Two Symphonies

us.

CHAPTER ONE

I CAN hardly understand nowadays the impatience with which I then flung myself upon life. At twenty-five years of age I knew almost nothing of it except from books; and that no doubt is why I thought myself a novelist; for I had not as yet realized how cunningly and maliciously events conceal from us just that part of themselves most likely to interest us, and how slight a handle they offer the man who is incapable of wresting their secret from them by force.

I was at that time preparing a thesis on the chronology of Bossuet’s sermons, with a view to my doctor’s degree; not that I was particularly attracted by pulpit oratory; I had chosen the subject out of deference to my old master, Albert Desnos, who had just completed the publication of his great Life of Bossuet. As soon as Monsieur Desnos heard of my plans, he offered to assist me in gaining access to the material. One of bis oldest friends, Benjamin Floche, of the Académie des Inscriptions et Belles Lettres, possessed various documents which would no doubt be of use to me, and in particular a Bible covered with annotations in Bossuet’s own handwriting. Monsieur Floche, who had retired to the country about fifteen years earlier, was living at a place called La Quartfourche, more commonly known as Le Carrefour or the Crossways, an old family estate in the neighbourhood of Pont-l’Evêque, from which he never stirred and where he would be delighted to receive me and put at my service his papers, his library, and his learning—which Monsieur Desnos said was inexhaustible.

Letters were exchanged between Monsieur Desnos and Monsieur Floche. The documents, it appeared, were more numerous than my master had at first led me to expect; there was soon no question of a mere afternoon’s visit; Monsieur Floche was kind enough, on the recommendation of Monsieur Desnos, to invite me to stay for a while at the cháteau of La Quartfourche. Although Monsieur and Madame Floche had no children, they did not live alone; a few careless words let fail by Monsieur Desnos fired my imagination and filled me with the hope of meeting company there far more attractive than any dusty documents of the seventeenth century; my thesis soon became a mere pretext; it was no longer as a scholar that I proposed to visit the château, but as a Nejdanof,¹ as a Valmont;² I peopled it with adventures. La Quartfourche! The Crossways! I repeated the mysterious name again and again. This, thought I, is the scene of Hercules’ hesitation . . . I know indeed what awaits him on the path of virtue; but what of the other road? . . . the other road. . . .

Towards the middle of September I put together the best of my modest wardrobe, replenished my selection of ties, and started.

When I reached the station of Breuil-Blangy, between Pont-l’Evêque and Lisieux, it was already night. I was the only person to get out of the train. A sort of peasant dressed in livery came up to me, took my bag, and escorted me to the carriage that was waiting on the other side of the station. The appearance of the horse and carriage cut short any flights of imagination. A more lamentable turn-out cannot be conceived. The peasant coachman went to fetch my trunk, which I had registered, and the springs of the old barouche sank under its weight. Inside there was a suffocating smell of poultry; . . . I tried to let down the window, and the strap came off in my hand. There had been rain during the day and the roads were heavy; at the bottom of the first hill a part of the harness gave way. The coachman pulled a bit of string from under the seat and set to work doctoring the trace. I had got out of the carriage and offered to hold the carriage lamp for him; I could see that the poor man’s livery, like the harness, had more than once been in need of patching.

The leather is a bit old, I hazarded.

He looked at me as if I had insulted him and answered almost brutally:

It was lucky for you, mister, we were able to fetch you.

Is the château far? I asked in my gentlest voice. He made no direct answer to my question, but:

You may be sure it’s not a journey we do every day! he growled.

Then, after a moment:

It’s a matter of six months maybe that the carriage hasn’t been out . . .

Oh! Your masters don’t go driving often? I went on, in a desperate effort to keep the conversation going.

No, indeed! As if there weren’t other things to do!

The damage was repaired by now and he motioned me to get into the carriage, which set off again.

The horse laboured up the hills, stumbled down them, and shambled horribly along the flat; at times he stopped dead.

If we go on in this way, I thought to myself, I shall not get to the Crossways till long after my hosts have finished dinner; and even—here the horse stopped again—after they have gone to bed. I was very hungry and my temper was beginning to suffer. I tried to look at the landscape; without my having noticed it, the carriage had left the high-road and turned into a rough, narrow lane; the carriage lamps cast their light right and left on thick, high, uninterrupted hedges; they seemed to enclose us, to bar the road, to open out only just in time to let us through, and then the moment after to close up again behind us.

At the foot of a rather steeper hill the carriage stopped once more. The coachman came to the door, opened it, and said without further apology:

Please to get down, mister. The hill is a bit steep for the horse. He took the poor jade by the bridle and set off walking beside it. Halfway up the hill he turned round towards me as I was bringing up the rear:

We shall soon be there now, he said, in a milder tone. Look! there’s the park! And I saw in front of us a dark mass of trees blotting out part of the unclouded sky. It was an avenue of great beeches; we turned into it and struck the wider road we had recently left. The coachman invited me to get back into the carriage, and we soon reached the gate and turned into the garden.

It was too dark for me to make out the front of the château; the carriage set me down before a perron of three or four steps, which I went up, slightly dazed by a light that a woman who stood at the top was holding in her hand and casting down upon me. She was of no particular age, plain, thick-set, and shabbily dressed. She gave me rather a stiff nod. I bowed in some uncertainty. . . .

Madame Floche, no doubt? . . .

No, only Mademoiselle Verdure. Monsieur and Madame Floche have gone to bed. They beg you to excuse them for not being here to receive you; but we dine early.

But you, Mademoiselle? I’m afraid I have kept you up late.

Oh, I’m accustomed to it, she said without turning round. She had preceded me into the hall. Perhaps you would like to take something?

I must admit I have not dined.

She showed me into a vast dining-room, where a respectable supper was laid out.

At this time of night the kitchen fire is out; and in the country one must put up with what one can get.

But it all looks excellent, I said, sitting down to a plate of cold meat. She herself settled sideways on a chair near the door; and during the whole time I was eating she stayed there, her eyes lowered, her hands crossed on her knees, in the deliberately assumed attitude of an underling. Several times when there was a pause in our uphill conversation, I apologized for detaining her; but she gave me to understand that she was waiting to clear away after I had finished:

And how would you find your room all by yourself?

I was making as much haste as I could and taking double-sized mouthfuls, when the door into the hall opened and a grey-haired priest with a rude-featured but pleasant face came in. He came towards me with outstretched hand.

I was not going to put off the pleasure of welcoming our guest till to-morrow. I did not come down sooner because I knew you were talking to Mademoiselle Olympe Verdure, he said, turning towards her with what looked like a teasing smile, while she sat with pursed-up lips and a wooden expression on her countenance.

But now that you have finished eating, he went on, as I rose, we will leave Mademoiselle Olympe to put things tidy; she will think it more proper, I presume, to allow a man to conduct Monsieur Lacase to his room and will resign that function to me.

He bowed ceremoniously to Mademoiselle Verdure, who returned him a perfunctory curtsy.

Oh! I resign; I resign . . . I always resign to you, Monsieur l’Abbé, as you know. . . . Then she suddenly turned back:

You were going to make me forget to ask Monsieur Lacase what he takes for breakfast.

Whatever you like, Mademoiselle. . . . What is the usual thing here?

Oh, anything. Tea for the ladies, coffee for Monsieur Floche, a plate of soup for Monsieur l’Abbé and Quaker Oats for Monsieur Casimir.

And you, Mademoiselle, do you take nothing?

"Oh, I? Just café au lait."

"If you will allow me, I will join you in taking café au lait."

Oh ho! Be careful, Mademoiselle, said the Abbé, taking me by the arm. It looks to me very much as if Monsieur Lacase were making love to you!

She shrugged her shoulders, then bowed to me quickly, while the Abbé carried me off.

My room was on the first floor, almost at the end of a passage.

Here, said the Abbé, opening the door of a spacious room in which a large wood fire was burning. God bless my soul! They’ve given you a fire. I dare say you would as soon have done without it. . . . It’s true the nights in this part of the world are. damp, and the season this year is unusually rainy.

He went up to the hearth, stretching out his huge hands towards the blaze, while at the same time he turned aside his face, in the attitude of a man of virtue warding off temptation. He seemed more inclined to talk than to let me sleep.

So, he began, catching sight of my trunk and handbag, Gratien has brought up your luggage.

Is Gratien the coachman who drove me here? I asked.

And the gardener too; for his duties as coachman cannot be said to take up much of his time.

Yes, he told me the barouche did not go out very often.

It’s an historical event when it goes out. Besides, Monsieur de Saint-Auréol gave up his stables long ago; on grand occasions like to-night they borrow the farmer’s horse.

Monsieur de Saint-Auréol? I repeated in surprise.

Yes, he said; I know that it is Monsieur Floche you have come to see, but La Quartfourche. belongs to his brother-in-law. To-morrow you will have the honour of being presented to Monsieur and Madame de Saint-Auréol.

And who is the Monsieur Casimir who takes Quaker Oats for breakfast—the only thing I know about him?

Their grandson and my pupil. By God’s permission, I have had charge of his education for the last three years. He said this with his eyes closed and an air of devout humility as if he were talking of a prince of the blood.

Are not his parents here? I asked.

Travelling. He screwed up his lips and went on at once: I know, Monsieur, what noble, pious work brings you here. . . .

Oh, don’t exaggerate its piety, I interrupted, laughing. I am only interested in it from an historical point of view.

No matter, said he, wafting aside any unpleasantness with a wave of his hand; history has its rights too. You will find Monsieur Floche the kindest, the surest of guides.

So my master, Monsieur Desnos, assured me.

Ah! You are a pupil of Albert Desnos? He screwed up his lips again.

Did you ever attend his lectures? I had the imprudence to inquire.

No, he answered roughly. I know enough about him to be on my guard. . . . An intellectual adventurer! At your age one is easily led astray by anything out of the ordinary. . . . And as I did not answer, His theories, he went on, began by having some influence over the young; but it is already on the wane, I hear.

I was much more inclined to sleep than to argue. Seeing he could not extract an answer out of me, he went on:

Monsieur Floche’s guidance will be less dangerous.

Then, in face of a yawn I did not attempt to disguise:

It’s getting late, he said. To-morrow, if you allow it, we shall find time to continue our conversation. After your journey you must be tired.

I confess, Monsieur l’Abbé, I am dropping with sleep.

As soon as he had left me, I took the logs off the fire, opened the windows wide, and flung back the shutters. A great rush of dark, damp air blew down the flame of my candle and I put it out so as better to contemplate the night. My room gave on to the park, but it was not on the front side of the house like those in the long passage, rrom which the view was no doubt far more extensive; mine was interrupted immediately by a mass of trees; there was barely a little space of sky left above them, in which the moon’s crescent appeared for a moment, only to be hidden again the next by clouds. There had been more rain; the branches were still showering tears. . . .

All this doesn’t seem to promise a very gay time, thought I, as I closed the window and shutters. My moment’s contemplation had chilled me through and through—soul even more than body; I piled on the logs again, made up the fire, and was delighted to find a hot-water bottle in my bed, placed there, no doubt, by the kind attention of Mademoiselle Verdure.

A moment later it occurred to me I had forgotten to put my shoes outside the door. I got up and stepped for a second into the passage; Mademoiselle Verdure was going by at the other end of the house. Her room was above mine, as I gathered