemen were half-mad. He had seen M. Octave alternating stinginess and extravagance; he had heard about the eccentricities of old Coëtquidan, and once or twice he had caught a glimpse of the scarecrow figure of M. Élie. That the nobility were all half-mad was something that he not only believed in all sincerity, it was also an idea that he cherished. He had, indeed, a deep-dyed hatred for them, and considered that they had not sufficiently atoned. Although, in France, the record on this subject proclaims that as the aristocracy no longer exists as a class, being strictly null both in what it is and what it has, no one can hate it, because one cannot hate what does not exist, nevertheless this hatred remains. Once upon a time a girlfriend of Léon's, who had taken a long time to reach the stage of being confiding and amenable with him, had finally confessed, 'You see, it put me off, your being a viscount.' Chandelier went so far as to envy and hate titles which he knew to be false, like that of a local squire whose grandfather was well known to have been a draper. For it was the title not the person that he always concentrated on, forgetting, as the masses always do, that there are as many (or almost as many) noblemen without titles as there are commoners with.