The Bachelors (11 page)

M. Octave had acquired the habit of dispensing largesse — or rather had it instilled into him — to such an extent that he was now obsessed with the idea that, whatever happened to him, he was most unlikely to get through it without having to put his hand in his pocket. This was highly distasteful to him, not so much the giving away of his money, for he was not by nature ungenerous, as the fact that he did not know how to give it. We have said that all the Coëtquidans were shy. The 'lovebirds' made no attempt to overcome their shyness: it bound them hand and foot. Old Coëtquidan and M. Élie conquered it by being gratuitously rude and cantankerous; they would quite suddenly adopt a totally outlandish manner, which was their way of defending themselves by anticipation. M. Octave conquered it with money, which enabled him to withdraw from embarrassing situations by giving some of it away — though this in itself put a cruel strain on his shyness and on the peculiar awkwardness he suffered from, typical of those who have never penetrated below the surface of life.

The pain M. Octave suffered from continually being 'touched' was aggravated by the fact that, like the pain of a husband whose wife is deceiving him, it had to be concealed.

And needless to say, every act of generosity brought its trail of worries.

Just as, at the age of seventy, he had still not found the right tone in which to speak to his subordinates, whether his own servants or employees at the bank, alternating curtness, which came naturally to him, with a forced bonhomie, which made him sweat blood, and changing his policy in this respect every twenty-four hours, M. Octave had never mastered the art of knowing when, how, how much, or even whether he ought to give. In this connexion, an incident in his youth had put him off for life. At the end of a short stay in the country during which friends had taken him for several drives, he decided, after long deliberations with himself which practically ruined the last few days of his visit, to slip the coachman fifty francs. Politely but firmly, and in front of everyone, the tip was refused, and he was left squirming with embarrassment. (After this, appalled at the thought of having hurt the man's feelings, he had tied himself up in knots in an effort to make amends, blurting out some nonsense that gave every appearance of an apology, and did not consider himself absolved until six years later by a First Communion present he gave the man's son.)

Ever since then, giving frightened him. It infected even the simplest things, especially any kind of service that was done for him. Should he give? Had he given enough? Had he given too much? He asked everyone's advice, and then, having given, how anxiously he would scrutinize the recipient's face to find out his reaction! When, one day, he was heard to say 'I don't like people to do me favours', it was regarded as an example of revolting pride. In fact the baron had plenty of egoism, a fair amount of vanity (as much as is hygienically necessary), but no pride. He disliked receiving favours because he felt obliged to return them, and this presented problems which tortured him. Every time the baron came to someone's aid monetarily, the person concerned had to come to the baron's aid physically. This man had been seen, even when well into his fifties, blushing like a girl when he told someone that they could count on him if they were in difficulties. And simply to say this had cost him dear; he had called round twice before with this end in view, but each time, with the words on the tip of his tongue, he could not bring himself to utter them, feeling precisely the same embarrassment and shame as if he were asking for money instead of offering it. 'His generosity will kill him' was the unfriendly verdict of Léon's father (who pecked at the Coëtquidans as much as they pecked at the Coantrés), but this, it is true, was before he had had to submit to this generosity, which paid off part of his debts and was both big in cash and infinite in delicacy.

This general attitude of the baron's as regards charity was not quite the same when it came to his nephew. He could not, of course, leave his sister's son in want. At the same time, he knew that Léon had powerfully contributed to his mother's ruin, and although Mme de Coantré concealed from him her son's tantrums, he had had little difficulty in smelling them out. The enlarger business had not left him unscathed. He despised Léon for reasons that are easily guessed — and contempt, we are told, is 'the most pitiless of emotions' (André Suarès). Finally, however anxious he was, as a reaction against his father and because he believed that the Americans award merit only to the individual, to free himself from 'family' prejudices, he could not help feeling some antipathy towards the Coantrés — a family who had had a disastrous influence on his sister's life, who were shallower, less punctilious and less noble than the Coëtquidans, and who, moreover, had an easy-going cheerfulness, a suggestion of debonair ease which the Coëtquidans lacked and which therefore weighed on the same side as their failings in the Coëtquidan scales.

When M. Octave returned home to find Léon's scribbled note, he gave an exasperated 'Ah!' and then, at the thought of the handful of money which his nephew would be left with, realized that he would have to make an effort to find him a job if he was not to be saddled with him. He spoke to his sister about it over dinner.

Mme Émilie had a pale face which she made even paler by covering it with rice powder, forehead included; a flaming red wig; and teeth that were as yellow as those of a horse; the general effect, though it gave her a face in the Papal colours (which was praiseworthy) was not exactly pretty-pretty. Added to which she was thin, stooping, flat-breasted, with sparse eyebrows blackened with mascara and the Coëtquidan hands, which were her chief pride, so small at the end of her arms — scarcely wider than her wrists — that they were somehow grotesque, like atrophied limbs or the feet of a tadpole. Léon, living on his mother and naturally idle, did not conceal the amount of spare time he had. Mme Émilie, living on her brother and having nothing to do and no responsibilities, never had a minute — an example of feminine genius. A childish, querulous soul, utterly stupid, yet with some features that compelled respect, the flashes of wit and common sense she had shown in her youth had been absorbed, as it were, into the vague, pallid mush which was her substitute for the inner life — like one of those children who impress one with their enormous eyes, but when we meet them again later on, their eyes seem to have shrunk simply through not having grown in the same proportion as the rest of the face.

Mme Émilie's reactions, whatever the subject which provoked them, were always choice.

'Poor Léon! Only two thousand francs left! How dreadful!' she wailed when her brother told her the news.

M. Octave had been sufficiently stirred by his nephew's situation to decide to do something, and to speak to his sister about it, but no sooner had he heard the word 'dreadful' on Mme Émilie's lips than he decided that the situation was not so dreadful as all that. This was not only because it was by contradicting that every Coëtquidan managed to shape a personality for himself (ever since the Coëtquidans of the fourteenth century, who owed their existence to their systematic contradiction of the king), but because he regarded his sister as of no importance because she was dependent on him. As a rule he did not reply when she spoke to him, but continued to read his newspaper, and she would be left staring at him in silent reproach.

'Dreadful?' he said. 'What do you mean? He won't be the first to have to earn his living. He ought to be able to work, he's done nothing for twenty years. As for the two thousand francs, I shall remain sceptical until Lebeau confirms it. You know what Léon de Coantré is like: he's
highly strung.
And Lebeau is pessimistic on principle.'

There is always something remarkable about the baron's statements. This one is worth looking into. It is remarkable, for instance, that M. de Coëtquidan should have inferred, from the fact that Léon had not worked for twenty years, that he would find it that much easier to do so now, as though these twenty years of inaction had somehow stored up inside him a potential of unused energy — whereas in fact an aptitude or an organ are weakened by prolonged inaction. Then the assertions that Léon was 'highly strung' and that Lebeau had a tendency to look on the black side were calculated to dispense M. Octave from worrying unduly about his nephew. We must, incidentally, salute this cliché about Lebeau's pessimism — an old acquaintance, which we shall be meeting again: it was one of those indestructible family words, secretly worshipped because they are a substitute both for thought and for observation. And finally we must note that M. Octave said 'Léon de Coantré' and not simply 'Léon', thus indicating that in spite of everything his nephew was something of a stranger to him. 'Work!' said Mme Émilie. 'But what can he do?'

'I'll talk to him about it, but he is obviously more or less good for nothing,' M. Octave replied, for he wanted on the one hand to try to avoid helping Léon by affirming that he was perfectly capable of working, and on the other to belittle Léon by saying that he was incapable of it. These two propositions were mutually contradictory, but M. Octave was reluctant to dispense with either. So he alternated them.

There was a silence, during which he foresaw how it would all end, and then he sighed:

'After all, I gave quite enough to poor Angèle.' True enough. But Léon was not his mother, and would hardly be able to buy bread with the money M. Octave had given to Mme. Angèle, who had given it to her creditors.

When, at five o'clock that evening, Léon climbed the stairs in the boulevard Haussmann, he had that faint feeling of apprehension he always had when he went to call on his uncle or on Bourdillon, the fear that something might have happened since their last meeting to alter for the worse their attitude towards him, the fear of seeing a new expression on their faces, and worst of all the fear of never being able to find out why. Thus did he treat his life, innocent though it was, as if it was full of guilt. But M. Octave, at this moment, was just as embarrassed as he was, having not the slightest idea what he was going to say to him.

The baron, who believed in preparing everything in advance, regarding spontaneity as bad form, had prepared a digression which would enable him to gain time (his usual running away from reality). It consisted of a comparison between the premature mildness of the weather and the occasional warm spells at the beginning of November during his childhood at Saint-Pol-de-Léon. But this plan was upset by M. de Coantré, who was not without his little wiles, and had brought his uncle a small blue vase, worth next to nothing, in which his mother used to put flowers. He offered it to him as a souvenir, telling him that it was in this vase, a few days before her death, that his mother's feeble old hands had arranged their last bunch of flowers. This was a pure invention, which could nevertheless be called 'pious', although its sole object was to soften up the old man. So the conversation started off on a sentimental note, which opened the door to reminiscences into which M. Octave plunged with a vengeance.

Léon was supremely indifferent to M. Octave's reminiscences, but he listened with a great show of attention, put in a word from time to time, and thought, 'He'll be pleased with me for listening to him, and glad of the chance to talk about himself' — for he flattered himself that he 'understood' his uncle. But secretly his attention was concentrated on the problem of how to explain his plight and make himself interesting, and he watched for the first pause so that he could rush in.

When all this gossip had been wrapped around the object of their meeting, like the straw which Léon wrapped with such artistry round the crockery in his packing-cases, M. Octave, indulging his talent for never broaching a question openly, adopted an oblique approach and instead of referring to the new factor, which was the new debt, said:

'Well, have you done anything about finding a job?'

'Yes,' said M. de Coantré, 'I've written six letters.' (He had written three.) 'But I haven't yet had a reply.'

M. Octave then realized how rash his question had been. Remembering that Léon had asked him to make some inquiries on his behalf, he said:

'I haven't forgotten about you. I mentioned your name to Héquelin du Page. But he immediately asked me: "What exactly can he do? "'

'Thank you, Uncle Octave!' M. de Coantré fervently exclaimed. Once his uncle and M. Héquelin du Page together were looking after him, he was saved! And like an electric bulb when the light is switched on, a gleam of emotion and gratitude suddenly shone in his eyes. This look was painful to M. Octave, who had not spoken to his friend or taken any steps at all on Léon's behalf. But since he hated to suffer, he thought: 'I didn't do it yesterday, but I'll do it tomorrow. So it's as if I
had
done it.'

To the question of what exactly he could do M. de Coantré answered by detailing his capacities. M. Octave picked up a pencil and from time to time made notes on a piece of paper: 'gardening... knowledge of cuttings ... auxiliary hospital...' to show how seriously he was taking it all. But
in petto
he was thinking: 'Him a male nurse! He needs somebody to nurse him!'

When Léon said that he would not jib at manual labour, M. Octave proceeded to sing its praises:

'Peter the Great was a good carpenter, Louis XVI mended locks. I polish my own boots, I clean my own clothes, and I would mend the curtain runners myself when they break if I didn't feel dizzy on a step-ladder. There are things which the people who look after us, even if they are specialists, don't know how to do, and which one must do oneself. For example, a barber will never give you as close a shave as you will yourself. When the girl at the bootmaker's ties your laces, you invariably have to undo them again and tie them yourself. And when a policeman is trying to look up a street for you, you invariably have to take the directory away from him and look it up yourself, because he
can't
find it the way he's looking. Élie is being hopelessly old-fashioned when he talks about the Coëtquidan hands. When one of the chaps in my section in '70, a worker, said to me: "What white hands you've got! Honest, considering what you do with them! " I went and rubbed my hands on some old scrap iron. Besides, the Americans. . .