by Colette
We went indoors and opened our exercise-books, still panting from our exertions. But, after a quarter of an hour, Mademoiselle Sergent’s mother appeared and announced to her daughter, in a barbaric dialect, that two new girls had arrived. The class bubbled over with excitement: two ‘new ones’ to tease! And Mademoiselle left the room, very politely asking Mademoiselle Lanthenay to look after the class. Aimée arrived and I sought her eyes so as to smile at her with all my anxious tenderness. But she gave me back a far from confident look and my heart swelled absurdly as I bent over my knitting … I’ve never dropped so many stitches! I dropped so many that I had to go and ask Mademoiselle Aimée for help. While she was trying to remedy my mistakes, I whispered to her: ‘Good afternoon, my sweet darling little Mademoiselle … Heavens, whatever’s the matter! I’m worn to shreds with not being able to speak to you.’ She looked round her uneasily and answered, very low:
‘I can’t tell you anything now. Tomorrow, at our lesson.’
‘I’ll never be able to wait till tomorrow! Suppose I pretend Papa wants to use his library tomorrow and ask if you can give me my lesson this evening?’
‘No … All right, yes, ask her. But go back to your place at once – the big ones are staring at us.’
I said ‘Thank you’ out loud to her and went and sat down again. She was right. That gawk Anaïs was watching us closely, trying to guess what had been going on these last two or three days.
Mademoiselle Sergent returned at last, accompanied by two insignificant young things whose arrival caused a little stir on the benches.
She installed these newcomers in their places. The minutes dragged slowly by.
When, at last, it struck four, I went straight off to find Mademoiselle Sergent and I asked her, in one breathless burst:
‘Mademoiselle, it would be awfully kind of you if you’d let Mademoiselle Lanthenay give me my lesson tonight instead of tomorrow night, Papa’s got someone coming to talk business in the library so we won’t be able to stay there.’
Ouf! I had brought out my sentence without pausing for breath. Mademoiselle frowned, studied my face for a moment, then made up her mind:
‘Very well. Go and tell Mademoiselle Lanthenay.’
I rushed off and did so. She put on her hat and coat and I bore her off, quivering with anxiety to know all.
‘Ah, how glad I am to have you to myself for a little. Tell me quick, whatever’s gone wrong?’
She hesitated, beating about the bush.
‘Not here. Wait. It’s difficult to tell you all about it in the street. We’ll be at your home in a minute.’
In the meantime, I squeezed her arm in mine but her smile was not the charming one of all the other times. As soon as the door of the library shut behind us, I took her in my arms and kissed her. I felt as if she had been kept imprisoned far away from me for a month, that poor little Aimée with those shadows under her eyes and those pale cheeks! Had she suffered very much, then? Yet the looks she gave me struck me as embarrassed rather than anything else, and she seemed feverish rather than sad. Moreover, she returned my kisses very hurriedly – and I don’t at all like being kissed in double quick time!
‘Come on, tell me … tell me everything right from the beginning.’
‘But it’s not a very long story … In fact, nothing much happened at all. It was Mademoiselle Sergent … well, she wanted … I mean, she preferred … she thought these English lessons were preventing me from correcting the exercise-books and making me go to bed too late …’
‘Look here, for goodness’ sake, don’t waste time. And tell me the truth. She doesn’t want you to come any more?’
I was trembling with anguish; I gripped my hands between my knees to make them keep still. Aimée fidgeted with the cover of the Grammar and began to tear off a strip where it was gummed. As she did so, she raised her eyes towards me. They had grown scared again.
‘Yes, that’s it. But she didn’t say it the way you said it, Claudine. Listen to me a moment …’
I did not listen to a word; I felt as if I were dissolving with misery. I was sitting on a little stool on the floor, and, clasping my arms round her slim waist, I beseeched her:
‘Darling, don’t go away … If you only knew, I’d be too utterly wretched! Oh, find some excuse, make up something, come back, don’t leave me! It’s sheer bliss for me, just being with you! Doesn’t it give you any pleasure at all? Am I just like Anaïs or Marie Belhomme to you? Darling, do, do come back and go on giving me English lessons! I love you so much … I didn’t tell you … but now you can’t help seeing I do! … Come back, I implore you. She can’t beat you for it, that red-haired beast!’
I was burning with fever and my nerves were becoming more and more frayed at feeling that Aimée’s were not vibrating in sympathy. She stroked my head as it lay on her lap and only interrupted now and then with a quavering ‘my little Claudine!’ At last her eyes brimmed over and she began to cry as she said:
‘I’m going to tell you everything. It’s too wretched – you make me too unhappy! Well, last Saturday, I couldn’t help noticing She was being much nicer to me than usual. I thought she was getting used to me and would leave the two of us in peace so I was awfully happy and relaxed. And then, towards the end of the evening, when we were correcting exercise-books at the same table, I suddenly looked up and saw she was crying. And she was looking at me in such a peculiar way that I was absolutely dumfounded. Then, all at once, she got up from her chair and went off to bed. The next day, after being awfully nice to me all day, when I was alone with her in the evening and was just going to say good night, she suddenly asked me: “You’re very fond of Claudine, aren’t you? And, no doubt, she returns your fondness?” And, before I had time to answer, she fell into a chair beside me and sobbed. And then she took my hands and said all sorts of things that simply took my breath away …’
‘What things?’
‘Well … she said to me: “My dear little thing, don’t you realize you’re breaking my heart with your indifference? Oh, my darling girl, how could you possibly not have noticed my great affection for you? My little Aimée, I’m jealous of the tenderness you show to that brainless Claudine who’s quite definitely a little unhinged … If you’d only just not hate me, oh! if you’d only love me a little, I’d be a more tender friend than you could ever imagine …” And she looked into the very depths of my soul with eyes like red-hot pokers.’
‘Didn’t you answer her at all?’
‘Of course not! I hadn’t time to! Another thing she said was: “Do you think they’re very useful to her or very kind to me, those English lessons you give her? It tears my heart every time I see the two of you go off together! Don’t go there – don’t ever go there again! Claudine won’t give it another thought in a week’s time and I can give you more affection than she’s capable of feeling!” Claudine, I assure you, I no longer had any idea what I was doing. She was mesmerizing me with those crazy eyes of hers and, suddenly, the room began to go round, and my head swam; and for two or three seconds, not more, I couldn’t see anything at all. I could only hear her saying over and over again, and sounding terrified, “My God! … My poor little girl! I’ve frightened her … she’s so pale, my little Aimée, my darling!” And, immediately after that, she helped me to undress, in the most kind, affectionate way, and I slept as if I’d spent the entire day walking … Claudine, my poor pet, you realize there was simply nothing I could do about it!’
I was stunned. So she had passionate friendships, that volcanic Redhead! At heart, I was not tremendously surprised; it was bound to end that way. Meanwhile, I sat there, utterly overwhelmed; faced with Aimée, this frail little creature bewitched by that fury, I did not know what to say. She dried her eyes. It seemed to me that her distress was over with her tears.
‘But you … don’t love her at all?’
She answered, without looking at me:
‘No, of course not. But, really, she does seem to be awfully fond of me a
nd I never suspected it.’
Her answer froze me completely. After all, I’m not completely out of my mind yet and I understand what people are trying to say to me. I let go her hands which I was holding and I stood up. Something had been broken. Since she was unwilling to admit frankly that she was no longer with me against the other, since she was hiding her deepest thoughts, I thought all was over. My hands were ice-cold and my cheeks were burning. After a painful silence, I was the first to speak:
‘Dear Aimée of the lovely eyes, I implore you to come just once more to finish up the month. Do you think she will agree?’
‘Oh, yes! I’ll ask her.’
She said it promptly and spontaneously, already sure of getting anything she wanted out of Mademoiselle Sergent now. How fast she was receding from me and how fast the other had triumphed! Cowardly little Lanthenay! She loved comfort like a warmth-starved cat and knew very well that her chief’s friendship would be more profitable to her than mine! But I did not mean to tell her so or she would not come back for the last lesson and I still cherished a vague hope … The hour was over and I escorted Aimée to the door. In the passage, I embraced her fiercely, with a touch of despair. Once I was alone, I was surprised not to find myself feeling quite as sad as I believed myself to be. I had expected a tremendous, absurd explosion but, no, what I felt was more like a chill that froze me …
At supper, I broke in upon Papa’s musings.
‘Papa, you know those English lessons of mine?’
‘Yes, I know. You’re quite right to take them …’
‘Please listen. I’m not going to take any more.’
‘Ah, they tire you, do they?’
‘Yes, they get on my nerves.’
‘Then you’re quite right.’
And his thoughts flew back to his slugs – if they had ever left them.
The night was shot through with stupid dreams. Mademoiselle Sergent, as a fury, with snakes in her red hair, was trying to embrace Aimée Lanthenay who ran away, screaming. I tried to go to her rescue but Antonin Rabastens held me back. He was dressed all in pastel pink and he pulled me back by the arm, saying: ‘Listen, do listen! Here’s a lyrical ballad that I sing and I’m really enraptured with it.’ Then he warbled in his baritone:
‘Beloved friends, when I am dead,
Plant a sad pillow on my grrave …’
He sang it to the tune of: ‘Ah, how my French blood thrills with pride, to see her soldiers marching by!’ An absurd night and one that did not rest me in the least.
*
I arrived late for school and contemplated Mademoiselle Sergent, secretly surprised to think that this audacious Redhead had had such success. She darted malicious, almost mocking looks at me, but I was so tired and dispirited that I had no heart left to answer her back.
When class was over, I saw Mademoiselle Aimée lining up the little ones in file (it was as if I had dreamt the whole of yesterday evening). I said good morning to her in passing; she looked tired, too. Mademoiselle Sergent was not there. I stopped and said:
‘Are you feeling all right this morning?’
‘Yes, of course, thank you. You look very dark under the eyes, Claudine.’
‘Maybe. Any fresh news? The scene didn’t start up again? Is she still as amiable to you as ever?’
She blushed and looked embarrassed.
‘Oh, yes. Nothing more’s happened and she’s being very nice. I … think you don’t know her properly … she’s not in the least like what you imagine …’
Slightly nauseated, I let her go stammering on. When she had got her sentence well and truly entangled, I interrupted her:
‘Perhaps you’re the one who’s right. You’ll come on Wednesday for the last time?’
‘Oh, indeed I will. I’ve asked her. It’s all fixed. Definitely.’
How quickly things change! Since that scene yesterday evening, we had already begun to speak differently to each other. Today I did not dare to show a trace of the vociferous misery I had let her see last night. At all costs, I must make her laugh a little.
‘How are your love-affairs? Is the handsome Richelieu going on all right?’
‘Who do you mean? Armand Duplessis? Oh, yes, he’s doing splendidly. Sometimes he stays two hours in the shadows under my window. But yesterday night, I let him know that I’d noticed him, and he went striding away at a great rate, on those long legs of his – they’re just like the legs of a compass. And when Monsieur Rabastens wanted to bring him along the day before yesterday, he refused to come.’
‘You know, Armand is seriously keen on you. I know what I’m talking about. I overheard a conversation between those two masters last Sunday. Quite by chance, by the roadside. And … I’ll only tell you this much! … Armand has got it badly. Only try and tame him – he’s a wild bird.’
She was all animation now and wanted all the details, but I ran off.
Let me try and think about the singing-lessons we are to have from the seductive Antonin Rabastens. They’re to begin on Thursday. I shall put on my blue skirt, with the pleated blouse that shows off my figure, and my apron. Not the big black apron I wear on weekdays with the close-fitting bib (though it’s quite becoming), but the pretty little pale blue embroidered one I wear at home on Sundays. And that’s all. I’m not going to take too much trouble for his friendship or my dear, kind little schoolmates will notice.
Aimée, Aimée! It really is a pity that she’s flown away so soon, that charming little bird who might have consoled me for all those geese! Now, I feel quite certain that last lesson will serve no purpose at all. With a small nature like hers, frail and egotistical, a nature that likes its pleasures but knows how to look after its interests, it is useless to struggle against Mademoiselle Sergent. I only hope that this great disappointment will not sadden me for long.
Today, at recreation, I played madly to shake myself up and to get warm. Anaïs and I, grasping Marie Belhomme firmly by her ‘midwife’s hands’, made her run till she was breathless and panting for mercy. Afterwards, under penalty of being locked up in the lavatories, I forced her to recite Théramène’s speech on the death of Hippolyte in a loud, intelligible voice.
She declaimed Racine’s alexandrines in a martyred voice and then escaped, flinging up her arms. The sisters Jaubert struck me as impressed. Good! If they don’t like the classics, they’ll be presented with modern verse on the next occasion.
The next occasion was not long delayed. Hardly had we got back into the classroom than we were clamped down to exercises in round and cursive handwriting in view of the approaching exams. For most of us had appalling writing.
‘Claudine, you will dictate the examples while I go and find places for the younger ones’ class.’
She went off to the ‘Second Class’ who, dislodged in their turn, were about to be installed goodness knows where. This promised as a good half-hour to ourselves.
I began:
‘Children, today I am going to dictate to you something highly entertaining.’
Chorus of ‘Ah!’
‘Yes, some gay songs taken from Wandering Palaces.’
‘That sounds awfully nice, even from the title,’ observed Marie Belhomme with conviction.
‘You’re absolutely right. Are you ready? I’ll begin.
‘On the identical slow curve
Whose slowness is implacable
Ecstatically there vacillates and sinks
The complex present of slow curves’
I paused. The lanky Anaïs didn’t laugh because she didn’t understand. (Neither did I.) And Marie Belhomme, with her usual good faith, exclaimed:
‘But you know quite well we’ve already done geometry this morning! And besides all that sounded too difficult. I haven’t written down half what you said.’
The twins rolled four defiant eyes. I went on, imperturbably:
‘The selfsame autumn sees those curves homologous,
Parallel to your grief on the long autumn evenings,
They followed laboriously, without making any further efforts to understand. I felt a delicious satisfaction at hearing Marie Belhomme complain once more and stop me:
‘Wait a bit, wait a bit … you’re going much too fast … The slow curve of what?’
I repeated: ‘The slow curve of things and your brief birdlike hoppings… Now copy that out for me, first in round script, then in cursive …’
These supplementary writing-lessons, designed to satisfy the examiners at the end of July, were my joy. I dictated the most extravagant things and I had immense pleasure in hearing these daughters of grocers, cobblers and policemen meekly reciting and writing down parodies of the Romantic School or of Francis Jammes’ murmuring lullabies. I collected al these for the benefit of my dear little companions from the reviews and magazines my father received. And he certainly received plenty! All the periodicals from the Revue des deux mondes to the Mercure de France accumulated in our house. Papa confided to me the duty of cutting their pages: I allocated to myself the duty of reading them. For someone had to read them! Papa merely gave them a superficial, absent-minded glance, since the Mercure de France deals very seldom indeed with malacology. As for myself, I found them highly instructive, if not always comprehensible, and I used to warn Papa when the subscriptions were running out, ‘You must renew yours, Papa, or you’ll lose the good opinion of the postman.’
That gawk Anaïs, who is lacking in knowledge of literature – it’s not her fault – muttered sceptically:
‘These things you dictate to us at writing-lessons, I’m sure you deliberately make them up.’
‘What a thing to say! These are lines dedicated to our ally, the Tsar Nicholas, so there!’