Then came the first ringing of the chime. There was a chime there, as there had been one at Monsieur Vialatte's. But this chime was calling a family together, whereas the other one was something exhibited as a curiosity.
Everybody got up. Each person had something to do before dinner. Then appeared that singular collective forgetfulness. Everyone seemed to leave to his neighbor the trouble of keeping me company, fully aware that the neighbor would do nothing of the sort. Denise, for her part, had genuinely believed that somebody would stay with me. Seeing I was alone, she came back, not without a feeling of discomfort. She had hoped that they would receive me with greater friendliness.
"But you've only now arrived here! Why, I thought you'd been with us since the beginning of the month. That was what someone told me, I don't recall who."
"I was obliged to return to Paris."
"Naturally. When you're in business your life's not your own."
"I met your daughter at the railroad station. She was so kind as to invite me. I hope, Madame, that I am not disturbing you."
"You are not disturbing me one little bit, Monsieur. On the contrary, I am very happy indeed that you have come."
Then it was Monsieur Dechatellux's turn to take me on. Smiling, he had been waiting for his wife to yield him the floor. An immense distance separated us. I had yet to do anything in life, whereas he had not only struggled for the greater part of his, but had been retired from business for ten years already. The presence of a young and attentive man was an opportunity to recall how far he had come. He forgot who I was. He gave way to confidences. It had been a long time since anyone had lent him an ear.
I nodded my head approvingly. Just then Denise walked back into the room. I colored slightly. I felt awkward to be seeking to please someone in front of someone else I was likewise seeking to please.
We moved into the dining room. Despite the silverware, the crystal, the gilded copper centerpiece, an everyday air overspread the table. Did it come from the half-filled carafe of wine, the napkin rings?
Madame Dechatellux sat down opposite her husband. Somewhat forsaken during the day, she recovered her importance at meal time.
"Help yourself, help yourself, please!"
I would never give in when I was offered something I wanted but had earlier declined.
When dinner was over, Madame Dechatellux rose to her feet, swayed. With me it needed very little in order that an initially considerate gesture become obsequious. My manners lacked naturalness. I knew this. Nevertheless I scrambled to take the elderly lady's arm. She offered me her hand. Her husband cast an astonished look at me. He would never have believed I would take such prompt advantage of the confidence he had shown me. He frowned. I was at the point of wondering whether his wife had not swayed deliberately, whether I had not been witness to one of those innocent ruses practiced between old couples. A disturbing chill had suddenly settled over the family. Looking at the lot of them, it seemed that all of a sudden they had some cause to be vexed with me.
Feeling ill at ease, I set to talking. But nothing worked. Madame Dechatellux herself was infected by her husband's coldness. "People are all alike," he seemed to be saying. "And here this young man appeared to be charming indeed." I fell silent. I intercepted a glance from Monsieur Dechatellux to one of the others, a glance that said: "This young man is deceiving us." Must deception then be the rule in life? One of his sons had died at the age of fourteen. They had traveled, consulted all the prominent medical people, they had him undergo all the treatments, and he had died. His father had thought he was doing the right thing. Perhaps this boy would have lived had they not listened to so many people, nor followed so much contradictory advice.
At nine o'clock Denise announced that she was going out for a walk. I was uncertain what to do. How could I simply accompany her out and not let the others think I felt lost once she was no longer there? By leaving the room too, would I not be seen as clinging unduly to Denise? Would I not be revealing a rather unexpected attachment at the conclusion of a quiet conversation?
Fortunately, she came to my rescue.
"Won't you join me, Jean?"
Once outside I felt relieved. It was not yet night but the tall lamp-posts, lost among the foliage, were already lit. The blue had darkened in the sky. The park gates were closed. I could see broad, deserted pathways, lawns, the château terrace where the chairs had been left in disarray.
I had never tried to obtain certain favors from Denise. Our relations had from the first assumed too serious a tone. We had tacitly agreed to wait. So many grave questions remained in suspense that we would have found it unthinkably light behavior to act like ordinary lovers.
I took Denise by the arm. We walked beside an ivy-covered wall. Every ten steps there was a tree almost touching this wall. Between wall and tree there was just enough space for two to squeeze through. I thought how I had often sought in vain for such spots in cities. In Compiègne they were everywhere. The grave, suspended questions had faded from my mind. A new obstacle arose, of an altogether different order. It sprang from within me. It had nothing to do with our situation. I was unable to suggest to Denise that she step up from the road, that we move closer to the wall for instance. I stopped thinking. I came to a halt. I drew Denise to me and kissed her. What an extraordinary kiss! Our mouths, partially open, had come together so naturally.
Then I was ridiculous. I whispered in Denise's ear like a capricious child who would so much like to be granted a permission. A permission! As if it were a question of permission.
Denise enjoined me to go home to bed, to return to the hotel. I answered that it was impossible, without specifying why. "Now don't be silly. You're going to take the last train." This time, it was truly impossible, and I was very careful not to say why.
We were standing in front of the race-track. I was surprised that my words were so forceful. I told Denise that I loved her. She asked me: "Is that true?" I might have not loved her. She believed me. I was believed just when my words served me so well! We retraced out steps. I looked at neither the wall nor the trees. Denise stumbled. A little incident like this always occurs. You are so absorbed that you knock against somebody, or almost get run over. We were so taken up with one another that only some unforeseen event could have diverted our attention away from ourselves. I became all the more attentive. I dreaded another incident. Then we retraced our steps, still alongside the wall. Up until then I had endeavored to combine my sentiments with my desire. "My love is too strong," I suddenly said. "We have been unwise. A moment comes when a man's passion can no longer be contained." I knew this was not true. I was amazed that Denise did not know it. She believed this moment actually existed.
"And tomorrow morning?" she murmured.
A fresh obstacle was arising. It was not about the difficulty of separating at dawn, without being overheard, that she was thinking, but about what would become of me. She visualized my leaving and was petrified. What would I do outside at four in the morning? Where would I go? Would it not be better to wait for the day when we would not be forced to part?
I answered that in the summer dawn is wonderful in the forest, and that I often used to go out and watch the sun come up. She pulled herself together. That allusion to a personal fondness was a blunder. It would have been preferable not to reply, or better still, to have simply said: "I love you." I saw myself beside her. Then I considered the place I occupied in life. Desire had made me lose sight of it. I felt that I was about to sink back into such cheerless reflections that, all of a sudden, I had recourse to physical force. I hugged Denise to me. Second Lieutenant Le Claud must not have acted any differently. I wanted to and Denise did not want to. Nothing remained of our friendship. I was a foreigner, an utter stranger. Our relations now reposed upon nothing but force. Denise lowered her head so that I could not kiss her. She had her arms crossed over her chest. But she did not back away from me. Instinct commanded me to alternate violence with gentleness. I murmured a few words t
o remind her who I was. She did not hear them. We had taken months to get to know each other. But she did not know who I was anymore. In her turn she hugged me tight.
I was beaming. I strode straight ahead. Day was starting to break. The birds were singing. By the thousand, in every tree, they were waiting for the sun. Half an hour before, when I had started out, a huge moon had been setting. It was a sight whose like I had never beheld before. But I sensed that in a little while, when the forest shadows ceased to shrink, an uneasiness would take possession of me. The acts of love, caresses, the scaling of walls, kissing, night-time departures, were they not the acts of man at peace with himself? Could I perform them, inwardly gnawed as I was? I had forgotten everything. Now, as I walked along, I asked myself where I was going. I was loved. But if I did not have the strength to play the game, what would I offer in its stead? A sincere love? I could hear Richard sniggering: "But anybody would be sincere in these conditions!" Should I take refuge in pride? Denise had got the idea that I was a poor young man. No, she was wrong. Had that been true, it would have been wonderful. But what was I then?
The previous evening, when I had taken my leave after dinner, there had been nothing about my coming back the next day. This morning, as I placed a leg over the balcony, Denise had insisted that I stop by the house and say goodbye. I had agreed. But at present I was of two minds. "I have got to shake off my vanity, there has got to be a difference between the man I am today and the one I was yesterday," I murmured to myself. "I have got to relax. I am happy. I shall show the change that has come about in me."
I gave a tug to the knob that made the bell ring. Denise met me at the door. Last night: struggle, kisses, tears. Come morning: happiness. The house was already ready for company. The disorder of family life had been put in repair. My discomfort melted away. I looked at Denise. She hid her agitation in a way that was charming. She blushed, talked to me about Solange Vibot. She did not dare ask me what I had done after leaving her. What a delightful moment! And I had not wanted to come! I really did not deserve to experience love.
Through the window of the carriage door I saw the line of automobiles halted at the crossing. I had arrived in Compiègne. I had spent time thinking, had weighed the most contradictory courses of action. Then I gave my hip a sharp slap with the flat of my hand. Denise was waiting for me. I wanted to be cheerful, alert, sociable, in a good mood. She was wearing a suit of gray flannel, had on white shoes and a kind of beret. She gave an appearance of dressing the way she wanted despite an old-fashioned brooch, imposed by her family, which she wore at her buttonhole like some sportsman's pin. And how was I dressed? I was in the habit of comparing myself with others, always with disappointing results. Today, my two-year-old jacket and my recently bought flannel trousers were embarrassingly at odds.
When I took Denise by the arm and felt its relaxed state beneath the fabric, I lost my breath for a few seconds. We had already spent a night together. We could spend others now, without entreaties, without struggles. White clouds, with something reared up about them, were hurrying through the sky. The streets, still wet after an overnight shower, with their awnings stirring noiselessly in the wind, seemed to me like rural lanes beside the streets of Paris.
We walked across the bridge. Wherewith the unforeseeable occurred. Denise abruptly said to me: "Come. This way." She crossed the street, stopped in front of the office of the Gazette de l'Oise. "Doesn't this break your heart?" On display was the photograph of a young man, by it a bow of black crepe. "Already sorely tried among its younger generation, the Golf Club of Compiègne has just suffered a cruel loss in the person of André de Sommeterre, suddenly snatched away while in the very prime of life from his devoted family and from the affection of his friends. Loving sport and—which is not always the same thing—understanding it too, a former soccer team player, a horseman as well, he had taken up golf and perhaps sought in it not so much personal success as to keep abreast of his companions' progress. We loved him not only for the great promise of his heart and mind, but also for the sharp wit with which he would expose the pretentious and the foolish."
I had barely finished reading this obituary when Denise pulled me away, as though she suddenly regretted having diverted my attention from ourselves. It was only a week before that I had left Compiègne. She had got me to come back right away, in order that her father, inevitably making a connection between my return and my preceding visit, would guess what our feelings were for one another.
Monsieur Dechatellux did not reproach me with anything. He did not want to be acquainted with me. What he had heard said about me had reached his ears only after having gone about from one person to the next. There had always been a crowd standing between him and me. And lo! this crowd had vanished! And lo! his own daughter was talking to him about me! He continued to ignore me, however. Yet, from certain glances he shot in my direction, I felt that for him I was no longer the remote, insignificant person of days past.
Denise argued the legitimacy of her desires against the stifling atmosphere that surrounded her. She had endless conversations with the women among her friends. None found her in the wrong. Everybody volunteers when the call goes out to defend love against prejudice. Denise did not complain about her family. She spoke in the tone of people convinced that truth is on their side, of normal people who desire nothing other than to live like everybody else.
However, Denise did not feel absolved by all those words of approval. Something was lacking in them. People were too quick to share her viewpoint. They did not sufficiently understand why she was accepting the situation all the while being so perfectly within her rights. They did not understand that, above all else, she did not want to hurt feelings, and that she loved her family.
Would that hostility have manifested itself had Denise fallen in love with a man more to her father's liking? I put that question to her. She did not reply to me, but the next day she made the following remark: "My parents would quickly tire of their ideal son-in-law's demands."
A few days later, a trap was set for me. All the doors were opened. For me there was nothing to be kept secret. I was treated like one of the family. I was invited to unbend, to feel safely at home. Therein lay the trap. For to unbend, to feel safely at home within the intimate circle others make up, is a mistake. A mistake that I committed.
On arriving, I was stiff, intimidated. They seemed to regret having held me at arm's length for so long. An unwonted cordiality surrounded me. I was so thoughtless as to talk about myself. Then a surge of feeling led me to say how very glad I was to inspire a little bit of affection. Monsieur Dechatellux looked at his daughter. There are households, there are families where they make an effort not to exchange glances in front of a third person. Here, everyone was constantly darting looks at everyone else. Denise understood that her father's look meant I had no education. She did not flinch. I plunged straight ahead. She did not know how to stop me. I waxed warmer. I gave out that I shared all of Monsieur Dechatellux's ideas. But he did not exult. His expression remained just as far away. He symbolized the family that stands aside in the presence of love. "Denise, will you be so stupid as to do this to us?" She showed her confusion. It did seem to her such a natural thing, though, to love me the while loving her family.
As regards me, judgment had been reached. I was an imbecile. How had I ever been able to suppose that I would be received like a son?
No one doubting that Denise had decided to get married, diplomacy made its appearance. Ignoring and scorning no longer sufficed. So high was the Dechatelluxes' idea of the group they formed that, even under usual conditions, each would maneuver independently to maintain its unity. They commended Denise. I leapt at the opportunity and pretended to believe they were sincere. I had set my mighty amour-propre aside. I was finally beginning to feel free. I had just discovered that the greater cleverness consists in taking people at face value and not in racking one's brains to discover what they really think. Since I was being treated as a friend of t
he family, all I had to do was behave like one. Why had I not done so earlier on? Now that I was no longer in fear of anything, I ceased to be a target. Had I not been right to chuck aside my sensitivities, my fears, my misgivings, since my reward was a feeling of deep inner satisfaction? I even brought myself to wonder whether I had ever really been the object of hostility. You do not create a better opinion of yourself by trying to justify your every action. It suffices to be different each day. Today I shall do the opposite of what I did yesterday. Opinions remain what they are only in so far as we ourselves do not change.
The rivalry between the two brothers had apparently been fierce. To the elder, Albert, the father of Denise, certain privileges had fallen by right. These the younger, Jules, the father of Etienne, had arrogated to himself. He claimed he was the more capable. This eventually came to be believed. Despite their rivalry, the two agreed that something had to be done to remove me from the picture. I served as pretext for a reconciliation.
One day Jules Dechatellux sent word that he wished to speak with me. What cunning! Those outstretched arms, that look of delight at seeing me again! He put a hand on my shoulder, steered me toward his study. It was tea time. Guests were playing bridge. We threaded our way between the tables without stopping. Jules Dechatellux had the delicacy to allow the conversation to start of its own accord. Finally he confided to me that his brother might be clumsy sometimes, but that underneath his cold exterior a very generous spirit lay hidden. He had sat down behind his desk. He had the intelligence not to base his superiority on his money, but rather on the cleverness that had enabled him to earn and hold onto it. He looked straight at me. He knew about my life, but he was not the man to make this felt in so cordial a conversation. To get hold of me through fine sentiments was an idea that had not occurred to him. That could have muddled everything. He went straight to the point.
A Singular Man Page 9