Pierre had not been back to Saint-Germain since the visit to the Louvre. But he would have liked to talk to Fromentine about her sisters. Each time, she found an excuse for not responding to him. And when he was with her, he felt increasingly more alone than he had done beforehand. He would have liked to know how the Boisrosés reacted to Fromentine’s absence, to her returning home late at night, to the presents he gave her — in short, to that sort of artificial household atmosphere brought about by the relationship of a pretty secretary with her employer, where thoughts are dictated on notepads, where the trousseau is replaced by files, the jam cupboards by metal cabinets, kisses by licked envelopes and cradles by desk trays.
Yet this beautiful girl, at his side all day long, did not imply a presence, however. She brought him no relief in his isolation. Even Chantepie, even Placide radiated more warmth. Even the cat did. With everyone else, Pierre felt some resistance and thus some warmth (from the friction). With Fromentine, he felt none at all. She gave way to him on everything.
It was worse than ever.
Since she now brought up his post when she arrived in the morning, he did not even have a relationship with the concierge. When he was with Fromentine, Pierre sometimes thought of Angélique and Hedwige, rather as the owner of a Houdon plaster cast must think of the original; Fromentine was less of a Boisrosé and more a plaster cast of the other Boisrosé girls. He thought of her sisters in the way that one might want to reread a classic in the original, having developed a liking for it from the early pages of a translation. He remembered the little tea party at Saint-Germain, and the more he visualized the polished drawing room, the bedroom with its canopied bed and the black stove with its little red light, the lonelier he felt.
As lonely as if he were in the desert.
The less he was invited the more he felt the attraction of that little provincial place so far away, of that precipitous little town to which Fromentine returned every evening: the side plates stacked inside the larger ones, the financial and economic chatter of the dismal Vincent; the tall figure of Hedwige, reticent, but fiery deep down because of that very reticence, and passionate; their first loving words at the foot of the staircase; Angélique and her attentiveness (when she passed a plate to you, it was more like a caress).
Pierre did, after all, owe her a response. Had he not told her she need not worry, that he had an “idea”, that he would sort out their Mas Vieux business?
“As for the Mas Vieux, I told you that I had an idea. If I have not mentioned it to you again, it’s because that promise…”
Pierre had taken it upon himself to write to Angélique and to go and see her, at a time when Fromentine was not there.
“You don’t owe us anything,” Angélique said simply, as she shook her lovely raffia-coloured hair.
“… It’s just that in my mind that promise happened to be the natural sequel to my undertaking to Hedwige. Perhaps you didn’t know that I asked her to marry me?”
“I do know.”
“Perhaps you didn’t know that she refused?”
“No, she didn’t refuse. She told you to wait, which is not the same thing.”
“I longed for her too much for it not to be the same thing.”
“Why did you employ Fromentine as a secretary?”
“To tell you the truth, dear Angélique, it has been a very foolish venture, more and more absurd, and all I want is to be free of it.”
Pierre stood up, set off with his neck outstretched, like a wild duck on a direct flight, stopped because of lack of space, and returned to Angélique.
“Will you talk to me about Hedwige instead?”
“You’ll have to keep still if you want me to explain Hedwige to you,” Angélique began. “She’s someone who is totally honest and very loyal. You showed great human understanding in choosing her: I admire you for that and I like you even more because of it. The family want Hedwige to be happy, but I want you to be happy together and at the same time. For a start, Hedwige is far more intelligent than all of us put together (it’s true that when we’re all together, we’re silly and frivolous). Of course, she’s not very cultured (my methodical and scientific Vincent often says that in the Boisrosés’ home books are only used to prop up table legs), but you yourself have enough culture and erudition to manage without a learned wife. Then Hedwige is exceptionally honest: as a child, she was the one out of all of us who lied the least readily. All right, you know all this only too well and you would prefer to see me revealing Hedwige’s faults? Very well. You are not unaware that there are two kinds of human beings: the givers and the takers. Hedwige clearly belongs to the former. But like all givers, her nerves are frail; her sensitivity is exceptional. She is impressionable; she can be easily discouraged; the slightest thing exhausts her and when she’s worn out, you may find her unsure of herself; no, it’s not that… how can I put it… you may find her… a little changeable; anyway, you won’t find her like that! I’m warning you so that you don’t get upset; avoid using force with her; listen: Hedwige always gives in. Hedwige is someone who’s both calm and good. Take care of her, give her the time to breathe and she will repay everything in long years of happiness because she loves you and she wants to be your wife.”
“Has she told you so?”
“Amongst ourselves, we don’t tell each other things. There’s no point. Everything has been said long before we talk about it.”
“When may I see her?” asked Pierre.
“Come to the house tomorrow.”
Thus did Pierre set off again to Saint-Germain. He, who has never taken a backward step, is once again climbing the steep road that leads him to the Boisrosés’ home. He, for whom instantaneity is dogma and for whom haste is second nature, is patiently retracing the path already trod.
In love as in everything else, he behaved ardently. But saying “in love” is to exclude love. One might as well describe love affairs as delights. Pierre wolfed down ladies in the twinkling of an eye. He enlivened them, he swept them off their feet, he pushed them into corners, he found something to dislike about them and, all of a sudden, he broke up with them. Their unimportance, the pride they experienced in seeing themselves transformed into a burning bush, their inviting sighs, the passiveness with which they resisted did the rest. Particularly since no one could be kinder than he was. This starving wolf who rushed out with gaping and fiery jaws had never frightened a single lamb; the lambs actually ran towards him, not being in the habit of remaining terror-stricken for long. Pierre upset the objects of his attention graciously and irked them just as much as was necessary with his restless behaviour; he hugged and kissed openly, his mouth was fresh, his skin was warm. He strung words together well, he threw himself at women, devoured them without digesting them, and vanished before they had the time to say “phew”, not that a woman would ever utter such a sound. He telescoped situations, returning to the classical unities of time, place and action. He readily confused the declaration of love with ravishment in the taxi, the taxi with the enclosed theatre box, the staircase with the sofa, the squeezed hand with the arm around the waist, the handkerchief with the brassiere, the first date with the last, and the tact and consideration of the early stages with the ecstasies of the ending. All this with so little space between the point of departure and the destination that women believed they were being offered an initial token of gratitude when he was already giving them a farewell present.
He would make plans to die rather than be trapped into wedding preparations every time. The looser the women were, the more fickle they found him. The entire vocabulary that was once used for artillerymen and lovers could equally apply to him: Pierre prepared for action, he unmasked, he struck, he dismantled. It was charming because it was what the young did and, apart from a few tears, it actually suited everyone. He could count on his fingers, the sprightly lad, the girls whom he had made cry, or who had slapped him, or with whom he had genuinely fallen out. He was born like that, belonging to an age when love brought no shame on anyone, when one deprived oneself of nothing, when duties and obligations were by common consent reduced to the minimum. “There’s no reason,” Pierre used to say, “why a pleasure ride by rail should not also be an express train.” His train was always full and he had never had to complain about a derailment.