by Henri Bosco
His voice became less resonant as he spoke, more persuasive; and, although I sensed a steadfast ulterior motive, I enjoyed hearing him soften. That voice somewhat disarmed my distrust, and, were it not for those ill-timed “Sirs” with which he punctuated his speech, I might have succumbed. His words had a powerful, rough charm; he could not stifle the emotion that affected him as he evoked those wild solitudes with respect to which I had no doubt he wanted to fill me with horror. But, I asked myself, why?
Meanwhile, he continued.
“Yes, the mind. But what can the mind do here, where men are so rare and so wild? That they are rare, all you need do to be convinced is to cast a brief glance across these expanses. What can you find here that suggests man? A few animal pens, with heavy roofs falling earthward. Here and there, a little smoke rising from the peak of a reed hut. Perhaps in summer, beneath a cloud of dust, a herd in a compact line, following its herder. But the pen and the hut shelter no one but solitary, rude cowherds. These distant roofs are unwelcoming. Here you are alone with yourself, alone with the vastness, alone with the beasts . . .”
He paused again. I remained silent, waiting. I anticipated the arrival of some hidden thought; it seemed that, little by little, Maître Dromiols was unwittingly entangling himself in the net he stretched toward me as he painted these inhospitable regions whose gloomy grandeur he evoked, despite himself, before my eyes as well as his.
He seemed to be meditating out loud, solely for himself.
“Beasts, yes. And some of them quite lovely, I grant you . . . On the shore of a lagoon—especially at dawn, when the water barely ripples—coots, flamingos, even sacred ibis, fish serenely in the tepid mud. Just before winter, a flight of ducks and cranes rushes high into the air in search of clouds . . . The birds, Sir, the birds . . . oh! The birds . . .”
He contemplated the birds, but kept his thought to himself; then, after a moment of silence I did not disturb, he returned from sky to earth. “Such is our land, Mr. de Mégremut. As yet you see only the rainy face of autumn, the least hostile of all, no matter how it seems. But this, Sir, is not its true face. For, above these canals, these lagoons, these stony wastes, where the silence common to solitude reigns, you will soon hear a terrible voice: the wind!” He inhaled harshly, deadened his face, resumed his metallic tone, and declared, “This is the land of wind.” Then he puffed up his huge lungs again, raised his head, and carried away once more by the magic of his own voice, evoked the storms of the sky.
“Truly, Sir, there is no place on earth more conducive to the life of the wind. Sea wind, land wind, every wind! Breeze that arrives of a summer evening, above the burning mire, bringing with it the sweetish scent of gorse and red willow roots rotting in the swamps. Brisk billows of fresh air that suddenly smell of salt and spray. North winds—mistral, tramontane—that rush over the samphire, scattering stones, ruffling roofs, shaking the sides of sheepfolds crouched low to the ground. The whole sweep howls—roars by the sea, rage of the river. In the Camargue, the wind is drunk. It stamps, swirls, loses its head. Nothing can withstand its ravages. A bare land, pale water, and on the horizon, the white-capped sea, bristling as it rolls in from the distance. Everything yields to the law of the wind: water, plants, man, beasts. And the most powerful of all takes from the raw north wind its own headstrong fury. Here reigns the bull, beast of the wind.”
He rose. We were nearing the climax. The secret was here: man-beast, rearing, ready to lunge.
All of a sudden, a bell rang, a tiny golden bell.
Maître Dromiols stopped short, unbuttoned his frock coat and pulled a hemispheric pocket watch from his green vest. “Seven o’clock! Dinner!”
Slowly, he replaced the watch in its pocket and turned toward me, solemn, questioning, polite.
I warned him, “Our meal will be modest. Balandran has nothing but dried legumes and some claret.”
Maître Dromiols made a polite pout and nodded smugly, “I anticipated, Sir, a very modest portion. I have made arrangements.” And, turning toward the storeroom, he called out, “Uncle Rat, the victuals!”
The door opened. Uncle Rat appeared, carrying a tray.
Without bothering any further with Uncle Rat, Maître Dromiols leaned toward me and said, “I owe you an apology. You must certainly consider me impolite to have brought an alimentary supplement here to my host. But I knew your uncle Cornélius’s lamentable habits regarding food. I took it up with him from time to time. He ate sparingly, considering his prodigious height; although I am myself, as you can see, quite tall, he surpassed me by four inches! But he was thin as a rail.” He folded his fleshy lips in reproach and declared, “As for me, I eat.”
This declaration was made matter-of-factly, with the greatest ease, as if it were a profession of faith. Out of courtesy, Maître Dromiols added an explanation, also straightforward and irrefutable: “One has a responsibility to a large body.”
Having thus spoken, he solemnly drew up this large body, as if to reinforce his words with a display of physical power and material majesty. Then he slowly turned toward the meal.
I can still see the scene.
At the door of the storeroom, Balandran, leaning against the frame.
Before me, the table.
On the table, a damask cloth laid with sparkling silver and a candelabra.
Uncle Rat, halted, tray in hand, not far from the fire.
The notaire, larger and heavier than ever, standing by the table.
Opposite the notaire, me. I did not see myself. I was weighing myself.
They had everything in their favor—their number and size, the place, their insiders’ knowledge. What did they lack in order to be done with me, as I suspected was their aim? I was alone and with apparently little defense. Yet the notaire was putting on a show. Even as he tried to discourage me, he was sounding out my strength.
His circumspection did not escape me. Because I judged his hostility to be redoubtable, I suspected that, for him to be so cautious, the obstacle that constrained him must weigh very heavily in my favor.
“Uncle Rat,” he said solemnly, “you have lit only six candles.”
The candelabra had seven branches, and one, the central one, was not burning.
Uncle Rat hesitated; then, at a surprised and imperious look from the notaire, he went to the hearth, took some fire, and lit the seventh candle.
It caught poorly, flickered, and then went out. Uncle Rat cast me a furtive look. It expressed both fear and doubt.
The notaire offered an explanation. “It is the Malicroix candelabra. As you can see, Sir, it burns poorly.” He could not suppress a silent sneer.
I was suddenly provoked.
He continued. “Mr. Cornélius, your great-uncle, attributed an almost religious value to it. A peculiar notion, you will say. I admit it, certainly, Sir. But your great-uncle was himself a peculiar man. Simply to see him, one was amazed. For his enormous height and extreme gauntness were striking. But above this spare body rose a spellbinding head, with a sparrow hawk’s beak. The cruel beak of the Malicroix. They all had it, Sir. It is the sign.”
He interrupted himself to look at me. This beak—I do not have it. My nose is the plain, kindly nose of the Mégremuts.
He saw it. “No beak, no Malicroix,” he concluded forcefully.
And he was silent. He must have thought he had said it all.
“But this candelabra,” I asked, “what gives it the quasireligious value my great-uncle assigned to it?”
He replied, “A custom, an age-old family custom (your family custom, in short), has it that, after the death of the master, the seven branches must be lit only in the presence of the heir on the day he comes to claim his inheritance.”
“And so,” I said, “one of the branches has gone out. Is that an omen?”
The notaire bent his head, lowered his voice. “The Malicroix name is dead, Mr. de Mégremut. That is what the candelabra says.”
Slowly he reached out his hand and took hold of
it.
At that moment, the flame cast his shadow’s outline onto the wall above the bed. Not the heavy shape of the huge head I had before me, but the narrowed, sharp profile of a mysterious head from which protruded, like a sparrow hawk’s beak, a cruel nose—old Malicroix’s beak. I was taken aback. But my shock was brief.
“Maître Dromiols, the name is dead. The legacy remains.”
I went toward him. I took hold of the candelabra and lit the extinguished branch.
The candle flickered. On its twisted wick, the flame dwindled. I stared at it fixedly, animated by a kind of fury. At last, a yellow point rose from a dry spark, and the flame emerged from matter, still flickering, but sure of survival.
I placed the candelabra at the center of the table.
“Maître Dromiols, the name is dead; but the light lives on. Make use of it!”
Uncle Rat had not moved.
I said to him, “Is that bread you’re bringing in? It’s so white!”
And I turned to the notaire.
“Maître Dromiols, here we eat brown bread. It will have to do for tonight.”
He screwed up his face in protest, but I stopped him with a gesture. I called Balandran. He brought in a large, dark loaf. I tore it, and, taking salt from the table, threw a few grains into the gash. “Maître Dromiols, because the Malicroix liked old customs, take their bread, their salt, and be seated here before me, your host.” I pointed to a chair.
As if with regret, he took hold of it with his heavy hand; then, having spun it slowly on one leg, he placed it in front of the table and deigned to sit, with an arrogant, reluctant air.
I did not show any emotion. I was pleased with his insolence. It was suffused with spite—I had scored a point. No doubt he knew it, for he soon controlled himself and, resuming his glib pomposity as if nothing had happened, began to praise the pâté he had brought with him, indeed quite aromatic.
As he praised the food, he effortlessly used both the loftiest and most common words; they gave to his impersonal voice the warmth and ease of an affable, refined connoisseur.
“Observe, Sir, the pâté is king of autumn. Everything converges during this admirable season: the excellence and the development of the poultry, the abundance of venison and waterfowl. At this time, cold and mist render snipe succulent. During a freeze, the golden plover acquires a flesh that delights the tongue. Autumn is the supreme moment for hazel hen, field lark, and partridge, redolent of juniper. Roe deer and young rabbits crowd the thickets. Even the sow is at its most delicate during this season. As for fowl, we find the best capons from Caux, along with inestimable fatted geese, whose royal livers stream with the fat that runs through the pepper and truffle, bay leaf and thyme perfuming the pâté’s minced meat. Try some, Sir, the recipe is entirely unique, the secret of a house that, for at least three centuries, has prided itself on eating well.”
I admired him. Despite myself. But the pâté, secret of the redoubtable Dromiols clan, was exquisite. And marvelous too was this eloquence. The Mégremuts love eloquence, for they do not possess its gift themselves. In this respect, I am a Mégremut, down to my fingertips. Well-spoken men easily enchant me, and I have little defense against the verbal seductions of grandiloquence. Maître Dromiols must have sensed this, for he continued his speech with growing confidence.
“Such, Sir, are the gifts of autumn here. They have been gently simmered into this pâté. Over a gentle flame, the cooking of a master. Everything melts, dissolves, and, strand by strand, the tough is imbued with the tender, moistened with the most aromatic vapors. But what is one to say about the guinea hen Uncle Rat is now so gracefully offering us? It is in a pastry shell, and its virtue stems from its bouquet. Beneath the crust, mushrooms, basil, and two cloves of garlic perfume the chives. Inhale, sir, the sauce’s scent! . . . Inhale! Inhale!”
Skillfully, he pierced a wing with a long fork. Then, handling his knife with miraculous skill, he cut. The pliant blade slid into joints; nerves gave way; breasts and thighs fell hierarchically onto the plate in order of succulence; this order was delicate, sound. As I watched, I felt a rebirth of trust.
Now, I have very transparent feelings. Whether I express them or not, people often easily guess them. I know it, and, while the notaire was speaking, I did not forget my weakness, but I surrendered with such pleasure to the sweetness of my absurd trust that I smiled, like a good Mégremut, sensitive and mild. The wines smelled of fresh green shoots, the flowering vine; the still-living grape flavored them, and they had some heat, flowing over velvet. Their warmth lured me into a state of sensuous goodwill, and I listened to my companion with that defenseless sympathy always inspired by a generous meal.
Meanwhile, as he bit into a crisp wing, he continued, “You cannot deny it, sir. Here we have what is good, what is honest, with a reliable flavor! No equivocation! This dish, this pastry concocted with such wisdom, offers us nourishment radiating with life. It is a substance chosen to strengthen reason and sustain the will—reason corrected by common sense; will, by moderation. Would it not be folly to deprive ourselves of such aid?”
And, without awaiting my reply, suddenly saddened, he changed his tone.
“And yet, sir, your great-uncle, for his entire life, ate nothing but dried beans, drank only water. Soberly. Far be it from me to blame him, yet it saddens me. He was free to do as he pleased. But to what end, tell me, has he drawn you into this cheerless wasteland, to force you to live here in his inhuman fashion?”
“To force me?”
“Precisely. To force you. Uncle Rat!”
At the summons, Uncle Rat approached the table.
“Uncle Rat read us the testament,” commanded the notaire.
Uncle Rat drew an envelope from his pocket, and, from the envelope, a large green sheet.
He crossed himself.
“It is out of respect for the dead,” Maître Dromiols explained.
Uncle Rat began to read nasally; his poor psalmist’s voice, passing through that endless nose, conveyed the strange words of great-uncle Cornélius with the most complete dispassion.
Strange indeed. For this thought from Malicroix’s lifetime seemed already to be coming from another world. It was saying,
I, Odéric Thierry Cornélius de Malicroix, have written this testament with my own hand, and I have set forth below a precise inventory of my worldly goods. As I have no direct heir, these goods will pass by right to my great-nephew Martial de Mégremut, son of Clémence de Brochols, daughter of my sister Héloïse de Malicroix, wife of Jean de Brochols, all three of them deceased. Still, Martial de Mégremut may not take final possession of these goods unless he has freely accepted and fulfilled the following conditions . . .
Uncle Rat sighed and cast an anxious look at the notaire. The notaire was listening, fork in hand, eyes half-shut. And so, Uncle Rat resumed reading in his flat voice. Yet the tone of the testament had changed. From solemn and distant, as it had been until now, it suddenly drew closer, with a muted bitterness, as if a fierce will had stretched the words to the breaking point. Will of the strong and lucid living man, who, knowing his words would be heard after his death, had multiplied their force tenfold in order to grant them their full magical power. For the living are moved less by reasons than by sounds coming from the soul itself, especially when that soul is commanding. Even through this humble interpreter, you could feel that old Malicroix had such a soul, for its energy still radiated, and my heart shuddered to hear it as it declared his thought in clear terms, although for a mysterious purpose.
He was saying,
Mégremut will come to the island and live in my house. He will have full use of everything, as much on the island as on the mainland. My man, Balandran, will serve him. Mégremut pledges on his honor to live on the island without leaving it for three months from the date of his arrival. This term completed, he will find instructions in a letter, destined for him alone and placed by me in a location known only to Balandran. Having read the letter, he will, i
f he judges it acceptable, complete the mission I entrust to him. But as of now, he should know that I have set aside a task for him.
In exchange for goods that have little value save for the memory of a family whose blood he shares, I ask him to complete a difficult task. The legacy is not in the little I am leaving him, which is worthless, I know, in the eyes of this world. Rather, it is in what I ask of him, which will appear strange when he learns of it on the appointed day, if he has the strength to wait in this harsh solitude for a task difficult to understand and difficult to accomplish. If he succeeds, he will complete, for my soul’s peace, an undertaking that, because of my age, I myself could not bring to term. After me, now approaching death, only a true Malicroix can assure a positive outcome.
For it requires a legitimate Malicroix, and Martial de Mégremut will thus have the opportunity to know himself well. I know nothing of his character, having never met him, but I know that he exists. And so our blood still lives. Perhaps the Malicroix soul, no doubt sleeping without his awareness beneath other souls within him, will awaken. And so I am certain that he will blindly do for me what I ask, I who—I confess—never offered him the least friendship while I lived, but who have nevertheless chosen him to complete an act of almost filial piety for my Shadow after my death.
Then followed the inventory of goods: island, pastures, flocks, and a house on the mainland. To conclude, a categorical revocation of all rights should I violate the stated conditions. Cornélius again insisted, vigorously, on my permanence on the island. He demanded it. It was the primary obligation. At the least infraction, I was fallen.
At the end, this strange statement:
During three months of difficult isolation, Mégremut will know, first, what he is; then, who he is. If the hidden name is not lost, he will hear it. And if he hears it, I too will hear it in the world toward which, for a long time now, I have directed my gaze and from which, perhaps, I already speak to him.