But once she had seen Santos in broad daylight on the cobblestones of Paris and a Santos in frock coat, light-coloured gloves and fine shoes, she talked about him to everybody. It became her infatuation. She wrote specially to her brother in Columbia just to sing the praises of Santos Iturria. She went to make inquiries about the Iturria family at the Mexican legation. These particulars were satisfactory. Mama Dolore would consider La Chica. Y como no? Of course there was time: they were both still so young! And what did her niece think about it? That was the main point.
Yet it was not all that difficult to tell. Since Whitsun, La Chica was too gay and then too thoughtful. La Chica took an hour longer than she normally did to prepare herself on the days when they went to Saint Augustine's. La Chica was loved and perhaps in love.
At first, she was completely dejected: she thought she had reduced this poor Mr Leniot to despair. But was this her own fault? And besides, he was a child. Then she felt ashamed: "What must he be thinking of me?" She would have wished never to have trusted him with those secrets, never to have imparted those wholly pure thoughts from the time when she was still innocent and devout. "Hypocrite! He must be saying that I'm a hypocrite!" she would say to herself and, poisoned with remorse, she supposed that God was punishing her in this manner for her lack of self-constraint. She hardly had the courage to pray any more.
Yet the world ought to show understanding for our feelings instead of condemning us. At the very moment she had taken Joanny Leniot as the confidant for her religious ideas, she was beginning to struggle against this propensity which was drawing her towards human love. It was even to strengthen herself in her resistance to sin that she had sought these pious discussions, that she had said all those things which she had jealously guarded up until then. And her expectation had been disappointed. As she gave her religious fervour every freedom in expressing itself, so this fervour abandoned her. Without knowing it, this child had witnessed the death throes of her piety; it was the cry of this dying piety which he had heard. On returning one evening to her room, she had fallen sobbing to the carpet. She wanted to abase herself, to wipe away all the sin she could feel inside which was to overcome her. So she decided to lie stretched out facing the ceiling for one hour, with her feet joined together and her arms in the cross's form. But soon this was unbearable; oppressed, aching, the veins on her head swollen to bursting point, she could endure it no longer. She stood up again and looked at the face of her alarm clock: she had persevered for barely ten minutes. So she hurled herself passionately into what she called sin. She did not seek to excuse herself: she loved a man and that meant her soul was lost. She loved. And her night was so wonderful that she lived it in its entirety, that she drank in every dark minute of it with delight and only fell asleep at daybreak.
For her, this was the beginning of unforgettable nights. As she was absolutely incapable of closing her eyes, she wanted to spend every night reading and reading precisely those profane books which she had hitherto despised. She read in succession Petitesses by P. Luis Coloma, Jorge Isaacs' Maria and one or two of the Argentine novels by Carlos Maria Ocantos. But she was too preoccupied to give these authors a sustained attention. Her reading was a struggle with the pages: she would continuously slide the paper knife to the place she had reached in the book and, looking at the segment, she would compare the width of the pages she had already read to that of the pages she still had to read. Occasionally, however, she would forget herself enough to grasp the complete meaning of the phrases. Then she would become interested in the characters. Novels being something new for her, she did not see behind the narrative the literary devices, the commonplace, the age-old props which can be used anywhere and which end up by putting us off the defined past and all the novels of the world. She was like those members of an audience who have never seen the wings and who admire the scenery without reservations. She would begin to read as soon as she had returned to her room. She would lie down on her bed without taking off her evening gown in which she felt more beautiful and which she crumpled without caring. There was no doubting it, all the adventures of these characters really did not interest her; her own heart was too full of emotions; her own adventure was too wonderful. If the traitor had become Santos Iturria's friend, he would obviously have mended his ways and the final catastrophe would not have taken place. She pitied the Currita (in Petitesses); she felt sorry for all the black-hearted or unhappy heroines. They had never had the love of Santos Iturria to console or redeem them . . . She would close the book and think of her happiness. She would cast tender glances at the things surrounding her. The chandelier's electric lights, the illuminated bulbs of the wall lamps above the fireplace and on each side of the round mirror, all these lights shone pure and still, conveying a sense of security in the midst of this wealth. The walls hung in watered silk of old rose, the heavy and sumptuous furniture, the thick carpet covering the entire floor, the gold of the picture frames, the tables and pedestal stands inlaid with copper, the wardrobe, its three doors panelled with limpid mirrors, she would run a kindly eye over all these objects. A few weeks earlier, she detested them because they reminded her that the rich will not enter the Kingdom of Heaven, because they caused her anguish to think of all the poor wretches, of those who sleep in hostels, of those luckless souls who have fallen to society's depths and whose nakedness stands revealed to the very cores of their being. Now on the contrary, she liked them: this luxury was worthy of her heart's sovereign. As for her, she felt no attachment to it but wouldn't he be happy if he agreed to come and spend a few days at their home on the breaking up of his school where life was tough and frugal, yes wouldn't he be happy here? He would have thefeui/le morte bedroom which was even more opulent than this one and he would do his shopping in the victoria. Oh! If only that were possible!
She lowered her glance to her bare throat; she contemplated herself stretched out in her gorgeous dress, she admired the daintiness of her arched feet. Surely she too was worthy of her heart's sovereign? — The night hours have a romantic side. Two o'clock in the afternoon is prosaic, almost common; but two o'clock in the morning is an adventurer plunging into the unknown. And this unknown is three o'clock in the morning, the nocturnal pole, time's mysterious continent. You skirt round it and if you believe you have ever crossed it, you are mistaken for soon four o'clock arrives without your having discovered the secret of the night. And the dawn is already streaking the shutters with its parallel stripes of blue.
Now when Fermina Marquez appeared on the steps of the visiting room at Saint Augustine's, she had been up for barely two hours and there were rings under her wonderful eyes which would shut at the overvivid brightness of the sun. But her gait was nobler, more triumphant than ever. She would quite deliberately show herself before the pupils had left the refectory to provoke Santos, who having eaten his lunch in great haste and being obliged to stay at his bench, would stamp with impatience, ready to rush outside as soon as grace had been said.
How happy he seemed to us! We knew that he wore a lock of her hair wound round his right wrist and concealed beneath his cuff, which she had given to him, with the result that we did not shake his hand and brush his right arm without experiencing a feeling of respect: this lock rendered Santos' person sacred.
They used to stroll on the terrace. She had allowed him to smoke in her presence: his cigarette smoke had such a good, reassuring smell! She breathed it in with relish. She looked up
at him with an expression of solemnity and admiration. She was happy to be slightly less exalted than him. Everything he said affected her, made her joyful, caressed her.
Once or twice, they invited Demoisel to come and have tea with them in the grounds. We also saw them in the great avenue: they walked ahead of the group made up of Mama Dolore, Pilar and Paquito Marquez; Santos was on Fermina's left and Demoisel on her right. The Negro would stand absolutely straight and hold his head up high; he seemed very proud and very intimidated at the same time. From afar, you could se
e the whites of his eyes roll in his gleaming, black face. His manners were beyond reproach. He too was South American.
XIX
Ten days or so before prizegiving, as Joanny Leniot was standing in the playground, he heard his name being called by Santos Iturria.
"Mama Dolore has something to say to you; come." He followed him. The whole family was on the terrace. He shook their hands. Mama Dolore enquired after his health, was charming. Joanny would have liked to have cut short the meeting. He was above all afraid of being left alone with Fermina. He was no longer so certain that he had not been ridiculous at their last encounter with his talk about his genius. He observed her surreptitiously. He was not surprised that she had discarded her ideas of humility and piety; that appeared natural to him: we outlive our emotions as we outlive the seasons. There was in her lovely frame a central, all-powerful force, of which her thoughts, desires and feelings were just passing modes. She was more beautiful than ever and seemed to have grown taller. He felt a mere child in her presence. He was not made to be loved by her; he ought never to have lost his heart to her.
He wanted to take his leave. But he was obliged to listen to Mama Dolore's word of thanks. "Mr Leniot, you showed my nephew so much kindness that I had no wish to demonstrate my gratitude in speech alone. So please accept this small something; may it remind you of us occasionally." She offered
him a little package, a box wrapped up in tissue paper. Joanny reddened. His pride inclined him to refuse. He was on the point of doing so when Fermina Marquez passed close to him and murmured: "Accept." He obeyed her, made his thanks in a few words and withdrew.
It was only at the end of evening prep that he decided to open the box. It was a gold watch and chain; a thick, heavy chain. The face was in gold. His initials J.L. were engraved on the back. He felt a moment's gay surprise. The watch of Leniot senior was scarcely finer looking than this one. The box bore the name of a rue de la Paix jeweller. Mama Dolore must easily have had to pay five or six hundred francs for it. So the Creole lady cared a lot for him? Why then hadn't she said: "Until our next meeting"? He remembered her words: "You showed my nephew so much kindness ..." So that was it. "But then," thought Joanny suddenly, "but then they paid me off!" Yes, of course that was it. This present was not a token of affection, a present that is made to a family friend. It was the settlement of a service rendered: it was made at the end, at the moment when relations were being brought to a close.
"They paid me off!" Joanny succumbed beneath the insult. "They paid me off!" His cheeks had turned red all of a sudden and the flush remained like the visible mark of a slap, painful as a burn. "They paid me off!" Yes, they wished to owe him nothing; they had dismissed him by generously paying him his wages. Oh! The wretches! Oh! The wretches! And it was with smiles that they destroyed my dignity. That was the way of the rich: they used their money to hurt those they despised. Joanny looked at all his companions, his eyes dry and burning. And he realized that he hated them because they were wealthy. Until that moment, he had not been aware of this. Those two hundred thousand francs his father earned each year from the silk trade brought him the respect and greetings of the folk in his neighbourhood and made his family the potentates of its village in the department of the Loire. Even in Lyons, Leniot senior was a grandee and Joanny, as the only son, had his share of that fame. But what was that compared to the wealth of all these sons of nabobs, to the millions these South Americans had which their fathers sent to Europe aboard ships which belonged to them?
"They paid me off!" His hands clenching his desk, Joanny eyed the prep group, livid with rage. How calm they all were, huddled like this over their exercise books, these sons of kings! "They paid me off!" It was the supreme insult. The poor at least, even if they were striking you, made an effort, grimaced. The rich remained sitting down, spoke to you softly and destroyed you. All his friends' parents would have acted in the same manner. "For those people I am a beggar and they look down on me. They have the gall to despise me who am so intellectually superior to all of them!"
"They paid me off! ..." Joanny remembered an incident in his childhood. One day, his parents had said to one of their workmen: "Please bring your son to spend the afternoons here; he will keep Mr Joanny company." At the end of eight days, the urchin had been returned to his father because he had already taught Mr Joanny lewd expressions. And the workman had been given a present to "pay for the hire of the young lout," Leniot senior had said. Joanny asked for permission to leave prep. He was holding the watch and chain in his closed fist.
At the end of a passage there was an abandoned classroom, next to the detention room. Its door had been boarded up; its window, which overlooked a small yard bounded by the main building and the wall of the riding school, had been blocked up by means of boards nailed to the frame; and higher up, a gap had been sealed off with tar paper. Pupils had amused themselves by piercing this paper with stones. They took pleasure in hearing the reverberation of their missiles as they dropped into this unknown place, on to this floor (or on to those benches?) they had never seen. Many dilapidated things could always be got rid of in this way: pen holders, broken rulers, used-up toiletries. The dreamiest of the younger ones, little Camille Moutier for example, could not imagine the appearance of this lifeless chamber without trembling. And the proximity of the detention room, where we were confined only in the most serious of cases, was all that was necessary to make it a sacred place, consecrated to the fearsome gods.
Leniot leant with his back against the wall of the riding school, took deliberate aim and with a sudden movement, sent the watch and chain flying through the perforated paper. He heard two sounds: the object must first have hit the wall at the far end of the room and then come down on the wooden floor. — He returned to prep, relieved.
The next day on waking up, an idea occurred to him: wouldn't Mama Dolore be surprised not to receive a letter from his parents thanking her for their son's present? Because of course he would never speak of this matter to his parents. And he could already hear Mama Dolore saying to her niece: "Those Leniots haven't even sent me a note of thanks; those people don't know how to live." And her niece would remember what Joanny Leniot had said in her presence: "Tradesmen, financiers, every sort and kind of common person."
And on prizegiving day (they would certainly come to it), they would be astonished not to see the heavy, fine-looking watch chain on his waistcoat. And were his parents also to come from Lyons to witness his scholastic triumph, they would barely acknowledge the Marquezes about whom he had never said anything to them in his letters. Ah! What a blunder his pride had made him commit. But it was almost stealing! We are without question entitled to take pleasure in the things we are given but we have no right to destroy them; that is truly to wrong the giver. It would have been better not to accept.
No indeed! It would definitely have been better to keep those trinkets. If only to have a physical memento of Fermina Marquez. After all, this watch was not lost. If the prefect of studies were informed that an object as valuable as that could be found in this room, he would not hesitate to have the door broken down. But to notify him of this, Joanny would have to admit the truth. And he could never summon up the courage to do so.
He had fallen out with the Marquezes. He would not see them again. So much the better. He would not seek to make connections like Julien Morot! And as for her, well what of it? It was over! He had been stupid and ridiculous in her presence. It was therefore better that he no longer saw her, that she did not come to remind him any more that he had been stupid and ridiculous at an altogether forgettable moment in his life. And he most certainly had been. It still made him blush. Ah! That seduction plan and all that infantile talk!
For several days, he remained in the depths of despair, wallowing in the reeking swamps of self-contempt. He pulled himself out of this by reflecting with pride: "Here am I, Leniot, with so many grounds to be pleased with myself, filled with self-loathing." He marvelled at his modesty; the contras
t created by the apparent good fortune of his destiny and the melancholy of his nature. He compared himself to a king covered in glory and yet weary of life. In a week's time, it would be prizegiving, his wonderful day of triumph, all red and golden. Joanny would be dazed by the applause greeting his name, repeated twenty times by the announcer of the list of prize winners. And despite that, he would take a sombreness of mind and lugubrious thoughts to the rostrum. But no, since this idea afforded him pleasure, his self-satisfaction was restored.
Without lessons to learn, prepared work to do, punishments to fear, the last days of the school year have arrived. They are so marvellous that you no longer remember what you have done with them. I firmly believe they were like great, empty rooms wholly bathed in sunlight: yes, thanks to there being none of the usual lessons and homework, they resembled reception rooms out of which all the furniture has been taken so that there can be dancing. It was the period when I would take stock of my year, congratulating myself for not having merited a single punishment, for I too was an excellent pupil. And I was pleased because I was going to receive, as one might a superb, gold ingot, my form's prize for excellence. It was an important landmark in my life, this prize for excellence: thanks to it, you were certain of having done very well; with it, you did not need to look any higher; you had made it. To think that I would never again have the prize for excellence! Joanny was already too old to reread the novels in the series School Life by Country; but he knew that these last days can be profitably employed by reading with care The Ancient City by Fustel de Coulanges or alternatively Gaston Boissier's masterpiece Cicero and his Friends. Meanwhile, he would leaf through his corrected exercise books; the subject of each piece of homework was the memory of a triumph for him. In one of these exercise books, on a flyleaf, he had written down two letters: P.M.; and beneath, a date; the date of the bait on that famous evening when he had taken the decision to seduce a certain girl. He pondered for a moment. Then with a frightening seriousness, above the initials and the date, he set down this phrase taken from the Commentaries on the Gallic Wars: "Hoc untim ad pristinam fortunam Caesari defuit."
Fermina Marquez (1911) Page 9