Claudine Married

by Colette

  Today I was confronted with the original of the compromising Byzantine pastel, now wearing a tight, very short black jacket. He was sizzling with curiosity, just as in the days when he was so violently intrigued by Luce.

  ‘Well, how about yesterday?’

  ‘Really, I must thank you. What a delicious little temple you have there! It’s worthy of you.’

  He bowed.

  ‘Of you too.’

  ‘Too kind. I found your portrait particularly interesting. I’m delighted to know that your soul is a contemporary of Constantine’s.’

  ‘It’s the rage nowadays . . . Tell me, are you neither of you greedy? Didn’t even my Château-Yquem – it’s a present from Grandmother – tempt you?’

  ‘No. Curiosity muzzled all our other instincts.’

  ‘Oh! curiosity,’ he said sceptically, with the smile in his portrait . . . ‘What good little housewives you are . . . I found everything in perfect order. I hope, at least, you weren’t disturbed?’

  His flashing smile, that look so swiftly darted, then withdrawn . . . Oh, the little beast, it was he who had rung – or got someone to ring . . . I ought to have suspected that! But I wasn’t going to let that wicked boy catch me out.

  ‘No, not in the slightest. The calm of a well-ordered house. I believe someone did ring once . . . but, again, I couldn’t be sure. At that moment I was completely absorbed in contemplating . . . your little androgynous goddess, the one with the folded arms . . .’

  That would teach him! And, as we are both good deceivers, he assumed the expression of a satisfied host.

  Twelve

  A letter from Montigny that I was obliged to read aloud in order to understand it, the writing was so hieroglyphic.

  ‘Aren’t you going to come and see us, my little maidie? The big “imp’s-thigh” rose-bush wants to flower; it’s nearly out. And the little “weepy ash” has grown a lot. Monsieur is as usual.’

  Monsieur was ‘as usual’ – I didn’t doubt that, Mélie! The weeping ash had grown, good. And the big ‘nymph’s-thigh’ rose-bush was going to flower. It’s so lovely, it covers an entire wall, it flowers hurriedly, abundantly, tirelessly, and exhausts itself towards the autumn, after constant reflowerings and fresh bursts of fragrant life; it’s like a thoroughbred horse that will work itself to death . . . ‘The nymph’s-thigh rose tree wants to flower.’ At this news, I felt the fibre that binds me to Montigny revive, full of new sap. It wants to flower! . . . I thrilled with a little of the proud joy of a mother who has been told: ‘Your son is going to get all the prizes!’

  All my vegetable family was calling me. My forebear, the old walnut-tree, was growing old waiting for me. Under the clematis, it would soon be raining stars . . .

  But I can’t, I can’t. What would Rézi do if I were away? I don’t want to leave Renaud in her vicinity; my poor giant is such a lover of women and she is so . . . lovable!

  Take Renaud with me? Rézi all alone, Rézi in the dry, scorching Paris of summertime, alone with her desires and her tastes for intrigue . . . She would deceive me.

  Heavens! Is it true that four months have gone by in just drifting from hour to hour, alternating between kisses and sulks? I have done nothing during all this time, nothing at all but wait. When I leave her, I wait for the day when I shall see her again; when I am with her, I wait for her pleasure, swift or slow in coming, to yield me a lovelier, sincerer Rézi. When Renaud is with us, I wait for him to go and wait for Rézi’s departure so that I may talk to my Renaud a little while, without jealousy or bitterness, because, since Rézi, he seems to love me more than ever.

  This would go and happen! I have fallen ill, and now three whole weeks have been wasted. Influenza, a chill, overstrain – the doctor who is attending me can call it what he likes. I’ve had a very high temperature and a great deal of pain in my head. But, fundamentally, I’m robust.

  Dear big Renaud, how much I appreciated your gentleness. Never have I known you take so much pains to talk in a moderate, cadenced, rounded tone of voice . . .

  Rézi has looked after me too, in spite of the fear of appearing ugly to her that made me hide my burning face in my arms. Sometimes her way of looking at Renaud and her way of sitting on the edge of my bed ‘for his benefit’, with one knee raised, as if she were gracefully riding side-saddle, in a chip hat and a broderie anglaise dress with a velvet belt shocked me. Her whole way of going on was too affected and coquettish for someone visiting a sick friend. Thanks to my temperature I was able to scream ‘Go away!’ to her and she really believed I was delirious. I also thought that whenever she entered, I saw Renaud smile as if a puff of cool wind had blown in . . .

  I felt resentful of my friend’s fresh beauty and her unshadowed, matt ivory cheeks. And though, when she left, she very gently laid long-stemmed, black-red roses on the couch where I was recovering my strength, the moment she had gone, I snatched up the hand-glass hidden under the cushions and stared for a long time at my bleached pallor, thinking of her with jealous rancour . . .

  ‘Renaud, is it true the trees on the boulevards are already turning rusty?’

  ‘Yes, it’s true, little girl. Would you like to come to Montigny? You’d see greener ones there.’

  ‘They’re too green . . . Renaud, I could go out today. I’m feeling so well. I ate all the lean part of a cutlet after my egg, I drank a glass of Asti and picked at some grapes . . . Are you going out?’

  Standing in front of the window of his ‘work sanctum’, he looked at me undecidedly.

  ‘I’d simply love to go out with a handsome husband like you. That grey suit is very becoming, that piqué waistcoat accentuates your distinguished Second Empire look I like so much . . . Is it for me that you’re so young today?’

  He reddened a little under his dark skin and smoothed his long, silver moustache.

  ‘You know quite well it hurts me when you talk about my age . . .’

  ‘Who’s talking about your age? On the contrary, I’m seriously afraid that your youth is going to last as long as you do, like a disease you’re born with. Take me out with you, Renaud! I feel strong enough to stagger the whole world!’

  My grandiloquence did not make him decide in my favour.

  ‘Certainly not, my Claudine. The doctor told you: “Not before Sunday.” Today’s Friday. Just another forty-eight hours’ patience, my darling bird. Ah! Here comes a friend who’ll know how to keep you at home . . .’

  He profited by Rézi’s entrance to make a hasty exit. This was entirely unlike the Renaud I knew, who was so anxious to please me, however contrary to the dictates of prudence . . . That doctor was a fool!

  ‘Why are you making such a face, Claudine?’

  She was so pretty that I relaxed my frown. Blue, blue, blue, in a blue at once misty and frothy as soap-suds.

  ‘Rézi, the fairies have washed their linen in the water of your dress.’

  She smiled, sitting close against my hip. I was looking at her from below. A long dimple, like an exclamation mark, divided her obstinate chin. Her nostrils described the simple, classic curve I used to admire in Fanchette’s little nose. I sighed.

  ‘Oh dear, I wanted to go out, and that idiot of a doctor doesn’t want me to. But, at least, you’ll stay with me, won’t you? Do! Give me your freshness, the breeze that ripples in your skirt, and flutters the wings of your leafy hat . . . Do stay with me, tell me about the streets and the sun-baked trees . . . and about what little affection you have left for me since our separation.’

  But she refused to stay, and, all the time she was talking to me, her eyes kept darting from one window to another, as if she were looking for a way of escape.

  ‘Oh! I’m too miserable for words! My sweet, I’d have liked to spend the day with you, especially as you’re all alone . . . It’s such a long time, Claudine darling, since your mouth was close to mine!’

  She bent down caressingly, offering me her moist, shining teeth, but I turned away.

  ‘No. I must sme
ll of fever. Off you go and have your nice walk.’

  ‘Don’t think I’m walking for pleasure, Claudine darling! It’s a dreary duty expedition. Tomorrow’s the anniversary of my engagement – there’s nothing to laugh about! – and I’m in the habit of giving my husband a present that day.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Well, this year I’ve gone and forgotten my duty as a grateful spouse. And I must rush off, so that Mr Lambrook shall find something or other under his mitred table-napkin tonight – a cigar-case, some pearl studs, a case of dynamite – well, anyway, something! Otherwise it means three weeks of icy silence, oh, no reproaches – that would offend his dignity . . . Lord!’ she cried, raising her clenched fists. ‘And there’s the Transvaal needing men! What the hell is he doing here?’

  Her voluble, self-conscious bantering filled me with extreme mistrust.

  ‘But, Rézi, why don’t you entrust your purchase to the infallible taste of a manservant?’

  ‘I did think of that. But all the domestics, except my “Abigail”, are under my husband’s thumb.’

  Decidedly, she had set her heart on going out.

  ‘Run along, virtuous spouse, go and celebrate the feast of Saint Lambrook.’

  She had already pulled down her white veil.

  ‘If I’m back before six, could you put up with a little more of me?’

  How pretty she was bending forward like that! Her skirt, swirled tight round her by the swiftness of her movement, revealed all the lines of her body . . . I was moved only to a Platonic admiration. Was my convalescence to blame? I no longer felt the old desire beating up on great, tempestuous wings . . . And, besides, she had refused to sacrifice Saint Lambrook’s Day for me!

  ‘It all depends. Come up, anyway, and you’ll be rewarded according to your merits . . . No, I tell you, I smell of fever!’

  So, there I was, all alone. I yawned, I read three pages, I walked about the room. I began a letter to Papa, then I became absorbed in assiduously polishing my nails. Seated at the dressing-table, I cast a glance every now and then at the mirror like someone watching the clock. I didn’t look so awful, after all . . . My curls were a little longer; that was not unattractive. That white collar, that little red muslin blouse with hundreds of fine white stripes, irresistibly suggested a walk in the street . . . I read in the glass what my eyes had decided. It was soon done! A black-banded boater, a jacket over my arm so that Renaud couldn’t scold me for taking risks, and I was out of doors.

  Heavens, how hot it was! It didn’t surprise me that the nymph’s-thigh rose-bush was flowering with zest. Filthy place, this Paris! I felt light; I had grown thinner. The fresh air was a little intoxicating, but I got used to it as I walked. I had no more thoughts in my head than a dog being taken out after being cooped up in a flat for a week of rainy days.

  Without doing so on purpose, I mechanically took the route to the rue Goethe . . . I smiled when I arrived outside number 59 and I threw a friendly glance up at the white net curtains that veiled the windows of the second floor . . .

  Ah! the curtain had stirred! . . . That tiny movement riveted me to the pavement, stiff as a doll. Whoever was up in ‘our’ flat? Maybe it was the wind blowing in from a window on the courtyard that had lifted that net . . . But while my logical self was reasoning, the beast in me, bitten by a suspicion, then suddenly enraged, had guessed before it had understood.

  I raced across the street; I climbed the two flights, as in a nightmare, treading on steps of cotton-wool that sank and rebounded under my feet. I was going to drag with all my might on the brass bell-pull, ring till I brought the house down . . . No. They would not come!

  I waited a minute, my hand on my heart. That wretched banal gesture cruelly brought back a phrase of Claire’s, the girl who made her First Communion with me: ‘Life’s just like it is in books, isn’t it?’

  I pulled the brass handle timidly, starting at the unfamiliar sound of that bell that had never rung for us . . . And for two long seconds, seized with a childish cowardice, I kept saying to myself: ‘Oh! If only they wouldn’t open it!’

  The approaching step brought all my courage back on a wave of anger. Renaud’s voice inquired irritably:

  ‘Who’s there?’

  I had no breath left. I leant against the sham marble wall that chilled my arm. And the sound of the door he had opened a little way made me want to die . . .

  . . . but not for long. I had to pull myself together! Hell, I was Claudine! I was Claudine! I flung off my fear like a coat. I said: ‘Open the door, Renaud, or I’ll scream.’ I looked straight into the face of the man who opened it; he was completely dressed. He recoiled, in sheer astonishment. And he let out one mild expletive; like a gambler annoyed by ill luck:

  ‘The deuce!’

  The impression of being the stronger stiffened my courage still more. I was Claudine! And I said:

  ‘I saw someone at the window from down below. So I came up to say “Hullo” to you.’

  ‘It was wicked of me to do it,’ he muttered.

  He made no move to try to stop me, but stood back to let me pass, then followed me.

  In a flash, I crossed the little drawing-room and raised the flowered curtain in the doorway . . . Ah! Just as I thought! Rézi was there, of course she was there – and putting on her clothes again . . . In corset and knickers, her lace and linen petticoat over her arm, her hat on her head, just as for me . . . I shall always see that fair-skinned face decomposing, looking as if it were dying under my gaze. I almost envied her for being so frightened. She stared at my hands and I saw her thin lips go white and dry. Without taking her eyes off me, she stretched out a groping arm towards her dress. I took one step forward. She nearly fell, and threw up her arms to protect her face. That gesture, which revealed her downy armpits whose warmth I so often inhaled, unleashed a hurricane in me. I would snatch up that water-jug and hurl it . . . or maybe that chair. The lines of the furniture quivered before my eyes like hot air over the fields . . .

  Renaud, who had followed me, lightly touched my shoulder. He was hesitant, a trifle pale, but, above all, worried. I asked him, speaking with difficulty:

  ‘What are you . . . you two . . . doing here?’

  He smiled nervously, in spite of himself.

  ‘Why . . . we were waiting for you, as you see.’

  I was dreaming . . . or he had gone out of his mind . . . I turned again towards the woman there. While my eyes were averted from her, she had put on the blue dress in which the fairies had washed their linen . . . She would not have dared to smile!

  ‘Life’s just like it is in books, isn’t it?’ No, sweet Claire. In books the woman who arrives on the scene fires two shots at least to avenge herself. Or else she goes off, slamming the door on the guilty couple after crushing them with one contemptuous remark . . . But I could find no gesture; the truth was I had not the faintest idea what I ought to do. You don’t learn the part of an outraged wife in five minutes, just like that.

  I was still barring the door. I thought Rézi was going to faint. How odd that would be! He, at least, wasn’t frightened. Like me, he was following, with more interest than emotion, the succeeding phases of terror on Rézi’s face. He seemed finally to have grasped that this hour was not going to bring the three of us together.

  ‘Listen, Claudine . . . I meant to tell you . . .’

  With a sweep of my arm, I cut short his sentence. In any case, he seemed none too anxious to continue it, and he shrugged his left shoulder with a rather fatalistic air of resignation.

  It was Rézi who roused all my fury! I advanced on her slowly. I could see myself advancing on her. This double consciousness made me uncertain what I meant to do. Was I going to strike her, or only increase her shameful fear to swooning-point?

  She drew back and moved round behind the little table on which the tea stood. She had reached the wall! She was going to escape me! Ah! I wasn’t going to let her.

  But already her hand was on the door-curtain
, she was groping at it, walking backwards, keeping her eyes fixed on me. Involuntarily, I stooped down to pick up a stone . . . There were no stones . . . She had disappeared.

  I let my arms drop; all my energy suddenly drained away.

  Then we were, the two of us, looking at each other. Renaud’s face was – almost – his kind, everyday face. He looked troubled. His beautiful eyes were a little sad. Oh heavens, the next moment he was going to say: ‘Claudine,’ and if I voiced my anger, if I let the strength that still sustained me ebb away in reproaches and tears, I should leave the place on his arm, plaintive and forgiving . . . I wouldn’t! I was . . . I was Claudine, hang it! And besides, I should be too furious with him for having made me forgive him.

  I had waited too long. He stepped forward, he said: ‘Claudine . . .’

  I leapt back, and, instinctively, I started to flee, like Rézi. Only I was fleeing from myself.

  I did well to make my escape. The street, the glance I threw up at the betraying curtain revived all my pride and resentment. Moreover, I knew now where I was going.

  It took less than a quarter of an hour to rush home in a cab, grab my suitcase, and be downstairs again, having flung my key on a table. I had some money, not much, but enough.

  ‘Gare de Lyon, driver.’

  Before getting into the train, I sent a telegram to Papa, then another to Renaud: ‘Send clothes and linen to Montigny for an indefinite stay.’

  Thirteen

  Those cornflowers on the wall, faded from blue to grey, shadows of flowers on a paler paper . . . That chintz curtain with the fantastic pattern – yes, there was the monstrous fruit, the apple with eyes in it . . . Over and over again I had seen them in my dreams during my two years in Paris, but never so vividly . . .

  This time, from the depths of my transparent sleep, I actually heard the creak of the pump!