“Forgive me,” I stammered. “Forgive me.”
It was only after the liqueurs had been served that the atmosphere relaxed again. Naturally, they still gave me surreptitious glances, and to reassure them I forced myself to smile. Taking a deep breath, I even declared to Reynolde:
“I am very happy and thrilled to be able to join the hunt on Sunday, Monsieur Reynolde.”
I think they ended up forgetting the incident. The heavy burgundies from dinner helped. They continued their libations. Pear brandy, plum brandy, cognac—they sampled them all. The women, too, drank heavily, especially the Englishwoman and Maggy Reynolde. Our glasses, Papa’s and mine, remained full, for we hadn’t dared refuse when we were offered. And the conversation still revolved around hunting.
According to Chevert, one feature distinguished “Uncle Michel” from every other master of the hunt in France: he had reinstituted the “torchlight quarry.”
“A magnificent spectacle, Aldo!” cried Reynolde.
My father, in his soft voice, asked what they meant by a “torchlight quarry.” Jean-Gé, who had drunk more than anyone, gave a sad smile.
“Because the gentleman doesn’t know what a torchlight quarry is?”
Chevert explained that on such occasions, the entire staff, in baize breeches and traditional French costumes, carried torches while the hunting party . . . I was barely listening. His voice was lost amid the laughs and exclamations of Jean-Gé and his two girlfriends. Maggy Reynolde and Landry’s wife chatted between themselves, and Landry caressed his wife’s cheek with the tip of his thumb, while talking to Reynolde. Jean-Gé, for his part, was resting his hand on the Englishwoman’s shoulder, but neither she nor the blonde seemed to mind. And Chevert, in an almost inaudible voice, continued his disquisition.
What were we waiting for, my father and I? Shouldn’t he have taken advantage of the general relaxation to pull Reynolde into a corner and get him to sign his “papers”? After that, we would have slipped away. But he simply smoked a cigarette. Nothing disturbed his impassiveness. He was deeply sunken into the armchair and not budging. Anyway, he knew how to go about it better than I did.
Reynolde stoked the fire. The bricks of the immense hearth had a slightly garish tint. Thick, light-colored paneling covered the walls. On the coffee table sat a horseshoe-shaped paperweight and a photo book about the Spanische Reitschule in Vienna. I noticed other accessories displayed on the wall, to the left of the fireplace. Stirrups, bits, and whips of every variety. English etchings of hunting scenes and a small, carriage-shaped drinks cart completed the equestrian décor.
I was having a hard time keeping my eyes open. I heard a murmur of conversation and Papa saying from time to time, “Yes, of course, Henri . . . Naturally, Henri . . .” The Englishwoman let out shrill laughs. Chevert finally stood up:
“Well, I’ll bid you all good night.”
He kissed the ladies’ hands with some emphasis. Jean-Gé and his two girlfriends took their leave soon after. Reynolde told them to take the large bedroom on the third floor if they wanted to spend the night here and if they thought the bed was large enough for three. The Landrys withdrew, shooting each other suggestive glances. Moreover, all evening long, Landry had not stopped caressing his wife’s legs.
“Aldo, you don’t mind sleeping in the ground-floor bedroom with your son, do you?” Reynolde asked my father.
“Not in the slightest, Henri.”
A room with a low ceiling and whitewashed walls. No furniture, save two rustic-style twin beds and two nightstands. I set our bags down.
Reynolde left us for a moment to go find a second bedside lamp.
“You should go kiss Madame Reynolde good night,” my father said to me.
I left the bedroom and headed toward the large room where we had dined. Maggy Reynolde was there alone, by the fire. She looked surprised to see me. I kissed her on the cheek. Immediately, her two hands gripped the back of my neck and her lips pressed against mine. At fifteen, I had never kissed a woman her age. Her hand slid down to my belt, which she tried to undo. I slipped and we tumbled onto one of the plaid armchairs. Sounds of voices in the hallway. She struggled, but I could no longer break away from her. My forehead glued to her chest, I let myself be overcome, even while in an embrace, by a curious somnolence. She had that comfortable blondness of certain members of the Comédie-Française, whom I would watch perform in Sunday matinees.
When we stood up, she pulled me out of the room. Reynolde and my father were at the door of our bedroom. My father was showing Reynolde a typed sheet. The latter was holding a pen.
“Here,” Reynolde said to me, “I brought you this. You’ll have to study it all night for me.”
He handed me a small volume on whose cover I read the words Sport Hunting.
“Good night,” my father said to him.
“Good night, Aldo. And thank you for your advice. You can count on us. And you”—he pointed at me—“I’ll bring you up to the stables tomorrow morning for some practice.”
“Good night,” Maggy Reynolde said to us. She was yawning.
We stretched out on our twin beds and my father turned off his bedside lamp.
“This time,” he said to me, indicating the typed sheet, “he’s all but ‘up the creek.’ Just a little more patience, old man. They really are a formidable bunch.”
He snorted with laughter, and since it was contagious, we both buried our heads in our pillows so as not to be heard.
Papa fell asleep very quickly. I opened the book and spent part of the night learning about the horrifying sport they called hunting.
The next morning, Reynolde woke us at around eight. He was wearing riding breeches and asked me to put on mine. My father thought it wise to slip on his rubber overshoes.
After having what Reynolde called by the English word “breakfast,” we went out via the French doors and crossed through a well-manicured garden whose limits were marked by a white fence. Behind it was a large field, a stable with three stalls, and a circular bridle path. The horse was already saddled and harnessed. All I had to do was climb on.
Reynolde had positioned himself in the middle of the riding hall and my father a good distance from the track. He was afraid. I was too, but I was trying to keep calm in front of Reynolde. He was holding a whip. He cracked it like a circus trainer and the horse took off at a trot.
“Lift your ass, boy!”
Now he’d taken on the voice of an army officer. He pointed his chin and cracked his whip again. For no reason. For the fun of it.
“Rising trot! Knees closer in!”
He came up to me and tapped gently on my left calf and heel.
“These must not move! Squeeze in. Heels lower!”
He went back to the middle of the riding hall.
“Don’t get caught in the stirrups! Heels lower!”
And he cracked his whip. Three times in a row.
My father didn’t dare look at me. He lowered his head.
“You’re a bit rusty,” shouted Reynolde, “but you’ll get the hang of it again pretty fast. Now, sitting trot!”
And again the whip. After each crack, he saluted an invisible audience with a slight nod of his head.
“You can come closer, Aldo.”
“No, thanks, Henri,” my father answered in a hesitant voice.
“The knees! For the love of God! Didn’t you hear me? Gallop!”
He was turning nasty. He lashed out his whip as if to splatter a fly in midair and it made a sound like a firecracker.
It lasted a good two hours. You’re on a horse and you turn in circles without knowing why. And the horse doesn’t know why, either. In the middle of the track, some guy you hardly know is giving you orders, brandishing a whip. And your father is several yards away, worried and silent and staring at the tips of his rubber overshoes.
“That’ll be good enough for tomorrow,” Reynolde said to me, patting me on the shoulder.
There were four of us around the l
unch table. Reynolde, Angèle de Chevert, my father, and me. Jean-Gé had taken the Landrys and Maggy Reynolde to “his uncle’s chateau,” several miles away.
“They might have told us,” Reynolde commented.
During lunch, my father took from the inner pocket of his jacket a sheet of paper that he showed Chevert.
“You can sign, Angèle,” Reynolde said. But already my father was handing Chevert the huge fountain pen that we had bought together in Passage du Lido.
“Sign it, Angèle. Aldo will see that we’re not just playing around.”
Chevert did as told. My father blew on the ink to dry it, then carefully folded the sheet and put it back in his pocket.
He, normally so impervious, must have been feeling a keen elation, since I read on his lips these words that no one heard:
“Up the creek.”
“That’s one thing out of the way,” Reynolde stated. “And now, let’s go see the hounds.”
Reynolde drove the Renault. We followed a narrow road and, after about ten minutes, we stopped in front of an Anglo-Norman–style chalet. The dogs were in a fenced enclosure. Little by little, their barking took on a worrisome intensity that jangled my nerves. They threw themselves against the wire fencing and my father jumped back.
“Don’t be scared, Aldo,” Reynolde said to him in a protective tone.
Chevert shrugged. He spoke to the dogs with a vulgarity that shocked me. A man was approaching with great strides, wearing a dark blue uniform like a stationmaster. He doffed his cap, held it with both hands against his chest, and, without even a glance at Reynolde, nodded to Chevert.
“Good afternoon, Your Excellency.”
“Is the pack in top form?”
“Yes, Your Excellency.”
“Sparks are really going to fly tomorrow,” said Chevert, rubbing his hands together.
“And how, Your Excellency!” His lips opened onto a toothless mouth.
“His Grace the duke will be in seventh heaven!” said Reynolde, pitifully soliciting a glance from the man.
But the latter didn’t pay him the slightest attention. He shook hands with Chevert and headed off.
“The keeper of the hounds,” Reynolde solemnly informed me.
My father and I remained in front of the wire fencing, contemplating the dogs that jumped and barked more and more frenetically. They would gladly have torn us to shreds, but it wasn’t their fault and I forgave them. Nearly all of them had large pug noses, wide, frank eyes, and white patches on their fur.
We returned to La Ménandière. Reynolde and Chevert wanted to take a nap, and Papa and I remained in the salon. It was there that he announced he was taking the four o’clock train back to Paris. He seemed amazed when I said I wanted to go with him.
“But, Reynolde is counting on you taking part in the hunt,” he answered in a feeble voice.
He was afraid Reynolde would be surprised and offended by my departure and suddenly grow suspicious. He told me he had obtained “all the signatures,” but Reynolde had to be handled with care for a while longer, or things could still go “pear-shaped.” I repeated my desire to return to Paris right away. I refused to stay in this backwater one more day.
He promised to talk to Reynolde and, if need be, invent an excuse that would justify my sudden departure.
Reynolde came toward us. My father told him I had to be in Paris that very evening to welcome a Venezuelan uncle.
“Think carefully about this,” Reynolde said to me with a certain severity. “You’re going to miss something unique.”
My father made a second attempt, but so timidly that he didn’t even finish his sentence.
And so I turned to Reynolde and said in a whisper:
“I’ll stay.”
“You’ve made the right choice,” Reynolde said. “It’s going to be a magnificent hunt.” And he looked at me gratefully.
We drove my father to the train. Reynolde was at the wheel of the Renault, Chevert next to him, Papa and I in back. As on the way in, Papa had put on his constricting raincoat. His face reflected a sharp satisfaction, and I could see that he was suppressing a recurrent desire to laugh.
On the platform, we didn’t exchange a word. Chevert and Reynolde were too nearby.
“I’m counting on you, Aldo,” Reynolde said to my father. “We’re giving you carte blanche. Keep Chevert and me posted. And I promise, you can have faith in us. Don’t listen to spiteful gossips.”
“Yes, of course, Henri,” my father answered affably.
As he climbed aboard, he just had time to whisper in my ear:
“This time, they are totally ‘up the creek.’”
The train jerked forward. He waved for my benefit. There was nothing more he could do for me, despite his great kindness.
On the way back, we took a different route from the one leading to La Ménandière. We soon drove through a gateway and followed a gently sloping gravel path.
“You have to see the duke’s chateau,” Reynolde said to me, “and be introduced to Michel. Tomorrow, he’ll be your master of the hunt.”
The chateau was in half-Renaissance, half-medieval style, with crenels, turrets, pilasters with arabesques, and large sculpted dormers. A park surrounded it.
One floor up, we entered a large room, dark and paneled. There, on the sofas, I recognized the Landrys and Jean-Gé with his two girlfriends. A few logs had just finished turning to ash in the back of the fireplace.
“Uncle Michel hasn’t shown up yet,” Jean-Gé said in a slurred voice.
Later, Reynolde and Chevert left me alone with the others. Night was falling and, as they didn’t put on the lights, we were all shrouded in semidarkness. I think Landry took advantage to caress his wife, whose raised skirt uncovered her thighs. As for Jean-Gé, he was still lazily fondling the Englishwoman and the blonde. And I wondered what I was doing there, in the lair of the “top marksman of France,” but a leaden torpor held me in my chair.
Time passed. Reynolde, his wife, and Chevert returned. They had switched on the lamps. I understood that they were waiting for the duke’s return to have dinner. After a half-hour, he made his entrance: a man of medium height who held himself very erect. He had the head of a bull terrier, a nose too short and turned up, large, pale eyes, and jowls. Skin like a shark, wavy hair, and a booming voice. Reynolde introduced us. He barely acknowledged me.
I would have liked to see the duchess, but she was out that evening. An angular brunette replaced her, with the watchful eyes of a former starlet. The duke took her hand now and again. Her name was Monique.
Talk during the meal was again of hunting. And of the next day’s torchlight quarry, for which the duke had just selected the site. Reynolde had affected Jean-Gé’s dental accent and called the duke—but was he really a duke?—“Dear old Michel.” Jean-Gé called him “Uncle Michel,” in a sarcastically respectful tone.
From their conversation, I understood that the duke was a conscientious and disciplined man who belonged to the Jockey Club, the Automobile Club, and the Tastevins de Bourgogne.
They completely ignored my presence, which was fine with me. They even forgot to serve me the venison patés, meats in sauce, and heavy wines that my fragile system couldn’t have handled.
We took our leave at around ten and the duke, in bawdy, jocular tones, advised against “making whoopee” that night, as we had to be in top form for the hunt. The brunette followed him.
I didn’t sleep a wink all night and the next morning I was already up when Reynolde came into my room. He was again wearing the red jacket with gold braiding of the duke’s hunting party, and looked like the tamer from the Médrano Circus whom I’d admired when I was a child. They all downed a copious breakfast, and I had a glass of mineral water. Chevert wore the same uniform as Reynolde, and so did the Landrys. I stood out from the rest of them. On Maggy’s and Mme Landry’s faces, I read great excitement.
“Feeling tip-top, darling?” Landry asked gently. And he stroked his wife’
s hand.
“Oh, yes! I can’t wait to see this!”
“Neither can I,” sighed Maggy Reynolde.
Chevert whistled. Reynolde stood up.
“Time to go get the ‘report,’” he said.
“It’s at the Beringhem crossing, near the lodge,” Chevert said.
We piled into the Renault. Reynolde drove. Five horses were waiting in front of the hunting lodge, their bridles held by stable boys.
“You take Rex,” Reynolde snapped at me, nodding at a large bay.
We were early. We went inside the lodge, which was shaped like a pagoda. On the wall was a stuffed boar’s head, smiling with its human lips. They had built a fire.
A rifle was hanging above the mantel. Reynolde took it down and started to show me how to use it. He loaded it. For the first time in my life, someone was giving me a shooting lesson, and I listened intently. One after the other, the members of the party poured in, sporting the red-and-gold outfit.
“Mount up, old man!” Reynolde said to me.
Outside, Chevert was kissing the hand of a heavily surrounded woman with gray hair and the mannish face of a dowager. On their horses, Jean-Gé, the Englishwoman, and the blonde called laughingly to each other. Landry held out the stirrup to his wife. Reynolde and Maggy sidled toward the duke, who was astride a huge white horse, making it rear. And all around, the red-and-gold outfits fluttered. Finally, a bloodhound keeper, bareheaded, announced that the stag was at Estoile, a very small birch wood, nearby to the right.
I picked up the rifle and stole outside. I ran for half a mile, up to the little birch wood, perhaps the one the bloodhound keeper had announced to the members of the party. I flattened on my stomach, in the odor of wet earth and dead leaves.
I thought of my father repeating his little sentence: “They’ll all be up the creek.” Yes, he’d proved to be exceedingly useless and touchingly oblivious. Things were much more serious and tragic than he realized. Sure enough, Reynolde’s little book had taught me exactly how the operation unfolded. It all kicked off with the opening fanfare. What would the hounds do? I had to keep from shaking. And most of all, try to aim true. Not fire on the women. Have the good fortune, with my first round, to blow Reynolde’s head to pieces, or the duke’s. Or Landry’s. Or Jean-Gé’s. Then all the others would arrive with their dogs and their attendants, and though we were in Sologne, in the French heartland, it would be just like Warsaw.
Family Record Page 5