A Winter's Journal

by Emmanuel Bove

  When I returned home, I was feeling very emotional because of the promise I'd made. Although my intention was to be especially nice to Madeleine, the memory of what had occurred two days ago stopped me. I was embarrassed to have lost my temper so violently with the very woman who now seemed so worthy of being loved. I was about to be reunited with her. There is nothing more moving than these reunions when, unbeknownst to our loved ones, our perception of them has been altered. Because they think we are still angry, their expressions haven't changed, whereas we now look at them with all the mischievousness of a father who hasn't yet showed his child the toy he's brought home. We put off the moment when we'll reveal that we've changed. We smile like someone planning a pleasant surprise, but say nothing and save the agreeable news for later, taking pleasure in their sulking now that we know ending it is entirely in our power. I was delighted that Madeleine had no idea of how happy I was going to make her. Haughty, sullen, she was so far from suspecting the immensity of my love for her! As soon as I began to speak, however, she would forget everything I'd ever done to her. Curti's words had so moved me that I wondered how it was I'd ever made Madeleine unhappy. I now saw her in an entirely new light: no longer the enemy, she was now a fragile creature in need of my protection. Knowing I wouldn't begrudge her that protection, knowing how much I was prepared to do for her—all of it unbeknownst to her—convinced me she would be mine forever, despite the malevolent expression she currently wore. Very sure of myself, I sat down near her and scrutinized her, saying nothing. "Why are you staring at me that way?" she asked after a moment. "No reason." "Are you mocking me?" Without answering, I lit a cigarette, a glib orator about to present arguments so irrefutable that, in the meantime, he can afford to create the impression that his is a lost cause. I felt so superior to trivial, everyday quarrels that Madeleine could have done just about anything without irritating me. I loved her in spite of herself, and was so sure I understood her that I was prepared to forgive her anything. "Look, Louis, there's no point in staying here like this. Please leave me alone." Still I said nothing. "I'm asking you one last time to leave me alone." I realized abruptly that the change in me shouldn't be revealed when she was about to lose her temper. A different mood was needed. "If you don't leave right now, I'll go," continued Madeleine. I nearly answered, "Who's stopping you?" but checked myself. I was still far too happy to allow myself to lose my temper. In any case, I had precious little time to think about it. Barely a second later, Madeleine put down her book and, without saying a word, left the room. Left alone, the strangest sensation came over me. Even as I drifted above all worldly cares, a sort of discontent began to penetrate my idyll. I saw very clearly that if I didn't do something, it would take over entirely, and so I got up and went to find Madeleine. "For heaven's sake, what's wrong with you today?" she demanded angrily. This time, I understood that in spite of my reticence to open my heart to her in these circumstances, I had no choice, or it would be too late. "I love you, Madeleine, that's what's wrong with me," I said with feeling. "I love you in spite of yourself, and in spite of all the pain you may cause me. No matter what you do, I will always love you. My love is above everything. I know you so well that, even if you call me the worst names, I know what you really think. That is all that matters, you see. I know that you have a beautiful soul, that you are a defenseless little girl, and that, without me, you would be the loneliest woman on earth." Out of breath, I stopped, my hands trembling, transfigured as men are only when they admit wrongdoing, or speak with all the force of their innermost feelings. Madeleine was looking at me incredulously. Although I'd thought I was above everything, I found myself anxiously awaiting her reaction. She didn't move. "But I believe you, you poor thing," she said at last, as though I'd been trying to convince her against her better judgment. She had retained only one impression from my impassioned speech: that I'd been trying to convince her of something, whereas my only intention had been to declare my love for her.

  December 23rd

  Late this afternoon, the concierge called me over as I was coming in and handed me a note. I recognized the handwriting of Curti's maid, who said her master wanted to see me immediately. I hurried to the avenue de la Grande-Armée. Whereas everything had seemed normal when I was there yesterday, I sensed an atmosphere of distress upon arriving. Under the archway, I crossed a man who broke into a run. Although it was nearly the dinner hour, as I passed the concierge's loggia I saw she was deep in conversation with several people. On the second floor, where Curti lives, I found a note on his door, written in the same hand as the note I'd just received, which read: "Please come in, quietly." I was afraid Curti might already be dead. There was no one in the entrance hall. Three or four overcoats hung on the coat rack. Shadows moved beyond the glass doors of the living room. I could hear hushed voices conferring. I pushed open the door and saw a group of men, among whom I recognized Sospel. They all turned and looked at me, their faces grave. As soon as I'd slipped into the room, they resumed their conversation. I walked toward Sospel, who was the only person there I knew. When I was standing behind him, I touched his arm to attract his attention, for the men surrounding him made it impossible for me to stand either next to or across from him. He acted surprised, turned away immediately, and resumed talking to the man next to him. At the risk of seeming insensitive and preoccupied by my own concerns when a man's life was at stake, I must say that I found his attitude bizarre. I had the impression that, to add drama to the situation, Sospel had decided to be antagonistic toward me, without any reason. In other circumstances, he would never have behaved this way. Using the pretext of the events unfolding in another room, one could sense he was pretending to ignore my presence, either to add to his own importance or to show me how upset he was. Just then, a door opened and Doctor Mariage appeared. The youngest member of the group broke away and went to greet him. After exchanging a few words, they left the room together. I hastily took up the place that had been vacated, for fear the group would close ranks. It was only then that Sospel deigned speak to me. "Curti is lost," he said in a voice devoid of all emotion, while to my right, a short and badly dressed man, whose nose was adorned with a pince-nez, a little man whose presence I couldn't explain, nodded his head. Although I had anticipated the news, I was thunderstruck by what Sospel had just said. Making a second appearance, Doctor Mariage interrupted Sospel. Still speaking in hushed tones, he asked whether there was a Monsieur Grandeville among us (in other words me), in spite of the fact that he'd seen me and must have remembered that we'd been introduced the day before. I came forward. "I'd like to have a word with you," he said. I followed him. After crossing two rooms, which seemed enormous to me, we entered Curti's room. I saw him immediately. He seemed to be asleep. He was surrounded by indescribable disorder. The nurse was looking for a socket to plug in a diathermic machine. There were vials and bits of cloth everywhere. Just when I thought I'd taken in everything, I suddenly noticed a man writing near one of the windows, leaning on a portable heater. I was overwhelmed. In that aura of death, I felt like a mechanical, empty shell rather than a friend. This sensation always comes over me when I enter the room of a dying man. It brings a sort of relief. It's hard to resist the urge to reduce oneself to nothing when confronted with the dying. Its an animalistic urge to abandon the weak, the doomed. I chastised myself silently for thinking such base thoughts. Suddenly, I realized I was standing by the side of Curti's bed. Doctor Mariage, who wanted nothing to do with me, said curtly, "Tell him who you are." I said my name softly, but Curti didn't move. He was recovering from yet another attack, and had just begun drawing regular breaths. His suffering seemed to have been alleviated, and it seemed to me that if he wasn't opening his eyes, it was because he was feeling better. I didn't dare repeat my name. Doctor Mariage took his hand and, having finally remembered who I was, said, "Your friend Grandeville is here, the friend you saw yesterday ..." Curti's eyes opened then, but instead of the familiar gaze I was expecting, I found myself looking at a stran
ger. It wasn't just his gaze, but his entire face, which had been transformed. It was thinner, and had none of his familiar expressions. Although they'd seemed dull and yellow yesterday, his eyes were full of extraordinary life, yet they didn't see me, in spite of which Curti looked at me, and murmured, "I'm happy you've come. Are you alone? Where is Madeleine? I want to see Madeleine, tell her to come, now ... I want to see the two of you together. Promise me again that you will take care of her, that you will protect her. Very soon now I won't be able to look after her myself." He stopped abruptly, looked for the doctor, then asked with unforeseeable calm, "Isn't Alice here yet? Why is that?" His question surprised me. Who was Alice? I had no time to speculate further, for Curti had resumed speaking to me: "Louis, I beg of you, promise me you'll never abandon my daughter, that you'll always love her, that you'll take my place in her life. I'm asking you to love her more than her father loved her. I didn't do what I should have done. That's why she hasn't come, isn't it? She holds it against me." His mind was beginning to wander. "No, I didn't do everything I could have done. Rather than leading such a selfish life, I should have thought of her, worked for her, planned for the day when I wouldn't be there to protect her. I let myself be happy that she'd married you, even though I knew the marriage was making her suffer. That's the sort of man I am." Although this confirmed my own misfortune, and the fact that Curti regretted his daughter had married me, the scene was so tragic that his words caused me no pain. In fact, I thought they had a noble quality, even if Curti was now reduced to placing all his hopes in the man he'd considered so unworthy of being his son-in-law. I excused myself to go call Madeleine. As I waited for the call to go through, I could hear Curti, who was still talking to me as though I'd never left his bedside, while the doctor endeavored to calm him. "Madeleine will be here very soon," I said upon returning. He said nothing. It was as if he had mistaken my return for my departure. I kept on talking, so that there would be no silence, but Curti had dozed off again. I stepped away from the bed and began talking quietly with the doctor's assistant. News of Curti's illness had spread. Doors opened, then closed again. One sensed that the apartment, unvisited by friends or family in normal times, had now become a sort of public arena. Because Curti was resting, I had no reason to remain at his side and should have gone back into the living room. It occurred to me that the men I'd seen upon arriving must be eager for me to return so that they could take my place. But the thought that Madeleine and I were his closest relatives made me stay. In spite of all the people in the apartment, it was extremely quiet. Only muffled noises reached our ears. The doctor looked at his watch. Silently, with an upward nod, I asked him what the time was. "Seven o'clock," he replied in a normal tone of voice, as though the minutes no longer mattered. Just then a door opened and Sospel appeared. Without even glancing at the bed where his old friend dozed, he went directly over to the doctor. They exchanged a few words in hushed tones, after which Sospel left by another door, which opened onto a corridor that led directly to the front hall. I heard a door slam. As I wondered in amazement that Sospel could be thoughtless enough to make such a loud noise just when Curti was resting, a young woman came into the room, accompanied by the little man I mentioned seeing earlier. I examined the couple carefully. The man looked like an employee who's come to claim his rights. Upon entering the room, the newcomers scrutinized the sick man at length, and though I may be wrong, I had the impression they wanted to be sure Curti saw them. One sensed they apprehended a fatal outcome more than any of us, in the way the friends of a famous man or the lover of a young woman would have done. We stayed like this for several minutes, none of us saying a word. I kept hoping Madeleine would appear. Suddenly Curti opened his eyes, as calmly as someone waking late in the morning, only to close them immediately. He groaned loudly, then pushed himself up to a sitting position. The doctor tried to make him lie down again, but he refused.