The Bachelors (3 page)

'When Mama died, her assets, according to Lebeau's evaluation, amounted,' here he glanced at the paper he had put on the table, 'to seventy thousand francs excluding personal effects. Add to that the two thousand francs we found in her desk, and we get seventy-two thousand francs. The girl (his niece, Simone de Bauret) and I agreed to accept the estate conditionally. However, as soon as probate had begun, Antoni put in a claim for a capital sum of thirty thousand francs — forty thousand with the interest.'

'Your mother borrowed thirty thousand francs from Antoni?' asked M. de Coëtquidan, his eyes widening to show in full his pale blue pupils.

'Yes, between 1909 and 1914, three thousand here, five thousand there. . . .'

'And what did she do with this money?' asked M. Élie, with a strange glint in his eye.

'Come, Uncle Élie, you know perfectly well. It was to tidy up the past.' (Of course M. de Coëtquidan knew, or rather suspected: these sums had been borrowed by Mme de Coantré to pay her late husband's debts. But the opportunity of reminding the count of his father's misdeeds had seemed too good to miss.)

'Now,' M. de Coantré continued, 'a new debt has come to light. Mme de Saint-Huberty has put in a claim for sixteen thousand francs which her father, M. d'Aumagne, lent Mama in 1912, plus four thousand francs interest. I've found among Mama's papers a letter from M. d'Aumagne in 1916 in which he says: "Let's forget it." But apparently that's not legally valid. We paid off Antoni in full by selling some shares. With Mme de Saint-Huberty we compromised, and she waived the interest: we sold some more and paid her. That makes a disbursement of fifty-six thousand out of the seventy-two — leaving sixteen thousand. You follow me?'

'Hrrr. . .' said M. de Coëtquidan, to whom everything precise was obscure.

'Out of these sixteen thousand, I've spent, since Mama's death, on the house, the funeral, etc., about eight thousand francs. Then there will be Lebeau's fees and expenses, which I evaluate at two thousand francs. Which leaves six thousand provided no further creditors turn up. Your nephew's entire fortune amounts, at best, to six thousand francs, apart from your monthly five hundred francs for board and lodging. Plus the four pieces of furniture in my room. I'm giving the girl my share of Mama's furniture. It takes up a lot of room, but you know what it is — old-fashioned, broken-down stuff. She can do what she likes with it, keep whatever might be useful when she marries, and sell the rest.'

M. de Coantré stopped, and there was a silence. M. de Coëtquidan's only comment was 'Hrrr...'

A simple-minded person might have been impressed by the technical words scattered throughout the elementary statement the count had just made with his eyes continually glued to his notes: 'put in a claim', 'capital sum', 'disbursement', not to mention his 'I evaluate', which suggests the man who is sure of his ground. A shrewder man would have seen that it was a mask under which M. de Coantré concealed his profound ignorance and incomprehension of everything to do with money and business.

He went on: 'You understand, Uncle, that when one has on the one hand six thousand francs all told, and on the other the six thousand a year which you give me for your keep, one cannot afford a rent of five thousand francs. We are therefore faced with the absolute necessity of leaving the boulevard Arago when the lease expires, that is on 15 October, and then each of us shifting for himself. In the next eight months we'll have plenty of time to look around.'

There was another silence. Then M. de Coëtquidan said in a low voice:

'I'll just starve to death.'

'Come, come, Uncle!
Sur
sum corda!
I don't know what your income is, and it isn't my business. But after all, you have something. You're not someone who has a maximum of six thousand francs to look forward to, and when that's gone, literally nothing. And anyhow you know Uncle Octave will never desert you.'

'My brother! He'd send me to the workhouse sooner than put me up himself.'

'We'll find you a good boarding-house. You have money. Perhaps by buying an annuity you could ...'

M. de Coantré stopped. His uncle had given a 'Hrrr' which meant: 'Now, my boy, you're beginning to meddle in something that is none of your business.'

'My six thousand francs, and the three thousand five hundred you give me between now and 15 October — those are my sole assets until we leave. Two thousand for Lebeau, and two thousand five hundred for the two quarters' rent: that leaves five thousand to keep the place going for eight months.'

'And what will you do on 15 October?'

'I'll have to work, of course. I shall start looking for something tomorrow. I don't know ... a hospital job perhaps .. .'

'Hrrr . . .' growled M. de Coëtquidan, his finger wedged in his nose.

M. de Coantré failed to grasp the meaning of this grunt, which was: 'Work, you! You won't find a job, because you're a good-for-nothing. And you'll fall back on my brother Octave, and whatever he has to do for you will mean so much less for me.'

'As for me,' said the old man sourly, 'I shall ask Octave to take me on as night-watchman at his bank . . .' He paused, '... and he'll throw me out.'

His eyes widened, and filled with a moisture that was close to tears. They were bachelor's tears, tears of self-commiseration.

M. de Coantré saw this film of tears, and immediately tears came to his own eyes; but they were not bachelor's tears: he was moved not for himself but for his uncle. Impulsively he rose on his short legs.

'Courage, Uncle! I don't know how I can be of use to you, but for me you are now mother's representative on earth. Whatever happens, I shall never desert you.'

'Quite right, my boy,' said M. de Coëtquidan.

'Allow me to embrace you, Uncle,' said M. de Coantré.

He brought his face close to the old man's, and placed his lips on the verge of the shaggy beard. M. de Coëtquidan's mouth formed in space the outline of a vague and noiseless kiss.

Suddenly, M. de Coantré's emotion changed to a little, jerky laugh, and it was in a jovial tone that he said:

'So that's the end of Arago! Well, it's none too soon. You'll see, Uncle, leaving this confounded shack will bring us luck. I tell you, 15 October 1924 will be the start of a new life for us!'

They said good-bye, and M. de Coantré, lighting a small lamp on the table on the landing, began climbing the stairs to his room, which was on the next floor. 'You can't see a thing. Shall I give you some light?' the old man shouted after him, and he placed his own lamp on the landing table. M. de Coantré felt a sort of inner gush of joy. Already this conversation had brought him immense relief. He had been dreading it. He had been afraid his uncle might reproach him or fly into a rage and declare, 'I'm not going, so there!' And now everything had gone so well that the old boy was offering to light the stairs for him! M. de Coantré was overcome with gratitude.

In his room, the lamp lit up stale sheets and a bed on which a travelling rug was doing duty for a bedspread. Within five minutes M. de Coantré had put out his light.

No sooner was his nephew out of sight than M. de Coëtquidan had gone to the fireplace, where the fire was dying down. Delicately he had cut two hairs from his beard with a pair of scissors and put them in the shovel, which he now held over the embers. Soon the hair began to sizzle, and an expression of amusement, of childish glee, appeared on the old man's bearded face, a sort of gargoyle's grin which lasted until the crackling noise of the hairs had ceased. Ah! there was no thought now of starving, or even of being night-watchman in his brother's bank! Life was good, so long as one could play these little games. The old man remained for a few moments staring at the fire. It was ten o'clock. The cook, who went home at night, normally left at about nine. M. de Coëtquidan took up his lamp and advanced cautiously on to the landing. The house was silent; all that could be heard was the sound of a piece of coal falling inside the stove. Trying not to make a noise (although the banisters shook as before), M. de Coëtquidan went down to the kitchen. He took three lumps of sugar from the sugar-bowl and three nuts from a fruit-dish, and pocketed them. A bottle of wine had already been broached; he put it to his lips and drank about a glassful, wiping his mouth with his coat-sleeve. He dipped a spoon in the jam-pot and helped himself. He was washing the spoon — still in absolute silence — when, from behind the door, a tremulous voice cried:

'Who's there?'

'Hrrr—'

M. de Coantré appeared, his face drawn. M. de Coëtquidan pushed the sticky spoon into a corner.

'Oh, it's you, Uncle! Well, you did give me a fright. You know, all this talk about money must have gone to my head. I was woken up by a noise and thought it was like that other time . . .' (an allusion to a burglary scare which we shall hear about later on).

'The window was banging and I came to shut it,' said the old man, averting his eyes like a delinquent child caught red-handed. 'She always forgets.'

And with a sly expression, glad to be able to humiliate the person who had discovered him
in flagrante delicto,
he added:

'Mustn't be so panicky, my boy!'

The two men, each with his lamp, left the kitchen.

'You go up first,' said M. de Coëtquidan. When his nephew had gone up a few stairs, he followed him. He had had his first revenge, with that wounding remark. Now he had a second. On the way up, his eyes lowered and without making the slightest noise, he turned the stove up a little higher.

2

I
N
May 1869, the smart people of Paris were invited to attend the weddings of the Coëtquidan girls, Angèle and Émilie — 'the love-birds' as they were called, for they were twins. They were married the same day, Angèle to a young de Coantré whose ambition was to be a gentleman of leisure, Émilie to a naval officer, M. de Piagnes, who was a paragon of virtue. M. de Coantré was marrying his 'love-bird' because he had had his share of wenching and now wanted someone absolutely respectable. 'I should prefer her to be stupid,' he had specified when his aunts asked him what sort of girl he wanted them to look for, and when they mentioned the Coëtquidan girl his first question had been: 'Is she nice and stupid?' They had reassured him. As for M. de Piagnes, he was attracted only by girls who did not open their mouths at dances. Not only did he regard this as a proof of their virtue; he was also sorry for them, because the young men left them high and dry: he was the St Vincent de Paul of the ballroom. Émilie danced three
cotillons
with M. de Piagnes, in the course of which she never uttered. He was so overwhelmed that he proposed there and then.

The 'love-birds' were reputed to lack intelligence. This reputation was unjustified. Society people are apt to believe that a girl who puts on an act, or who is a 'character', or who is taking her
baccalauréat,
or who flirts, or who, quite simply, is badly brought up, is an intelligent girl; and heaven knows how it is in reality! Having given too much credit to some, society withholds too much from others: the more homely girls are wantonly condemned. And yet, given a choice between stupidity plain and stupidity adorned, how could one but prefer the former? At least it is harmless and does not contribute to that vast confusion of values which is one of the most devastating and most neglected social evils of our time. The 'love-birds' had little wit, but they were pious, upright, retiring, docile, ready for any sacrifice, fundamentally charitable — in other words they had all those Christian virtues which are always an object of derision in a Catholic society. Besides, were they so devoid of wit? Often they would utter remarks full of shrewdness or common sense, of which none of their brilliant friends would have been capable. But since these remarks came from them they either passed unnoticed, or were laughed at. However, one of the twins, Angèle, was reputed to be more intelligent than her sister. But she drew no advantage from this reputation, because only their nearest relations and a few intimate friends could tell the 'love-birds' apart. Anyone who ran into either of them was tempted to ask her, 'Let's see now, are you the intelligent one?'

The 'love-birds' had two brothers. The elder, Octave, was at the time of their marriage a young man of twenty, who had just become an employee of Latty's Bank, of Paris, because he was a close friend of the chairman's son. The younger, Élie, was the most promising of all the Coëtquidans. He was studying political science, for which he was quite unsuited, since he disliked society and was always buried in his books and papers.

His daughters married, the old Baron de Coëtquidan went back to his château at Trenel, near Saint-Pol-de-Léon. He had insisted, at the time of the weddings, that the Coantrés, in return for an allowance, should keep Élie with them until he got married, since he was so engrossed in his books and so well known as 'a bit of an eccentric' that he was considered incapable of looking after himself. M. de Coantré pulled a face, but was obliged to acquiesce. M. de Coëtquidan had chosen Angèle for this wedding present because she was to remain in Paris, where Élie had to stay because of his studies, whereas the Piagnes were going to live at Lorient.

M. de Coëtquidan, who had married at the age of fifty-five, was now eighty. It was malevolence that kept him alive, for malevolence, like alcohol, is a preservative. After a certain age, every biting word uttered, every anonymous letter posted, every calumny spread abroad wins you another few months from the tomb, because it stimulates your vitality. This can also be seen among animals: a particularly cruel hen, a stubborn horse or a vicious dog will live longer than its fellows. M. de Coëtquidan was extremely pretentious; the way he said 'people like us' was enough to make you want to guillotine him on the spot. At Trenel he sank into the melancholy dotage of those without the prospect of constant promotion in the Legion of Honour to buttress their old age. He was wedded to an old copy of
Tout-Paris
which he covered with mysterious notes concerning all the families he knew. Wherever he opened it this sacred book provided food for profound reflection — just as the believer, wherever he opens the Gospel, is said to find an answer to what he seeks.