Sebastien Roch (Dedalus European Classics)

by Octave Mirbeau

  As for Monsieur Joseph-Hippolyte-Elphège Roch, he experienced none of this inner strife and he awaited future developments with blessed calm. He was happy; he ensconced himself in his own eloquence, rejoiced in the apotheosis of his own genius, convinced that, by his will, an unheard-of feat, an historic feat was about to be accomplished. On Sundays, after vespers, dressed entirely in black, he would entertain his neighbours outside his shop, astonishing them with his matchless tales. With calm, dignified authority, rhythmically swaying his torso this way and that, he would utter lengthy perorations, full of colossal lies that only earned him ever-increasing respect.

  At last, the fateful day arrived.

  The day before, Monsieur Roch, who had been officially warned a few days earlier of the arrival of a Jesuit Father specially assigned to pick up the pupils, had sat up far into the night, consulting the railway timetable. He checked and rechecked the times of the arrival of the train at the main stations, counted the number of kilometres between the different towns, studied the prices of the seats in the various classes, lost himself in the maze of branch lines and connections, which were, in any case, absolutely irrelevant to his son’s itinerary. One fact astonished him: the line stopped at Rennes. This unknown area between Rennes and Vannes, this striking out of an entire celebrated region, in an enumeration of indifferent, unfamiliar towns, troubled him greatly. He could not accept that the railway companies had not extended their line as far as Vannes for the sake of the Jesuits.

  ‘For after all,’ he explained to Sébastien, ‘a school of that quality creates quite a bit of traffic. Apart from the question of what is proper, there is also, if you catch my drift, a wasted opportunity to make money. I will complain. In the mean-time, you will be leaving tomorrow, from Pervenchères, on the 10.35 train. Yes, my boy, tomorrow night at 10.35, you will set out on life’s path. Do not forget what I have told you. Always remember that you have a father who is being bled dry … in fact, tomorrow evening, at the station, I have to buy you a first-class ticket. It seems, and I understand it to some extent, that the Jesuits never travel any other way, which does not, however, alter the fact that it costs a great deal, a great deal. I, your father, have never travelled first class.’

  The following day, after a restless night, Monsieur Roch got up very early. He put on the jacket he reserved for special occasions, and, memorably, put on his top hat, an ancient hat carefully preserved in the bottom of a wardrobe, whose silk, clumsily brushed and repeatedly rubbed, now shone with a dull, yellowish gleam. Thus attired, he led his son to the church, so that he could attend mass; a mass said for him and solemnly announced the Sunday before from the pulpit by the parish priest. Monsieur Roch took communion. The service over and his prayers said, he guided Sébastien through the naves, the side chapels and the choirstalls. His steps rang out augustly on the paving slabs, and his gestures had the priestly amplitude of the saints blessing the crowds from the depths of their stone niches.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘look at all this. It was Jean Roch, your illustrious ancestor who restored this church. I have told you about it several times. These columns, this ceiling, everything you see, is his work. Feast your eyes on this noble sight. I tell you that, in moments of weakness, you will only have to recall this to feel consoled and fortified. That is how I, your father, gained all my strength. Look! Jean Roch was a great martyr, my child. Try to follow in his footsteps. Look! They don’t build like that nowadays.’

  Sébastien was not at all moved. He felt no pride at all. Indeed, he felt quite the opposite. Accustomed as he was to peculiar harangues, he listened to this one with astonishment and suffered to find it so ludicrous. Despite himself, he heard his aunt’s words resounding in his ears like an echo of his own thoughts: ‘Your father is an idiot, do you understand, an idiot.’ He felt sorry for him. He would have liked to close his mouth for him, gently, as if his father were a child. Out in the square in front of the church, shaded by the shifting foliage of a double row of acacias, Monsieur Roch stopped, more serious than ever:

  ‘That is where he fell,’ he said, indicating the ground with a dramatic flourish. ‘He spilled his blood there, the blood of the Roch family. Fix these places firmly in your memory, so that you can recount to your friends the glorious history of our family. Doubtless they too had relatives killed in the revolution. Together, I tell you, you will remember your dead. Ah, how I envy you.’

  The day went by in dull visits, interspersed with interminable advice. Aunt Rosalie gave her nephew a five-franc piece, adding in a gruff voice:

  ‘Here, take this. You can buy some common sense with it.’

  At the priest’s house, the goodbyes were most touching. Sébastien was given a brand new scapular and some medals freshly blessed by the Pope. Madame Lecautel proved very affectionate. Marguerite, very pale, had an attack of nerves and cried. The evening finally came. It was an October evening, pleasant and mild.

  ‘Right then,’ said Monsieur Roch, testing for the last time the strength of the ropes binding the trunk. ‘It’s time.’

  Dressed up in his fine clothes, gloved in silk, Sébastien set out towards the station, accompanied by his father. Behinds them came the apprentice, pushing the trunk in a wheelbarrow. Despite the late hour, several people appeared in their doorways to say a final goodbye to the child.

  ‘Bon voyage, Monsieur Sébastien. Look after yourself.’

  Contrary to his normal habit, Monsieur Roch walked along in silence, responding to these popular demonstrations with only brief gestures. He had lost some of his self-assurance and dignity and was moved. He was worried too about what manner he should adopt before the Reverend Jesuit Father into whose care he was about to consign his son. He pondered over grandiose ideas, prepared droning sentences, interrupted by brusque moments of tenderness when his orator’s verve floundered and failed. As they crossed the bridge, Sébastien could see the river all white in the moonlight; behind a clump of willows, the mill stream sang. His heart was drowning in sorrow.

  They went into the station with half an hour to spare. The ticket bought, the luggage registered, they reached the waiting room, sat down next to one another on a bench and, without speaking, inhibited and awkward, stared at the yellowing notices, the illuminated advertisements garishly decorating the walls. Monsieur Roch held Sébastien’s hand in a trembling grip and squeezed it frequently. Sébastien, who had dreaded a flow of words, a tumult of final pieces of advice, was grateful to his father for this silence, this trembling, which were simultaneously very painful and very sweet. His regret at leaving grew.

  ‘I have put four bars of chocolate in your trunk,’ said Monsieur Roch, with a visible effort. ‘Make them last. Have we forgotten anything? Your compass? Oh yes, I packed it myself. And your marbles? Yes, I put the marbles in too, I remember. It was Madame Cébron actually; they’re in a silk cloth bag, look after them, they’re made of agate. Well, anyway, I’ve done what I can.’

  After a silence, he sighed.

  ‘It’s unbelievable. I would never have thought it would come so quickly …’

  Sébastien, shuddering beneath the weight of an enormous sorrow, pressed up closer to his father. He was terribly sorry for having been unjust towards him. His spirits sank, his heart melted in remorse and recognition. He wished he could beg his father’s pardon, tell Aunt Rosalie that she was a nasty woman and that he hated her. All of a sudden, he thought of Marguerite who must be asleep by now; in his mind’s eye, he saw Madame Lecautel, very tall, very thin, stamping letters in her office and sealing leather bags. The bus from the Hotel Chaumier jolted clumsily to a halt outside. There were conversations, oaths, the sound of parcels being unloaded. The horses snorted and shook their harnesses.

  ‘You will be in Rennes tomorrow morning at 5.59,’ went on Monsieur Roch. ‘There, you will be met by carriages that will take you all on to Vannes. Thirty leagues! It is really quite far. Be good. Above all, do not lean out of the windows. Do what the Reverend Father tells you.’
/>   He consulted his watch.

  ‘Only ten minutes to go. Goodness, how time flies. I put some honey cake in your trunk too, in between the woollen socks. Make it last. Don’t share it with everyone. There may come a moment when you will be glad of it yourself. Anyway. Well, now, this Jesuit Father … I wonder.’

  He gave a long sigh and said little more, apart from asking occasionally:

  ‘What about your ticket? Have you got your ticket? It’s a first-class ticket, so don’t lose it.’

  Or else:

  ‘Above all, don’t lean out of the windows. It only takes a moment for an accident to happen. There’s one every day in the paper.’

  Sébastien was crying. He could sense how much clumsy, keenly felt affection there was concealed behind these banal, disconnected phrases, whose very ridiculousness was now precious to him. He had never seen his father like this. If he had dared, he would have flung himself into his arms and begged him to forget about the train, the Jesuit priest, Brittany and the sons of princes; he would have suggested that both should turn round and go back to the shop where they could be very happy loving one another. He too would stand in shirtsleeves, with a cotton overall on, and would look after the customers, count the money, weigh out the nails. What a joy it would be to see the river again, the upside-down reflection of the poplars, the flowing tresses of the reeds. And to see his friends again! His Thursday walks with Marguerite! The fields and the flowers, the hopscotch games in the main square … The minutes flew by painfully.

  Whilst his thoughts were drifting like this, two farmworkers came into the waiting room and recognised Monsieur Roch; they were wearing long blue smocks, their cloaks under their arms, their ugly, vinous faces half-hidden by the caps they wore with a strap under the chin. They approached them. After the usual greetings, they pointed to Sébastien.

  ‘So, this’ll be the son and heir, then,’ said one.

  ‘Oh yes, this is my son … Monsieur Sébastien Roch.’

  ‘Good, good. So, we’re off on a little trip, are we?’

  The ironmonger drew himself up to his full height, and in a dignified but peremptory tone, emphasising every word, he said:

  ‘I am accompanying my son, who is about to set off for college … for the college of St Francis Xavier, the Jesuit school in Vannes.’

  ‘Well now, that’s good, very good.’

  And, backs bent, limbs leaden, they slowly withdrew to the other side of the room.

  Monsieur Roch was indignant that his declaration had not been greeted by these rustics with a little more surprise and admiration. Was it, then, such a natural thing, something quite normal, that his son should be travelling first class to a Jesuit school? Was it something that happened every day to everyone? He thought of going over to them and explaining to them who exactly the Jesuits were; he even reproached himself for not giving his son’s departure greater solemnity, for not having invited the priest, the notary, the doctor and all the other distinguished people of the town to join them. But his annoyance soon dissipated. He contented himself with murmuring very quietly with a disdainful shrug of the shoulders:

  ‘Peasants!’

  Sébastien was still crying, and his father consoled him, saying:

  ‘Come along now, don’t cry. You can see those people are peasants. They don’t know anything, people like that. You shouldn’t take any notice of what they say.’

  Suddenly, a station employee came and opened the door.

  ‘Train’s on its way, Monsieur Roch. Hurry up now. Over to the other side.’

  They heard the clear tone of an electric bell ringing out a single, uninterrupted note, and a dull rumbling, like the sound of a storm approaching. Both crossed the track, holding hands, fearful, stumbling slightly. The dark, terrifying machine, with its red eyes, advancing through the night, whistled, swayed, then stopped, gasping wildly, its flanks shuddering. Stunned, they stood motionless and stared stupidly at the mass of carriages.

  Opposite them, a carriage door was flung open and a priest leaped nimbly onto the platform. Unhesitatingly and with a gracious gesture, he greeted Monsieur Roch.

  ‘This dear child must be our precious Sébastien,’ he said. ‘Good evening, my young friend.’

  He lightly stroked Sébastien’s hair, then stretched out his hand to the father, smiling:

  ‘What a delightful child, Monsieur Roch. We shall surround him with love.’

  Beneath his biretta, which the momentum of his leap had displaced so that it sat slightly at an angle over one ear, he had a young, very sweet face, laughing eyes and an attractive air of benevolence and humorous good nature.

  Monsieur Roch would have liked to say something. He was prevented by the excitement of being in the presence of a Jesuit, by his astonishment at having been recognised by this Jesuit who did not even know him. He could not find a word, a single phrase. All his eloquence was dissipated in embarrassed bowing, frantic gesturing, comic scraping, faced with this simplicity, this youth, this grace, which he had not foreseen and which disconcerted him more than the solemn, priestly, imposing image he had revelled in. He could not believe that this Jesuit had leaped from the train like a boy, when he had imagined vague images of processions and mysterious pomp. He could not believe either that a Jesuit could be dressed in black, just like a parish priest, without the least embellishment to indicate the power of the Order. All this paralysed him. However, he made an effort and stuttered:

  ‘Reverend Father … I am a father … a father … a father who … Well, I certainly didn’t expect … what an honour … And of course it’s so difficult to see in the station in the dark …’

  He froze. The words died in his throat. The train was about to set off again. Awkwardly, he kissed his son, who was still crying, sought some definitive phrase, and finding none, mumbled, his mind confused, his mouth twisted into a grimace:

  ‘I am happy … very happy to have met you … And his poor mother would have been … very … happy … to … to … make your acquaintance.’

  He had barely noticed that Sébastien had climbed into the carriage with the Jesuit, when the train started off again and disappeared, leaving the track empty. Head bare, hat in hand, Monsieur Roch remained on the same spot for some while on the now deserted platform. He was still waving, still repeating:

  ‘Very happy … very happy …’

  The station master had to intervene before he could make up his mind to go. Nothing remained of the pain, the suffering, nothing of that sincere emotion which shortly before had made of him a humane and sensitive creature; now he merely felt irritation at not having found the right words for a unique occasion. Unhappy with this misfortune and a little ashamed of himself, he reached home. Already he thought no more of his son, whose image was overlaid by that of the Jesuit. He kept saying to himself:

  ‘These Jesuits! What power! He recognised me, he did. It’s unbelievable. They recognise people they’ve never even seen before. What an organisation!’

  At home, Monsieur Roch had no sense at all of a void left behind, of the absence of something precious – habit, affection, a small innocent, restless life mingling every day with his own – no sense that something would be missing from then on. When he walked past the half-open door of the room where his son had lived side by side with him, he did not pause to gaze sadly in, and he felt no tug at his heart. He went to bed and fell, as usual, into a deep sleep, a sleep punctuated by dull snores.

  CHAPTER II

  The young priest’s encouraging welcome and affectionate words did nothing to restore calm to Sébastien. Stumbling over hostile legs and tripping over footwarmers, he managed to install himself in a corner, the eighth passenger to get into the carriage. He sat very stiffly, his palms pressed flat on his knees, not daring to stretch out on the seats, make any movement or raise his eyes, still wet with tears, to look around him. Ill at ease in the luxury of a first-class compartment, realising that he was being observed and stared at, he felt horribly embarrassed, a
nd this embarrassment became a sharp pain that eclipsed the other pain, the pain of separation. However, after a few minutes, he made so bold as to cast a cautious, sideways glance at the priest, who was sitting opposite, to the right, his chin lifted, his head aslant against the seat back. He looked very thin, with a long, bird-like neck, prominent cheekbones, a narrow, unsmiling mouth, and eyes that had grown severe again, with no hint of tenderness. But the sleeve of an overcoat, hanging and swinging as it protruded from the netting of the luggage rack, cast a dark, brief, agile shadow that flickered across his face, distorting his features, which were now drowned in ink, now ablaze in a harsh, almost supernatural light. Sébastien amused himself by following the play of this shadow which came and went like the wing beats of a bat. All of a sudden, he had to abandon this distraction, which was also helping him to put on a brave face, because, to his terror, the priest asked him a banal question, intended to put him at his ease. A blush suffused his face, as if he had been caught out doing something wrong. In order to reply, he had to make a violent effort of will and summon up all his courage.