A Life (11 page)

She was rather like a shadow or a familiar object, like a living piece of furniture one is used to seeing every day but without giving it a moment's notice.

Her sister, from habit acquired in the parental home, looked on her as a failure, as someone of absolutely no consequence. Everyone treated her with a casual familiarity which masked a kind of well-meaning disdain. She was called Lise, and seemed to be embarrassed by this smart, youthful name. When it became evident that she was not getting married, and doubtless never would, Lise had turned into Lison. Since the arrival of Jeanne she had become known as 'Aunt Lison', a humble relation, all prim and proper and dreadfully shy, even with her sister and brother-in-law, who nevertheless felt a certain fondness for her, but a fondness that was a mixture of undiscriminating kind-heartedness, instinctive compassion, and natural generosity.

Sometimes, when the Baroness talked about her distant childhood, she would date things by referring to the 'time of Lison's little episode'.

Nothing further would be said; and this 'little episode' remained as though shrouded in mist.

One evening Lise, then aged twenty, had tried to drown herself, no one knew why. Nothing in her previous life, or in her behaviour, could have led one to anticipate such an act of madness. She had been dragged out of the water, half dead; and her parents, raising their arms in indignation rather than trying to ascertain the mysterious cause of this act, had been content to refer to her 'episode', rather as they spoke of the accident which had befallen Coco the horse, who had broken its leg shortly before that on stumbling in a rut and had had to be put down.

Since then Lise, soon to be Lison, had been considered weak in the head. The mild contempt which she inspired in her kin gradually communicated itself to everybody else in the vicinity. Even little Jeanne, with her child's intuitive understanding, never  bothered with her, never went upstairs to give her a kiss in bed, and never even went into her room. Indeed, only Rosalie the maid, who performed the few necessary chores in this room, seemed to know where it was.

When Lison came into the dining-room for lunch, the 'Little One' would routinely go up to her and proffer her forehead to be kissed; but that was that.

If anyone wanted to speak to her, a servant was sent to fetch her; and if she was not there, no one was concerned, no one gave her a thought: it would never have occurred to any of them to worry about her or say: 'But wait, I haven't seen Lison this morning.'

She took up no space; she was one of those creatures who remain strangers, even to their own family, like unexplored lands, and whose death leaves no gap, no empty place in a household, one of those people who are incapable of entering into the lives and loves and everyday routines of those around them.

When someone said 'Aunt Lison', those two words stirred almost no affection in anyone. It was as if they had said 'the coffee-pot' or 'the sugar-bowl'.

She always walked with short, rapid, silent steps; never making a noise or bumping into anything, seemingly able to communicate to objects themselves this capacity to make not a sound. Her hands appeared to be made of some sort of wadding, so lightly and delicately did she handle everything she touched.

She arrived toward the middle of July, in a great state of excitement at the prospect of this marriage. She brought a pile of presents, which, since they were from her, passed almost unnoticed.

The day after she came, no one noticed she was there any more.

But extraordinary emotion was brewing within her, and her eyes never left the betrothed couple. She busied herself making the trousseau with singular energy, feverishly working away like a simple seamstress in her room where no one came to see her.

She kept presenting the Baroness with handkerchiefs which she had hemmed herself, and table napkins on which she had embroidered their initials, asking her:

'Will this be all right, Adélaïde?'

And Mama would casually examine the object in question before replying:

'My poor Lison, you really must not go to so much trouble.'

One evening, towards the end of the month, after a day of oppressive heat, the moon rose on one of those clear, warm nights which are so unsettling, which melt and uplift the heart, and seem to stir all the hidden poetic impulses of the soul. Gentle breezes wafted into the drawing-room from the surrounding fields. The Baroness and her husband were playing a languid game of cards in the pool of light cast by the lampshade; Aunt Lison was seated between them, knitting; and the young couple leaning on the sill of the open window were gazing out at the garden filled with moonlight.

The lime and the plane-tree cast their shadows over the great lawn that stretched away, pallid and gleaming, as far as the copse, which was in total darkness.

Irresistibly drawn by the tender charm of the night, and by the soft glow of light suffusing the trees and shrubbery, Jeanne turned to her parents:

'Papa, we're just going out for a walk, across the grass in front of the house.'

The Baron did not look up from his cards, but said: 'Off you go then, children,' and continued to play the hand.

They went outside and began to walk slowly across the expanse of white lawn in the direction of the little wood on the far side.

It was getting late, but they had no thought of returning to the house. The Baroness was tired and wanted to go up to her bedroom:

'We must call the lovers in,' she said.

The Baron glanced across the vast, luminous garden, where the two shadowy figures were slowly wandering about.

'Let's leave them,' he replied, 'it's so pleasant outside. Lison will wait for them, won't you, Lison?'

The old maid looked up nervously and replied in her timid voice:

'But of course I'll wait for them.'

Papa helped the Baroness up from her chair and, tired himself after the heat of the day, said:

'I shall retire also.'

And he departed with his wife.

Then Aunt Lison in turn stood up and, leaving her knitting on the arm of the chair, the wool and the large needle, she came over to lean on the windowsill and gazed out at the enchanting night.

The betrothed were walking back and forth, across the lawn, from the copse to the front steps and back again. Their fingers entwined, they were no longer talking, as though they had taken leave of themselves and had now merged with the poetic ambiance visibly emanating from the earth.

Suddenly, in the frame of the window, Jeanne caught sight of the old maid outlined against the bright light of the lamp.

'Look,' she said, 'Aunt Lison's watching us.'

The Vicomte lifted his head and said, in the unheeding tone of someone speaking without thinking:

'Yes, so she is.'

And they continued to dream, to stroll, to be in love.

But dew was falling on the grass, and they both shivered slightly in the cool air.

'Let's go in,' she said.

And they returned indoors.

When they entered the drawing-room, Aunt Lison had resumed her knitting; she was bent over her work, and her thin fingers were trembling a little, as though they were very tired.

Jeanne walked over to her.

'Aunt, we're going up now.'

The old maid turned her eyes towards her; they were red, as though she had been crying. The lovers paid no attention; but the young man suddenly noticed that the young lady's delicate shoes were all wet. He was immediately concerned and enquired tenderly:

'But your dear little feet, aren't they cold?'

And at once the aunt's fingers began to tremble so violently that she dropped her knitting; the ball of wool rolled away across the floor; and, quickly hiding her face in her hands, she began to  weep in great, convulsive sobs.

The young couple just stood there, watching her in astonishment. Jeanne fell to her knees and spread her arms wide, quite overcome, and kept repeating:

'But what's the matter, Aunt Lison, what's the matter?'

Then the poor woman stammered her reply, in a voice thick with tears, her body stiff with misery:

'It was when he asked you . . . about your dear little feet . . . aren't they cold? . . . no one has ever said anything like that to me . . . never, not once.'

Taken by surprise, and filled with pity towards her, Jeanne nevertheless felt like laughing at the thought of a lover lavishing words of tenderness on Lison; and the Vicomte had turned away to hide his amusement.

But all at once the aunt got up, left her wool on the floor and her knitting on the armchair, and disappeared without a light into the darkness of the staircase, groping her way towards her bedroom.

Left on their own, the two young people looked at each other, at once entertained and moved. Jeanne murmured:

'Poor Aunt!. . .'

Julien continued:

'She must be a little off her head this evening.'

They were holding hands, reluctant to part for the night, and gently, very gently, they exchanged their first kiss standing in front of the empty chair recently vacated by Aunt Lison.

The next day they scarcely had a thought for the old maid's tears.

By the end of the fortnight which preceded the wedding Jeanne was in a moderately calm and tranquil state, as though she had been wearied by sweet feelings.

During the morning of the great day, moreover, she was left with no time to reflect. All she felt was a huge sense of emptiness throughout her body, as if her flesh and blood and bones had all dissolved beneath her skin; and each time she touched something she noticed that her fingers were markedly trembling.

She did not recover possession of herself until she was  standing in the chancel of the church and the service was already under way.

Married! Here she was, married! The whole sequence of events, all the comings and goings, all the things that had taken place that day since dawn seemed like a dream now, a complete and utter dream. There are moments like this when everything around us appears to have changedeven gestures take on a new meaningright down to the hours of the day, which no longer seem to occupy their appointed place.

She felt dazed, above all astonished. Even as recently as the previous evening nothing in her life had yet changed; it had simply been that her life's constant goal was coming closer, almost close enough to touch. She had gone to sleep a girl; and now she was a woman.

So she had passed beyond the barrier which seems to conceal the future with all its joys and dreamt-of happiness. It was as though a door had opened before her: she was about to enter in upon the Anticipated.

The ceremony was coming to an end. They passed into the vestry, which was almost empty; for they had invited no one; and then out they came again.

When they appeared at the door of the church, a loud bang made the bride jump and the Baroness let out a great cry: it was a salvo of gunshots, fired by the villagers; and the shooting continued all the way back to Les Peuples.

Light refreshments were served to the family, their own priest and the priest from Yport, the mayor, and the witnesses chosen from among the principal farmers of the region.

Then they took a stroll in the garden as they waited for the wedding breakfast. The Baron, the Baroness, Aunt Lison, the mayor, and the Abbé Picot began to walk up and down Mama's avenue; while in the avenue opposite the other priest was striding up and down reading from his breviary.

From the far side of the house one could hear the noisy merriment of the farmworkers drinking cider beneath the apple-trees. The whole district, decked out in its Sunday best, filled the courtyard. The boys and girls were chasing each other about the place.

Jeanne and Julien walked through the copse, then climbed the bank and, without exchanging a word, began to gaze at the sea. It was a little chilly, even though this was the middle of August; the wind was coming-from the north, and the great sun gleamed harshly in the clear blue sky.

In search of shelter the young couple crossed the heath and headed off towards the right in the direction of the wooded valley that winds its way down to Yport. As soon as they reached the woods, they were out of the wind, and they left the main track on a narrow path which led in beneath the branches. There was scarcely room for them to walk side by side; then she felt an arm sliding slowly round her waist.

She did not speak, panting, almost unable to breathe, her pulse racing. Low branches stroked their hair; frequently they had to stoop in order to get past. She picked a leaf; two ladybirds, like two delicate red shells, were huddled together beneath it.

So, innocently and a little comforted, she said:

'Look, a happy couple.'

Julien's mouth brushed across her ear:

'Tonight you will become my wife.'

Although she had learned many things during her days roaming the countryside, she still thought only of the romance of love, and was surprised. His wife? Was she not that already?

Then he began to kiss her with little rapid kisses on her temple and on her neck, just where the curls of her hair began. Repeatedly startled by these male kisses to which she was unaccustomed, she instinctively averted her head to elude such attentions even as, at the same time, she thrilled to his touch.

But suddenly they found themselves at the edge of the wood. She stopped, disconcerted at being so far from home. What would people think?

'Let's go back.'

He removed his arm from her waist and, as each turned, they found themselves face to face, so close that they could feel one another's breath on their faces; and they gazed at each other. They gazed at each other with one of those long, hard, penetrating looks when two souls think they are merging into one. They  sought each other out in their gaze, behind their gaze, in that impenetrable unknown of their being; they took each other's measure in one silent, stubborn interrogation. What would they be to each other? What would this life be like that they were about to lead together? What did they have in store for each other, what joys, what moments of happiness or disappointment, during the long, indissoluble tête-à-tête that is marriage. And it seemed to both of them that they had never truly seen each other before.