The Governesses

by Anne Serre

  Monsieur and Madame Austeur have also seen them — she from behind net curtains, he from the window of his study. They didn’t get the same thrill out of it as the elderly gentleman and are lost in thought. Madame Austeur has no idea why the governesses act in this way, but senses that the last thing she should do is to try to put a stop to their little games or prevent them from happening again in the future. Monsieur Austeur is equally in the dark. It all takes place in a world he’s no longer part of. It’s as though he had seen the governesses dreaming.

  The elderly gentleman has folded up his telescope. That’s enough for today, he can put aside his spyglass and settle down for the night. He has seen the “holy of holies,” he tells himself, and, his wishes fulfilled, falls blissfully asleep. As for the governesses, they’ve forgotten about their little performance already. They go up to their rooms as innocently as they had come down, with the feeling of having earned a good night’s rest. When they fall asleep in their beds, the full moon is shining above the garden, radiant and still. They dream. In Laura’s dream, a large, royal blue door opens onto an unfamiliar stretch of countryside. She leaps out of a fireplace surrounded by crackling yellow and orange flames, walks over to the blue door and opens it.

  So where are they off to this morning? From the way they’re dressed, it looks as if they’re going to a party. Is someone getting married perhaps? Celebrating a first communion? Are the neighbors holding a reception? They’re decked out in their finest silk-lined capes, their brightly polished ankle boots, and their various dresses: red for Eléonore, blue for Laura, meadow-green for Inès.

  Not enough has been said about the governesses’ beauty. They’re irresistible. The noblest of the three is Eléonore. The carriage of her head, her smooth auburn hair, which she wears in a chignon, and her Grecian profile with its pronounced, pale nostrils, conjure up a woman in an Ingres painting. Then life breaks out, a blush appears, the locks of her hair fall loose, her body rounds graciously out, and you have one of Boucher’s brazen hussies, the buttocks now pale and majestic, now mocking and well-rounded, with little dimples everywhere.

  More gentle and tenderhearted, Laura is the most sensual in the way she moves around. As for Inès, she’s without question the liveliest of the three, pliant as the stem of a flower and very Spanish with her dark eyes and her ebony-black hair coiled like a snake around the ravishing curves of her skull.

  When they change dresses, a multitude of different women appear, depending on the color they’re wearing. Eléonore is in her element in red: it’s the Eléonore we’re all familiar with, aristocratic and reso­lute. In blue, she’s a thousand times more romantic. In blue, she would never risk baring her behind to the elderly gentleman across the way. In blue, she strolls up and down the garden paths, lost in thought, as we saw her on the first page — a true governess, a tutor almost, perhaps even a widow. In green, she harbors venomous thoughts and has a wicked gleam in her eye. In a green dress she’s quite capable of devouring a stranger — joylessly, ardently — or exposing her icy behind to whoever wishes to see it.

  Red has a soothing influence on Inès, who’s on fire the moment she’s naked. Gentler than her, it burns at a lower level of intensity than her flesh. In blue she’s unforgettable. It suits her so well, in fact, that a stranger passing by that day couldn’t fail to fall madly in love with her.

  Laura in blue is invisible. In green, she’s stunning. But only in red can she give herself up to a stranger. On her pale, dreamy flesh, red appears like the revelation of her inmost self.

  When all three are wearing yellow, anything can happen. It’s the wild color, the color that frees them, the color in which they feel naked and exposed, spellbound. You only see them in yellow at the gates, at night, or on days when they run amok in a blind fury. Yellow turns them into heartless, spiteful wretches. On days like that, they’re armed with stilettos, nurture an asp between their breasts, and cut through the tall grass like the Queen of Hearts slicing off the heads of her gardeners. Many a male has kicked himself for meeting them on a day like that. Slender and razor-sharp, they walked all over him, cutting short any desire with their teeth, then leaving him there, panting for breath, on the meadow.

  This morning, however, they’re like swallows. Let’s follow them, leaping along like a young monkey, swinging from branch to branch above their heads. As they make their way up the path, the trees grow taller, the path opens out, the earth grows brighter. They’re on their way to a wedding.

  There’s no need to leave the grounds to reach the neighbors’ house. An opening in the woods leads straight into their garden, where four red and white striped tents have been installed, with little streamers fluttering in the wind. A good hundred guests are milling around on the lawn, including at least two women who look like parakeets. There are also a number of young women drifting around who offer the governesses serious competition. Slim young women with glossy black hair, all kinds of women, in fact, leading the governesses to fear they are no longer alone in the world. As a result, they become tongue-tied and a little stiff, a hundred times less fetching than in the enchanted realm of the Austeurs’ garden.

  When Monsieur and Madame Austeur are in view, things are different. The governesses shine in their presence, and no one but the governesses could please them to quite the same degree. They have no difficulty twisting the Austeurs round their little finger, attaching the bait that will leave them open-mouthed, then yanking it out while they lie there gasping for breath, their tongues torn out. It’s become a game, in fact, one they all love to play. But today, at the neighbors’ wedding party, they’re on their own. And since we have described them looking their best, we must now describe them, without mincing our words, looking their worst.

  Stiff and pinched, Eléonore is standing like a wallflower in a corner of one of the tents. Laura is in a sweat; the swallow has turned into a drab, stammering, gauche young girl. Yes, it really is that bad. Inès is too proud ever to lose her beauty, but here she is in the middle of the lawn, a glass of champagne in her hand, straight as a knife, slim as a rope, and though she’s doing her best to be sociable, her hawkish eye is roving over the throng of guests. The neighbors chat and joke politely with all three, but the governesses are hard pressed to find the simplest, most innocent words in reply. The sounds that knock against their palates, the words that come out of their mouths astonish them — words and intonations they didn’t know they possessed, images they’re not familiar with, remarks that don’t belong to them. They try to stop the words from coming out, to turn them into something different the moment they form, but to no avail. Powerless and not a little humiliated, they’re present at their own downfall.

  They’re no longer young swallows winging their way home but poor, crestfallen young women who don’t dare look one another in the eye. They go up to their rooms in silence. And who, I ask you, on such an evening, would be so heartless as to follow them?

  The little boys occupy a great deal of the governesses’ time. After all, they were hired to look after the boys and drum a few notions into them. They love playing at schoolmistresses, watching the little boys line up in pairs at the ring of the bell, then taking them off on a walk where they’ll gather chestnuts and plane leaves for their plant collections.

  When the little boys go walking in the forest, they long to lose their way, leading the governesses off through undergrowth and thicket, meadow and marsh, eager to give themselves a good scare — and no doubt to come to the governesses’ rescue as well. They begin by gathering leaves for their collections: soft round poplar leaves, wafer-thin like the host at communion; the inevitable plane leaves; and horse chestnut leaves, which they pull apart until all that remains is a skeleton like that of a prehistoric fish.

  Laden with pebbles, leaves, and flowers whose heads are already drooping, they sit themselves down in a meadow for lunch. The governesses let out a yawn and lower their guard. They unlace their boots. They e
ven strip naked sometimes, and the little boys gaze at them in silence, petrified. For the rest of their lives, they will love only governesses naked in a soft green meadow, their long thighs in the grass, the gleaming thatch of hair where pale yellow butterflies alight, their tender, dreamy breasts.

  Some of them are allowed to sketch the governesses. And beneath their sketches they write, in capital letters: The Three Graces. The older ones timidly reach out a hand. They’re allowed to cup a breast, run their hand along the contour of a thigh, hover above the thatch of hair. But not more than that. Then it’s time for dancing, a moment the boys adore. The governesses rise to their feet and, to the sound of tambourines and pipes, start to dance, lifting a long leg in time to the beat, then an arm, then another leg and another arm. The older boys lie in the grass, watching them, happy as kings. The dance goes on for a long time. It can even last until nightfall. They’ve forgotten about their chestnuts and plant collections, the buckeyes in their prickly casings, the bluebells and bindweed. They’ve lit a fire and are clapping their hands. Animals appear on the edge of the woods, like a scene in a fairy tale. You can see their dark forms moving around behind the trees and hear the soft stamp of their delicate hooves: a hundred eyes, some bright, some dark, some black, some red, stare out at the governesses as they dance on the meadow, licked by the flames that leap back and forth to the beat of the tambourines.

  Then all of a sudden they’ve had enough, feel frozen by the cold night air, stop dancing, and put their clothes back on. It’s time to go home. They tramp through the forest together, silent and at one, their step more harmonious than when they first set out. It’s not cold anymore, their bags no longer feel heavy. They’ve just shared a secret that will nourish them in the dead hours of winter, inject a zestful new sap into the dry trunks of the tall black trees, and install a fiery young spring beneath the ice. Henceforth, the little boys will know that life is there, shaking its tambourine, and that all you need to do is press your ear to the ground to feel it beating and claim your due.

  For some time now, Madame Austeur has been thinking of marrying off the governesses. It’s nothing new. More than once she has broached the subject with Monsieur Austeur, discussing it with him for many a long hour in the salon.

  Monsieur Austeur has nothing against the idea, which he thinks perfectly sensible, but he can hardly be said to be throwing his full weight behind it. While Madame Austeur gabbles on, he nods his head, as if in agreement — and, should the governesses happen to be walking by at that moment, “Well, well,” they say, from the other side of the window, “they’re discussing our marriage.” Not that this keeps them from continuing to nibble on the thin, hairy stem of a poppy, idle as they always are when something is afoot. At the sound of their steps on the gravel drive, Madame Austeur lowers her voice and Monsieur Austeur looks slightly embarrassed. “There’s no mad rush . . . ,” he says to put a stop to their conversation.

  But Madame Austeur is not one to admit defeat. Going up to her bedroom, she pulls out her notebook, grabs a pencil, and starts drawing up a list of suitors. This one, for example, has a bad reputation, but then people are starting to gossip about the governesses, too. Perhaps he’d be suitable for Eléonore, on the face of it the fieriest of the three? Mind you, there’s Laura too. . . . For Laura, there’s a neighbor who would fit the bill, if only she were a little more . . . modest. More self-effacing. Laura would be perfect if only she were willing to keep up a proper conversation with a stranger instead of breaking off for no good reason in the middle of a discussion. As for Inès, she needs to mellow. Perhaps arrange a meeting for her with one or two suitors at the end of the day, after one of her long runs in the woods? Fatigue makes her most becoming, veiling her gaze and relaxing her mouth. By clipping their wings, arranging a lock of hair, correcting a facial expression, adjusting their bodies, and persuading them to rein themselves in and be a little more accommodating, Madame Austeur is hopeful of securing a happy future for them. It wouldn’t take much, she says to herself, as she closes her notebook.

  The governesses love attending the parade of suitors. They simper and put on airs, playing the role of blushing young maidens to great effect. Concealed in the doorway to the smoking room, Monsieur Austeur observes these audiences, stifling a laugh every time they outwit a suitor with their lighthearted banter and rubbing his hands with glee when the poor fellow, so full of hope when he first stepped up, goes off looking downcast. That said, the show they put on has to be seen to be believed. And yet in a house as cut off from the world as theirs is, nothing seems astonishing anymore.

  In the three red armchairs the little maids have installed in the main hall they take their seats. Eléonore presides, with Inès on her right and Laura on her left. They’re decked out in their finest attire. Eléonore wears a long, tight-fitting, black velvet evening gown with a plunging neckline. Laura, playing the role of a sort of Artemis, is dressed in white silk with a silver satin bow knotted beneath her breasts; glowing in the curls of her hair is a small diamond crescent moon that Madame Austeur has loaned her. Inès is wearing emerald green, with a gemstone on her finger and golden sandals that she’s borrowed from one of the maids on her feet.

  Throughout the ceremony, in addition to Monsieur Austeur who’s hidden from view, you can sense the little maids massed behind the doorway to the salon, and, in the shadows of the round gallery overlooking the hall, the little boys gently craning their necks. So that the elderly gentleman doesn’t feel excluded, the door onto the porch has been left open. That way, if he aims his spyglass properly, he’ll be able to see into the inner sanctum. As for the brains behind it all, Madame Austeur, she has put on the gray gown she reserves for special occasions, tucked a camellia into her belt, and pinned her wedding brooch over her right breast.

  At five o’clock, the suitors file in. Graciously, Madame Austeur greets them on the threshold and, with a discreet sway of the hips you wouldn’t have thought she had in her, leads them over to the feet of the governesses. The governesses don’t rise. The suitor remains standing and starts to deliver his little speech. Madame Austeur, who has withdrawn a few paces, gently urges him on with a kindly smile. The little maids wriggle around, desperately trying not to laugh. The smoke from Monsieur Austeur’s cigar can be seen drifting through the half-open doorway at the end of the hall.

  Every now and then, while the suitor is speaking, the governesses stare with the utmost gravity at the area below his belt which seeks to win one of them over. At other moments, they let out a yawn, adjust a shoulder strap, correct the fold of a skirt, or smile at Madame Austeur. They even listen sometimes; and, because they’re not made of stone, they’re moved. Sensing this, the suitor plucks up courage.

  When they’re tired of all this playacting, they rise from their thrones, and, with a loud bang that goes echoing through the house, the hall door swings shut. They’re back among themselves. They’ve given themselves a good scare and made everyone’s hearts bleed fondly, but all they’ve really done in pretending to part is to remind themselves how close-knit their ties are and how much bloodshed breaking those ties would cause.

  It’s not exactly a fiasco, being unable to part. What is the point of parting? To live? And to live where exactly? In a livelier household than their present home? Yet someone in that far-off place would start to resemble Monsieur Austeur, someone else the elderly gentleman, the strangers, the suitors. . . . Everywhere you’d have the same gates, the same gardens, the same world woven with the same threads connecting a face to a secret room, another face to a second room, and all those scenes they’ll never be able to forget but have nevertheless forgotten.

  One morning, Laura gave birth to a child. It didn’t come as a surprise exactly, they’d been looking forward to the event for a good nine months now, observing with interest the globe of her belly rounding out beneath her gown. Glowing like the moon, she radiated a sense of peace that the household had never really experienced before.


  Laura expectant would come down the steps of the porch, her head nodding gently back and forth like a rubber duck on water, then sit down in the shade of the linden trees while everyone bustled around her, as if preparing for a nativity. Eléonore brought a shawl, Inès a stool, the children flowers. She received these tributes with good grace. She wasn’t used to being fussed over in this way. She would smile and look down at her belly without speaking, in order to keep to herself, all to herself, the young life unfolding in her womb. When she was up and walking around, she would fold her pale hands delightedly over the globe of her belly, as though lighting her way in the darkness with an enormous lamp. Monsieur Austeur was quite shaken by the event; Madame Austeur was a little put out that she hadn’t been informed earlier. Who had inseminated Laura? Heaven only knows. An audacious suitor? A stranger? The elderly gentleman across the way, breathing into his spyglass as though it were a pipette? The eldest of the little boys? The possibilities, alas, were legion, and the investigation Madame Austeur had entrusted to the little maids turned up nothing. Laura denied having been impregnated by anyone. She had woken up one morning certain that she was expecting a child, that’s all there was to it.