My sister has rejoined us at Vichy with her children. We are to leave together for the South. The idea no longer holds any attraction for me, everything draws me in the opposite direction. But I cannot give my reasons. I pretend to be waiting for the delivery of my order from the American firm, not to want to move before it has arrived. Very well! The excuse serves for a few days. But now the limb is delivered. Ten times preferable to the other, light and strong at the same time. This knee that bends is a marvel! Though it matters little enough to me now, it is true. How am I to withstand the family urgency now? In vain I argue that I am still weak. They all persist in extolling the advantage to be derived from a change of air. And then the tickets have been taken and our rooms engaged at Cannes in one of the only hotels not transformed into hospitals. I gain a week more. Here is Christmas, and the New Year's Day, so many All Souls' Days! Oh well, I shall have to give in.
A palace on the Antibes road; a park with luxuriant palms; a far-reaching view over the turquoise-coloured sea. Very few people—a diminished staff; war prices; besides, my father is making us a present of this holiday.
[Pg 520]
My sister-in-law at once makes inquiries about less pretentious quarters, where we may end the winter. Getting wind of this project, I hasten to remonstrate. She is surprised; what's the matter? Do I no longer like this part? Didn't I choose it myself? I admit that I have changed my mind—a convalescent's weak nerves—that I dream of less well-known neighbourhoods, Corsica or the Morocco coast.
It is quite true: I burn to escape from all that oppresses me on this coast. I avoid letting my eyes rest upon the headland of La Croisette. I can picture, too vividly, the bay behind it with its silver slopes, the Cape d'Antibes stretching out into the sea, with the white lighthouse at La Groupe, and, facing towards us amid the tangled mass of verdure, that dwelling so often described to me.
These associations overwhelm me. Be still, my heart, be still! This is the sun which warms her, these are the waves whose murmur lulls her to sleep, the air which quickens her. I cannot breath here!
My people, who enjoy being at Cannes, give way to my express wish: we are to leave again.
To-morrow will be our last day here. I am seated on the promenade. Where are the luxurious cars with their insolent footmen? Where are the dandies in white flannel, the fair pedestrians in toilettes fit for a queen? The patrons of the Riviera, this year, are those poor soldiers in faded uniforms.
I find myself near the place where the sea-gulls used, formerly, to whirl, catching in their flight the scraps which little girls threw to them. They have deserted the shore. They are playing together in the distance, skimming the gleaming surface of the waves.
[Pg 521]
I am waiting for Madeleine and my small nephew and niece. Here they come—she with her long veil. The passers-by think, as they meet her, of their losses of yesterday and to-morrow.
"A letter for you, Michel."
"Thanks."
I take it nonchalantly. Where is the news, to-day, with any power to stir me?
But the envelope torn the blood throbs in my temples! I can't believe....
It is from Madame Landry!
She writes that she has just seen my name in the Journal des étrangers (so it still appears?). We were expected here. She and her grand-daughter would be delighted if I would go to see them, delighted, too, if my family would accompany me. She proposed a day, the day after to-morrow.
I don't know where I am. My hand tightens on the letter. Jeannine has taken care not to add a word. My heart swells with bitterness. But why this proceeding?
I shall not go! I cannot go!
Oh, my sister, the only friend left to me, why did I feel a longing to confide in someone, at the sight of your sweet melancholy? I began by joking:
"Halloa, an invitation!"
You searchingly fixed your eyes, full of affection on me.
Drawing a quadrant in the sand with the end of my stick, in a toneless voice, which I force myself to render frivolous, I have told Madeleine this story. But by some subtle feeling of bashfulness, I have not made myself out as ingenuous—I should have blushed for it[Pg 522]—as I was. I have told her that directly I saw I had been damaged I had ceased to indulge in a hope grown fond. Our continued correspondence had been a consolation prize. Then when she had tired even of this game I lost interest in it too.
Madeleine has said to me, in her calm voice:
"It seems to me that nothing is lost."
I have protested.
"I shan't go!"
"You must go."
"What's the use?"
"Who can read in another's heart?" she murmured.
And she confides in me that on the day when Victor had asked for her hand in marriage, her mother had sent for her to consult her, as was seemly. And she, who loved him—and how she loved her young, intrepid soldier! This union was her one wish—she began to sob, stammering "No," amid her tears. They were unfathomable creatures, certainly!
But I smiled at my misery, and at this senseless renewal of intercourse.
Why have I obeyed her? Why have I got into this train alone? She would come next time, she assured me prettily. The rear carriage without a top races along, raising clouds of white dust. I catch frequent glimpses of the radiant stretch of water. Here is the Juan Vallauris Gulf. Now we are skirting the edges of the coast, the pearly foam frolicking almost at our feet on the pale strand.
I force myself to think of nothing. That would be best. I come to grief over it, and my thoughts are torture. Why am I going there? Out of cowardice? Or else is it a remnant of hope? No! We'll dismiss[Pg 523] that idea! Rather, I think, in order to prove to myself that I am not afraid to suffer.
I stiffen myself. I will be correct and cold. Cold, poor wretch! Just now my tears welled up at the sight of the sunlit road where there might some day have gambolled lovely children, born to us.
I have got out, and have slowly traversed the deserted village, and rounded the tall pine-wood. My footsteps sink into the earth—an inconvenience shared by everyone. My jointed leg flexes at the difficulties in the ground, and does not call attention to my drawback. I just seem tired by my walk.
I have forbidden myself to think, to procrastinate, or to hesitate, or I should not have got as far as this threshold. Just as well, since I am embarked on this fantastic adventure. No backing out of it! For a soldier!
There it is. I recognise the gates, overhung with ivy, from the description they gave me. Here it is! I ring, with wonderful, unexpected calmness. My heart has stopped beating quickly, since my fate is sealed.
The sound of footsteps. Is it she? No, the maid coming to open the gate to me. Was I expected as early as this?
A short and fairly steep pathway brings us to the flight of steps leading up to the villa. No one at the windows—luckily! As a matter of fact, my careless carriage cloaks my lameness.
I have been taken into the drawing-room, and the maid has gone to tell—A prettily furnished room, unobtrusively luxurious, and smacking of the old bourgeoisie, of matured and refined taste. Old furniture—flowers in modern vases. I go up to a[Pg 524] table with photographs standing on it. Here is, or, rather, are hers. This one dates back to two years ago. She seems a child, with her hair down her back Thus it was that she entered upon life.
I am struck by a pastel on the wall—a gracious portrait of a young woman. That resemblance—Her mother, no doubt; her mother, who had died when she was twenty-four.
A door opens. It is Madame Landry, as slim and sprightly as ever, in her dark gown, but she has a tired expression, it is true. Is she still an invalid? She denies it, in a few disconnected sentences, and seems even more perturbed than I am.
"Jeannine is just coming down," she says.
I ask: "How is she? Quite fit?"
"Very."
Then, recovering herself:
"I've been annoyed—with her."
But here is Jeannine herself.
I admire my self-control, for I get up and go towards her. There is nothing constrained in my gait; I hardly drag my leg. Dazzled, and yet at the same time clear-sighted, I look at her with a prejudiced eye. I do not think her as lovely as she was.
I have bowed and pressed her hand; a commonplace greeting has been exchanged. The little brother has already appeared, and is deafening me with a crowd of questions which I answer good-naturedly. How easily it passes, this moment, which I had dreaded so much. We might be back at Ballaigues: the tone of courtesy and irony—and of indifference—recovered.
A strange hour. The conversation does not flag. Mention is made of my family, whose regrets I am supposed to have brought. Then I plunge into praise[Pg 525] of this heaven-blest country where they pass each winter. The grandmother interrupts me. This season is the last they will spend here.
"Really?"
Jeannine changes the subject.
The conversation, having wavered, naturally returns to the War. When will it end? In the spring? Yes, after the Big Push! We return to the first weeks. They ply me with questions. What have I seen? At first, I decline to be drawn out. They insist—I let myself go. They listen, and ask for details. Here is the perfect audience, interested and impassioned. Even technical details do not repel them, this sister and this daughter of soldiers, who have been staking out the maps with little flags; they, too.
I question them in my turn. It pleased me to hear them describing Paris' proud bearing at the time of our reverses. They have a right to speak of it, as they live there. When I mention our meeting with the two young Red Cross members at Rosny——
"It might have been me," says Jeannine. "I was at St. Denis that morning."
Heavens! I do not know what I had feared or desired. I become expansive. My mind is set at ease. What, is that Jeannine, who is listening to me, leaning her chin in her hand? Is it her pure, pensive gaze which mine meets without embarrassment?
And the grandmother is standing up. In the most natural tone in the world, she asks her gra............