Incidents in the Rue Laugier (6 page)

This dampness—undeniable, and rather a problem in the winter months—in summer conferred upon the house a not unpleasant smell, redolent of apples and of fading pot-pourri. This, however, was noticeable only on the upper floors. In other respects the house was more than satisfactory. The interior was as unpretentious yet as dignified as what remained of the façade. A black and white tiled hall led from the front entrance to the garden side, where two drawing-rooms, a dining-room and a morning-room enjoyed the view through double doors which opened directly on to a broad terrace: from here one descended directly to lawns which led to distant trees, for most of the grounds were coppiced, although, as the lawyer had discovered, the shooting was poor. Robert de Bretreville, when he was at home, occasionally went out with a gun and shot a rabbit: throughout his childhood Xavier had endured cold November mornings standing quite still in an attempt to avoid his father’s bluff admonitions to beat the not inconsiderable undergrowth, in order to dislodge whatever wildlife was thought to be available. Inhaling the rank smell of damp fern, in which he stood nearly up to his knees, Xavier would send his obedient mind back to what he could remember of his Greek and Latin texts and ignore his father completely. Robert in his turn, aware of his increasing girth, his ears crimson in the damp depths of the wood, would blame his studious son for being so unsuited to country life, and for preferring to spend the bleak but beautiful autumn days reading in his room. Xavier could, had he made a more enlightened choice, have
accompanied his father on a round of neighbouring houses and farms, where the men, guns at the ready, were only too willing to turn out for a day’s prospecting, from which they would return in the late afternoon, their breath smelling of
marc
, and at that moment most faithfully resembling the hobbledehoy aristocrats their remote ancestors might have been.

Xavier’s room overlooked the terrace, as did the other four main bedrooms, his parents’ room, with double doors, forming a right angle at the bottom of the corridor. All the rooms had fireplaces and fairly exiguous
cabinets de toilette:
at the end of the corridor, facing the parents’ bedroom, was a bathroom, only occasionally used, mostly by guests, who had to accustom themselves to a staccato stream of rusty water before this ceased altogether, without warning. Thereafter the guest, or visitor, learned to use the washbasin in the cupboard off his bedroom, as, he supposed, did his host and hostess, who certainly had never struck him as less than immaculate. This matter of washing, however, created a note of uncertainty, which nothing in the manners of the house did much to disperse. His host, for example, decamped from time to time from the bedroom he shared with his wife and occupied another, seemingly at random. His hostess, her voice hoarse with feigned enthusiasm which she was at pains to maintain, almost gave the impression that she wished the house were empty, not only of guests but of her husband as well. If she longed for a different life from the one she had once so eagerly embraced she gave no hint. Only her wildly rolling eyes, as her husband embarked on yet another anecdote at the dinner table, betrayed an impatience which had neatly translated itself into pathological states: rheumatism, headaches, the peculiar hoarseness of her voice. Only by commiserating with those less fortunate than herself did she maintain her equilibrium, and indeed maintain the upper hand which was such a comfort to her.

It was somehow allowed that her husband should enjoy the favours of a mistress, in a room which he rented for purposes of business, in the rue de la Pompe in Paris, just as it was somehow allowed that Charles, the manservant, was permitted to avail himself of both Marie, the cook, and her daughter, Suzanne, the maid of all work. From time to time one of the women would absent herself from the room she shared with the other, go to Charles’s room, return after an hour, and resume her place without a word being said. The visitor soon got used to this activity on the floor above his head, and understood that he should forbear to comment on any nocturnal disturbance. He realised that deprived of their habitual privileges the servants would leave, that it would be difficult to engage others, and impossible to persuade them to stay. By the same token he grew used to the slightly sinister intrusion of Charles into his bedroom in the morning, and the stealthy noise of the fire being built up, the windows having remained tightly shut all night, as recommended by his hostess. His shoes would disappear with Charles and, while he was waiting for them to be returned, a clatter of hooves might give him a pretext to open the window and to lean out, taking a great gulp of the forbidden air, and to give a wave to Xavier, who sometimes went out for a solitary canter before breakfast. This—coffee and bread only—the guest was able to enjoy in the morning-room, the other members of the household having got up earlier and dispersed. He would not see them again until lunch, and then again at dinner, at which Charles officiated in a slightly grubby white jacket and a pair of frayed cotton gloves. Under those cotton gloves the guest could imagine the hands that had handled the sticks and paper in his fireplace that morning, and may even still have been unwashed. He would hastily persuade himself that the bathing facilities on the attic floor were none of his concern, although it might occur to
him that the hands which had provided the food he was now eating were not above suspicion. But the food was generally so excellent that the guest soon abandoned his finicky city preoccupations and settled down to an appreciation of country life.

When the sun came through the windows onto the same black and white tiled floor of the upper storey, Maud, on previous visits, had lingered, out of range of her aunt’s commands, of her mother’s ambitions, of her cousin Xavier’s courteous questions, of the visitors’ unexpected entrances and exits, and for a few minutes had stood quite still and perfectly quiet, enjoying the fall of the light onto the grey walls, onto a small Louis XVI table, which some ancient vandal had cheerfully painted white without lessening its charm, onto the glass of a picture whose subject was hidden from her by the dazzle of the afternoon glare, in this, the hottest month of the year, which she was always condemned to spend in the isolation of the countryside, in the company of people whom she knew too well and who would always remain the same. Even the guests, for the most part friends of Xavier’s, failed to interest her, for they were usually absent for most of the day, and were only encountered over the dinner table. Lunch was one course, was eaten without ceremony, was not always fully attended, and was over well within an hour. This was to allow the servants, whose voices could be heard from the kitchen quarters, to have the afternoon off. In the afternoons her mother and aunt would take a siesta, Xavier and his friend or friends would disappear somewhere in the car, and she would be left to her own devices. It was assumed that she would go into the garden, or sit on the terrace with a book, but as often as not she lingered in the upstairs corridor, redolent of heat and sleep, heavy adult sleep, or leaned her head against the glass of a sunstruck window, and wished that she were in Paris.

This year promised to be no different from all those which
had preceded it. They had been met at the station by Xavier, who had murmured, ‘Aunt,’ and ‘Maud,’ while kissing them on both cheeks. They had arrived during the siesta hour and had the impression that they had put everyone out. Nevertheless Germaine was waiting for them on the terrace, her fractious smile in place, her eyes darting from side to side in an attempt to deflect Xavier from disappearing. Maud, in one of her new tight-waisted full-skirted dresses, stepped forward obediently to present her face for her aunt’s kisses: she thought she appeared to some advantage, and had prepared her entrance to impress whatever guests might be lurking in the hall, but, ‘Good heavens, Maud,’ said her aunt. ‘This is the country. We don’t dress up here. By all means change for dinner—we all do that. And I’m sure you look very nice,’ she added in a kindlier tone, seeing the girl recoil, her affront masked by apparent indifference. ‘Did you bring something simpler? I think something simpler would be more suitable, don’t you?’ Aware that she had hurt them both, for she was not completely insensitive, she waved them gaily indoors. When Maud descended to the morning-room, where coffee was provided, half an hour later, she was complimented on her brown cotton skirt and white cotton blouse. Her only consolation was the knowledge that the blouse, short sleeved, open necked, and slightly too small, showed off her beautiful arms to advantage. Nevertheless she was mortified by the prospect of having to wear blouse and skirt for the rest of her stay, and resolved to keep out of the way as much as possible.

This was something she was used to do. She knew, as if it had been programmed in advance, that her cousin would ask her if she would like to take a walk, that they would indeed walk round the garden, always referred to as the park, that he would ask her how her English studies were progressing, and that she, finding this subject boring, and fearful of revealing
too much of her impatience—for rigorous control would be demanded of both her mother and herself on this visit, which they both knew to be a form of charity—would quickly deflect the question and in her turn ask Xavier if he had written any new poems lately, and if so, whether he could bear to let her read them. He always did, and this was a further opportunity for her to express appreciation, for appreciation, she knew, was expected of them both, and in this way she could play her small part. Xavier was destined for his uncle’s bank, the uncle being in fact a second cousin of his father, but he had confided to her that he would much rather devote himself to poetry. She sympathised, discerning in him a desire for independence, albeit weaker than her own, but he was obedient and would not disappoint his mother.

‘If you are on the terrace later I could show them to you,’ he said. ‘At least I could leave them with you. I have a friend coming to stay, and I shall have to collect him from the station. I know you’ll take care of them. Perhaps we could have a proper talk in a day or two.’

‘How long is your friend staying?’ asked Maud.

‘David? A couple of weeks, I think. He is English. I met him last year in Cambridge. I’m sure you’ll like him.’

Of that he had no doubt: all the girls he had known during that visit to Cambridge, made to perfect his English, which was already good, had seemed to like David. Yet, stealing an appreciative but experienced sidelong glance at Maud, Xavier thought she might be the exception to the rule. She was untouched, that was quite clear: her stern and remote expression, which she had inherited from her mother, made her seem older than her nineteen years. And he discerned in her, as well as her obstinacy, a certain fearfulness that had kept her at home and had inhibited whatever desires she had, or must have, in that rather splendid body. She was handsome, he could see
that, but she was rigid, cautious: that stern expression on her golden face (the slight tan having been acquired during the afternoons she spent with her mother, sitting in the garden of the Château d’Eau) was not likely to appeal to his worldly friend, who had seemed, during that month in Cambridge, to appreciate easier, livelier girls, given to shrieking their delight, and willing to stay up all night, moving from one party to another. At least he hoped she would not appeal: he did not want an awkward situation on his hands, and he intended to keep his mother from expressing her disapproval. Of his aunt’s reaction he was quite sure: he knew her to be a prude, was used to his mother’s commiserations, and preferred to keep on purely formal terms with a woman who, he suspected, had designs on him. He did not intend to hand over his friend to her scrutiny.

Over and above those considerations, however, was a desire to keep that friend out of harm’s way, and to detach him from the company that his mother was sure to provide, in the shape of the two silly nieces of their nearest neighbours, the Dubuissons, or Du Buissons, as they preferred to style themselves, and who would inevitably stroll over with tennis racquets on the following afternoon. He half wanted to pursue his own interest in David, who, during that month in Cambridge, had inspired in him feelings he had not hitherto suspected. When he had appeared in the doorway of Xavier’s lodgings in Selwyn College and asked him if he had everything he wanted, and whether he knew his way about, explaining that he himself was a recent graduate who had taken on a summer job of showing these students—most of them tourists, Americans for the most part, tempted by the prospect of a month at a Cambridge college, some of them even determined to do a little work—around the university and the city and providing them with such entertainment as might be covered by their fee.

‘I have a list of the lectures,’ Xavier had said; he was one of those prepared to work hard. ‘But it is very kind of you.’ He was charmed by the Englishness of this caller, his height, his graceful body in a blue open-necked shirt and cotton trousers, his abundant curling hair growing low on his forehead, and his thin hawklike nose. He thought him splendid-looking, and felt a glow of appreciation at being included in this man’s company, however briefly. He allowed himself to be taken out to a pub, where he drank a pint of powerful English beer, although he had been planning a studious walk. The beer made him sleep through the afternoon, so that he missed a lecture. When he awoke he told himself that this must stop, but when David looked in after dinner and announced that there was some sort of party going on at a friend’s flat, it seemed natural to fall in with him. That had been the pattern of the succeeding days and nights. Little work got done; on the other hand his conversational English benefited from the bewildering turnover of girlfriends who swam in David’s wake and who were willing to be temporarily diverted by this charming if awkward Frenchman, with his so careful blazer and tie. By the end of a week he had flirted with three girls and had slept with one of them, a procedure which he enjoyed less than anticipated. The talk with these girls was always of David, as if the girls regretted his absence, as if they were still alert to the sound of his name, even if they had to pronounce it themselves.