by Colette
Above the piano, on the wall, is a bad photograph of my father; I only knew him as old and blind. A distinguished-looking man with white whiskers – how do I come to be the daughter of anyone so . . . ordinary?
Of my mother, nothing. Not a single picture, not a single letter. Grandmother Lajarrisse refused even to talk of her to me; all she ever said was: ‘Pray for her, my child. Ask God to have mercy on all those who have disappeared, on all exiles, on all the dead . . .’ Really, it is rather late in the day to begin worrying about my mother! Let her remain for me what I always imagined her; a pretty, unhappy creature who ran away or who killed herself. I feel sorry for her but not really concerned.
Two letters arrived for me this morning – enough to make me doubly uneasy. The huge one, thank heaven, was from Claudine; the other from Alain. I woke up feeling stronger and more alert, soothed by the freshness of the early hour – the cuckoo-clock in the kitchen had just croaked its two notes eight times – by the fragrant tea steaming in my blue cup, by Toby’s delirious jumping up and down and whining as he waited hungrily for me to finish my breakfast and give him his. I could breathe a new lightness and excitement in the air, a holiday atmosphere of going away. That is my way of enjoying the peace of the country, Claudine – daydreaming to the jingle of harness-bells on the road . . . I imagined myself as a young woman of the 1830s. A Creole maybe? They were in fashion then. An unhappy marriage – an elopement – my flimsy, inappropriate clothes, my ribboned sandals scuffed by the pebbles on the drive – the heavy chaise – the steaming post-horses – what else? The broken spring, the surprises on the road, the providential encounter . . . All the charming, absurd, sentimental romancing of our grandmothers!
In the envelope with the French stamp, there were only a few lines from Claudine.
My dear little Annie,
I do not know where to find you. I only hope this reaches you to tell you that Marthe, who is back in Paris, explains your flight in a few brief words: ‘My sister-in-law is having a difficult pregnancy and has gone to the country to rest.’ That was the respite I wished for you! Perhaps everything will seem simpler as a result? This is also to tell you that Léon and his wife appear to be in perfect health – and in perfect harmony.
Good-bye, I just wanted to reassure you – and to warn you. Only that . . . and to have some news of you for I can’t be satisfied with Marthe’s explanation. I envisaged you menaced by every kind of danger – barring myself. I said: ‘Don’t write to me if the remedy fails.’ But that only applies to the remedy! I want to know everything about you . . . about you whom I have so virtuously renounced. A note, a picture-postcard, a telegram, some sign . . . Make that my reward, Annie. Cured, or ill, or ‘lost’ as they say, or even – what Marthe says . . . Ugh! no, not that! Remain the slim fragile amphora that two clasped arms can encircle so easily.
Your
Claudine
That was all! Yes, that was all. Even Claudine’s tender anxiety did not satisfy me. When, like me, one has nothing in oneself one hopes for everything from another . . .
A weary lassitude had clouded that bright hour. Why did I have to be reminded of those other people and those other days? I re-read Claudine’s letter and its tiresome solicitude revived dim, almost effaced pictures in my mind. Through a haze of them I stared at the square envelope addressed in Alain’s stiff writing without really seeing it . . . Dakar, Dakar . . . where had I seen that name inscribed in black in a little circle? Why Dakar? The last time, it was Buenos Aires . . .
With a cry, I emerged from my daze. Dakar! Why, he was coming back, he was on his way, he was getting nearer, he would be here tomorrow, any moment now! So that was what the treacherous calm of this morning had in store, was it? In opening it, my clumsy fingers tore the letter as well as the envelope, the incredibly neat handwriting danced before my eyes . . . I read at random:
‘My dear Annie . . . at last . . . return journey . . . met our friends X . . . travelling for pleasure . . . insist on my staying with them . . . matter of ten days . . . find house ready, Annie happy . . .’
Ten days, ten days! Fate had granted me no longer than that to make up my mind. It was not much. But it would be enough.
‘Léonie!’
‘Madame?’
She was holding three new-born kittens in her apron and explained, laughingly, to excuse herself:
‘I was just a-going to drown ’em.’
‘Then hurry up and do it. The trunks, the dressing-case – the whole lot strapped up and ready to catch the five o’clock express. We’re going back to Paris.’
‘What, again!’
‘Does that annoy you? I should hate to force you to remain a minute longer in service with someone who goes against your wishes.’
‘I didn’t say that, Madame . . .’
‘Hurry up. Monsieur tells me he will soon be arriving home.’
She went upstairs and I heard her taking her revenge by violently pulling open drawers and slamming the doors of cupboards.
ELEVEN
ALL THESE PARCELS, all these cardboard boxes! The room is permeated with a composite smell of new leather, black tarred paper, and rough, unworn wool, to which the big waterproof cape contributes a quota of bitumen. I have spent my time to some purpose since my hurried return. I have been incessantly at the bootmaker’s, the tailor’s, the hatter’s . . . That sounds like a man talking, not a woman, but fashion is more to blame for that than I am.
In the five days I have ordered so many, many things and had them delivered! I have climbed so many stairs, instructed so many obsequious tradesmen, taken off my blouse and skirt so many times and felt my bare arms shiver under the cold fingers of ‘head fitters’ that my head is whirling. Never mind, it’s worth it. I am slipping my collar.
At the moment, I am sitting here, slightly dazed, admiring my treasures. Those beautiful big lace-up shoes, flat and tapered as skiffs on their low English heels! One ought to be able to tramp steadily for miles on those little yellow boats. At least, I presume so! My husband preferred me to wear Louis XV heels – more ‘feminine’ . . . Because he preferred them, I don’t want any! Neither would he approve in the least of this rust-coloured coat and skirt, the colour of a red squirrel’s fur, whose trim skirt flares out so simply and neatly. Personally, I love it. Its sober, tailored line makes me look slimmer than ever and its tawny colour emphasizes the blue of my eyes – exaggerates it so that it positively makes one’s mouth water . . . and those masculine stitched gloves, the severe felt hat trimmed with an eagle’s feather! So many novelties, so many gestures of defiance, go to my head as does the unexpected charm of this hotel bedroom. An eminently respectable hotel . . . two steps from our house – no one would ever guess I was in hiding.
Without bothering about probability, I told Léonie: ‘The house needs urgent repairs. Monsieur will join me at the Impérial-Voyage.’ Ever since, the poor thing has come round every morning to take orders and to complain.
‘Madame, would you believe it? The builder still hasn’t come to do those repairs what Madame wrote to him about.’
‘It’s not possible, Léonie! The only thing is . . . perhaps Monsieur has sent him special instructions?’
And I dismiss her with a smile so benevolent that it intimidates her.
I am feeling tired. While I am waiting for tea-time, I am caressing the finest of my new toys with my eyes but only with my eyes because I am frightened to touch it. My very latest toy; I only bought it a few minutes ago. It is a dainty, dainty little black revolver that looks like Toby. (Toby, don’t lick that shiny cardboard, you’ll give yourself stomach-ache!) It has two safety-catches, six chambers, a cleaning-rod, all sorts of things. I bought it from Alain’s gunsmith. The man who sold it to me carefully explained the mechanism, all the while glancing at me furtively with a fatalistic expression as if he were thinking: ‘Another of them! What a tragedy! So young! Still, after all, I’ve got to sell my knick-knacks . . .’
I feel remarkably we
ll. I am enjoying the kind of rest I have not known for a long time. Someone with quite good taste must have furnished this little yellow drawing-room and the Louis XVI bedroom that opens out of it. Here, my irritable, fastidious instinct does not suspect dirty carpets or dubious corners in the upholstery. The light falls softly on smooth, polished furniture and matt woodwork painted a restful greyish white. When I go out, an old gentleman in a morning-coat, enthroned behind the desk, smiles at me as if I were his daughter . . . At night I sleep for hours, on a good plump firm mattress.
I had gone off into a momentary daydream that I was a tranquil, middle-aged, dried-up English spinster and that I was staying as a paying guest with a delightful French family, when suddenly there was a knock at the door.
‘Come in!’
The knock was repeated.
‘I said, “Come in” . . .’
The quaint little chambermaid who looks like a mouse put her head round the door.
‘Is it my tea, Marie?’
‘Yes, Madame, and a visitor for Madame.’
‘A visitor!’
I leapt to my feet, still holding my yellow shoes by their laces. The mouse’s face looked scared.
‘Why, yes, Madame! It’s a lady.’
I trembled all over; there was a buzzing in my ears.
‘You’re sure it’s . . . it’s a lady?’
Marie burst our laughing like a stage maid in a comedy: I could hardly blame her.
‘Did you say I was in? . . . Tell her to come up.’
I leant against the table for support, and waited. A hundred idiotic notions flashed through my mind . . . This lady was Marthe and Alain was with her . . . They were going to take me back . . . I stared insanely at the black toy . . .
A footstep brushed the carpet . . . Good heavens, it was Claudine! How pleased, oh how pleased I was to see her!
I threw myself on her neck with such an ‘Ah!’ of relief that she drew back a little in surprise.
‘Annie . . . who were you expecting?’
I pressed her hands, I slipped my arm under hers and pulled her towards the gilded cane sofa with nervous, urgent gestures that she gently repulsed, as if she were uneasy . . .
‘Who was I expecting? No one, no one! Oh, I’m so glad it’s you!’
Suddenly a suspicion clouded my joy.
‘Claudine . . . you haven’t been sent? You haven’t come on behalf of . . .’
She raised her mobile eyebrows, then frowned impatiently.
‘Look here, Annie, we’re behaving as if we were acting a scene in a drawing-room comedy . . . you in particular . . . What’s happened? And what are you frightened of?’
‘Don’t be angry, Claudine. It’s all so complicated!’
‘Do you think so? It’s nearly always so simple!’
Meekly, I did not contradict her. She looked pretty, as always, in her own way; her face mysteriously shadowed by a black hat wreathed with blue and white thistles under which I could only make out her eyes, her curly hair, and her ironical, pointed chin . . .
‘I’d like to tell you everything, Claudine . . . But, first of all, how did you know I was here?’
She raised her forefinger.
‘Shh! . . . Once again you must thank Chance – Chance with a capital C, Annie – which is my servant when it isn’t my master . . . It led me to the Louvre – the shop not the gallery – which is one of its temples, then under the arcade of the Théâtre-Français, not far from a famous gunsmith’s where a slim little creature with burning blue eyes was buying . . .’
‘Ah! So that was why . . .’
So she had been frightened too . . . She had supposed . . . It was kind but a little naïve. I smiled surreptitiously.
‘What, you mean you thought . . . No, no, Claudine, don’t be alarmed! People don’t do it just like that, for no definite reason . . .’
‘Blow their brains out? . . . I fear your argument doesn’t convince me. On the contrary, nine times out of ten, it is for no definite reason . . .’
She was making fun of me, but all my heart was swelling with gratitude to her. Not for her slightly melodramatic apprehensions just now but because in her, and only in her, I had met with pity, loyalty, affection that had blazed for a moment into passion . . . everything life had denied me.
Her speech was harsh, but her eyes were tender. There was anxiety behind the raillery. She was not quite sure what she ought to prescribe for me. She was an ignorant, intelligent, superstitious little doctor, an osteopath with a touch of divination but lacking in experience . . . I could sense all this but took care not to tell her so. It was too late to change my habits.
‘This place might be a lot worse,’ observed Claudine, looking about her. ‘This little drawing-room is rather charming.’
‘Yes, isn’t it? And the bedroom – look . . . You wouldn’t think you were in a hotel.’
‘You most certainly wouldn’t. It’s much more like a delicious little flat people hire for assignations.’
‘Is it? I don’t know anything about those.’
‘Neither do I, Annie,’ she laughed. ‘But I’ve had them described to me.’
This revelation left me brooding. ‘A flat people hire for assignations . . .’ It was an ironical suggestion to make to a woman who was expecting no one!
‘Have some tea, Claudine.’
‘Ugh! How strong it is! Lots of sugar, for goodness’ sake. Ah, here’s Toby! Come here, Toby, you charming black angel, you square frog, you noble-browed thinker, you sausage on four paws! What an extraordinary mug you’ve got – like a sentimental murderer – my darling, my precious! . . .’
All at once, she had become completely Claudine again. Her hat had fallen off and she was on all fours on the carpet, hugging the little dog with all her might. Toby, who bares his strong, uneven teeth menacingly at everyone, was completely bewitched and let her roll him about like a ball . . .
‘Is Fanchette well?’
‘Very well, thank you. Believe it or not, she’s had another three children. That makes nine this year. I shall write to a birth-control specialist. Most shaming children, moreover – greyish, badly marked . . . their father must have been the coal-man or the laundryman . . But who cares? It does her good.’
She drank her cup of tea with both hands, like a little girl. That was how she had held my head tilted back for a minute, for just one minute, in the Margravine’s garden . . .
‘Claudine . . .’
‘What?’
‘Nothing . . .’
‘Nothing what, Annie?’
‘Nothing . . . new. It’s for you to question me.’
Her eyes changed back from those of a mischievous schoolgirl into a woman’s eyes, sombre and penetrating.
‘May I? With no subject barred? . . . Good! Has your husband come back?’
Sitting beside her, I lowered my eyes on my folded hands as if I were in the confessional.
‘No.’
‘Is he coming back soon?’
‘In four days’ time.’
‘What have you decided?’
I admitted, under my breath:
‘Nothing! Nothing!’
‘Then what’s all this equipment?’
With her chin, she indicated the trunk, the clothes, the cardboard boxes strewn everywhere . . .
‘Just some odds and ends for the autumn season.’
‘Hmm. I see.’
She scrutinized my face suspiciously . . . I could not stand it any longer. Let her blame me, if she liked, but I could not bear her to imagine some sordid escapade, some kind of ridiculous elopement. Hurriedly, with the words tumbling over each other, I brought out a wildly disjointed story.
‘Listen . . . Marthe told me that Alain . . . with Valentine Chessenet . . .’
‘Oh! the bitch!’
‘So I came back to Paris . . . I . . . I nearly demolished Alain’s desk . . . I found the letters.’
‘Excellent!’
Claudine’s eyes were sparkl
ing and she was twisting a handkerchief. Encouraged, I became feverishly worked up.
‘. . . And then I left everything on the floor, letters, papers – everything . . . he’ll find them, he’ll know it was me . . . Only I can’t stand any more, I can’t stand any more, do you realize? I don’t love him enough to stay with him. I want to get away, get away, get away . . .’
Choking with tears and my spate of words, I raised my head to get a gulp of breath. Claudine delicately stroked both my hands and asked very gently:
‘So . . . you want to get a divorce?’
I stared at her, dumbfounded.
‘A divorce . . . whatever for?’
‘Really! You are the most extraordinary girl! Why, because you don’t want to live with him any more!’
‘I most certainly don’t. But is it necessary to have a divorce?’
‘Well, it’s still the surest, if not the shortest, method. What a babe-in-arms you are!’
I had not the heart to laugh. I was beginning to panic.
‘But do you realize I don’t want to see him again! I’m frightened!’
‘Bravely said. Frightened of what?’
‘Of him . . . that he’ll make me go back . . . that he’ll talk me round . . . I’m frightened of seeing him . . . Perhaps he’ll be very nasty . . .’
I shuddered.
‘You poor little thing!’ Claudine murmured very low, without looking at me.
She seemed to be thinking very hard.
‘What do you advise me to do, Claudine?’
‘It’s difficult. I’m not at all sure, myself. We must ask Renaud.’
Terrified, I cried:
‘No! Nobody . . . Nobody!’
‘You’re very unreasonable, child. Wait a minute . . . Did you take the lady’s letters?’ she asked me suddenly.