Incidents in the Rue Laugier Read online

  ‘Did you know the house was mortgaged?’ asked Germaine on the telephone.

  ‘No, of course not. You were closer to him than I was; he never confided in me.’

  ‘Nor, apparently, in me. There will be less money than we are entitled to expect. I believe there was a woman, too …’

  ‘I don’t want to hear any more.’

  ‘Will you be able to manage?’

  ‘I shall have to.’

  ‘Of course, there are only two of you.’

  Whereas you still have your husband, thought Nadine, although she did not envy her sister that particular husband, who was stout and heavy and over-confident and unsympathetic.

  ‘Xavier is well?’ she enquired. ‘Robert is still in Germany, I suppose.’

  ‘I am expecting him back next month. Yes, Xavier is very well. And Maud?’

  ‘Maud is very well too.’

  ‘You’ll come to us in August?’

  ‘We shall look forward to it.’

  ‘You yourself are keeping well, I hope, Nadine?’

  ‘Oh yes. I am perfectly fine.’

  ‘You would let me know …’

  ‘Of course. Don’t worry, Germaine. And thank you. Goodbye.’

  Although less favoured by their father, Nadine had always known that she was the prettier of the two sisters. But although she had married first she had not done so well for herself in material terms. This she had not previously regretted. Yet there had been a note of patronage in that telephone conversation, and she knew that if illness struck or if she were to have any sort of accident she would have to rely on her sister’s generosity. This had never been much in evidence, but might seek now to advertise itself. Compressing her thin lips even more firmly, Nadine resolved never to have recourse to this particular form of charity. She would work in a shop, if necessary, she thought. But this of course was not a serious proposition. She had inherited her father’s contempt for trade, had discerned something timid, self-effacing and servile about her mother-in-law on the few occasions when she had been obliged to meet her; she herself was more combative. At the same time she felt bleak with the knowledge that no one would come to her rescue. For the moment they could manage, and, more important, keep up appearances. That meant meat every day, if only a small cutlet, so as not to let the shopkeepers know that money was short. That meant the dressmaker every eighteen months, to add something well-made to the small but careful wardrobe. That meant the services of the concierge, Mme Fernandez, twice a week, so as to maintain her status in the building. That meant that Maud must always be in a position to do the same as her friends, to join school parties to places of artistic or cultural interest, to go skiing in the winter, to accept invitations to the flat in Paris or the villa in Corsica of her best friend Julie. This, however, although there had been only two such invitations, was more problematic. Perhaps she might ask Germaine if Maud could bring a friend, when they went to stay, as they usually did, in August?

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Maud. ‘There is nothing to do there. Besides, they go to Corsica in the summer, and Julie wants me to go again.’

  ‘I’m afraid that will not be possible,’ said Nadine, compressing her lips once again. ‘Your aunt would think it very rude.’ And I am reduced to using her as an excuse, she thought, because I cannot offer hospitality. She tried to think with disdain of Julie’s father, a vulgar cheerful man who owned the second-best restaurant in Dijon, and of his wife, equally vulgar, equally cheerful, and failed. They were kind: they offered nothing but kindness and wanted nothing in return. They thought that Julie should emulate Maud’s natural hauteur, which was modelled on that of her mother, but they did not envy Maud’s way of life or her circumstances, which they saw through with a clarity which was perhaps denied to the butcher, the dressmaker and the concierge. All of which Nadine knew. It stiffened her spine and merely added a further dignity to her deportment.

  In the years following her husband’s death Nadine, no longer Didine, assumed an outward appearance of confidence and also of an austerity which was not becoming in a woman who was still young but who lacked admirers, perhaps because any man who was likely to approach her was also likely to be chilled by her unsmiling seriousness. She had always looked older than her age; now, at thirty-eight, conscious of her precarious situation and of the lack of anyone who might come to her rescue, she intimidated those who might have had rescue in mind. She could no longer regard any man objectively, seeing him only in terms of situation, wondering only whether he were sufficiently well placed to provide an answer to her problem. The problem became more acute as she grew older. This became known, without anything being said, among the few men of her acquaintance. And yet she was a good-looking woman, with her well-cut if severe features, her upright carriage, her dark golden hair and fine skin. She was beginning to put on weight, to become matronly; this was the only sign that her body was quiescent, that she was without a man. There was something unrelenting in her steady progress down a street, her wariness, her consciousness of the dangers of her life. If only she would relax, said these men, who eyed her from a safe distance: there might be something there. She needs waking up. Some man could do it, they did not doubt. Yet none of them volunteered. Their wives felt sorry for her, not without a certain satisfaction, for she was still very handsome. In public they praised her courage. There is no more effective way of precluding a softer approach.

  But in fact her hauteur, which was entirely genuine, masked a cold fear that her daughter might have inherited some trace, for the moment dormant, of her father’s illness. To this end Maud was closely supervised and denied many innocent entertainments, was surreptitiously examined for a cough, for a heightened flush, was adjured to go to bed early, which she did without unwonted protestations since she was fond of reading and in any event appreciated the night hours, with the light shining in from the street and the silence broken only by the striking of the hour by the bells of Dijon’s many churches. This regime served two purposes: it ensured that Maud would not attend late evening parties, of the kind given by the parents of her friends and to which Nadine had no hope of reciprocating, and it preserved Maud’s health, which gave no cause for concern, and her good looks, which were considerable. She had a slight but well-formed figure, and a profile which showed to its best advantage when she gazed straight ahead, as she walked with her mother through the Sunday streets, her mother greeting acquaintances who were returning from Mass, which they rarely attended, Maud serious and intent on the horizon, as if she were in a dream of her own. Even the mothers of Maud’s schoolfriends acknowledged that Maud would be a beauty, but she was not the sort of beauty then admired. In the late 1950s, when these events were taking place, the taste was for arched eyebrows and emphatically outlined and coloured lips, for exaggerated eyes and a gamine air, whereas Maud’s golden face was innocent of colour, her Roman nose was naturally matte, and her dark eyes, between long golden lashes, were untouched by cosmetics. She looked too stern for a girl; she had no flirtatious mannerisms, yet one or two of the fathers eyed her speculatively, as though she might be worth considering in a few years’ time. As she entered her eighteenth year Maud, once a replica of her mother, began to eclipse that mother, so that Nadine, in her widowhood, sensed a falling away of interest in herself, and only her rigid sense of honour, and her fierce protectiveness towards her daughter, preserved her from an acknowledgment of defeat.

  Yet there were no immediate worries. To all intents and purposes they were in good health. As a doctor’s daughter Nadine had always been expected to be in good health; indeed the doctor’s patients were not acknowledged to be ill unless they were dying, or, to add a note of proof to the matter, dead. A resounding confidence—or was it indifference?—had served Dr Debureau well in his profession. He often quoted Voltaire, to the effect that the duty of the physician is to keep the patient amused until such time as nature shall effect a cure. His patients, grateful for a dictum with which they secretly concurred, were only too ha
ppy to trust him. Some died, of course, but then the doctor would take the grieving relative on one side, and tell him, in suitably lowered tones, that there had been no hope, but that he had not wanted to spoil the patient’s last days with bad news. He had always known the outcome, he implied, but saw no need of tests, painful interventions, verifiable diagnoses. The patients died at home, which was what they wanted: he attended quite regularly, but was content to let nature effect a cure, or indeed the opposite, a cure in its way, as he was quick to point out. His wife, however, had died in hospital, attended by nuns. Puerperal fever, then irreversible, took her off, after a third child, a boy, was stillborn. Thereafter the doctor had avoided illness as much as possible. As long as his daughters presented themselves at the dinner table in a reasonable condition he made no further enquiries as to their health. If they remained well, as they had done, it was because they were largely ignorant of the mechanics of illness. In Nadine’s case this ignorance had been shattered by her husband’s decline, to be replaced by a watchfulness which never left her. This, finally, was what remained to her of her marriage, together with her daughter, who, so far, had not inherited her mother’s cares. It was to Nadine’s credit that she bore the weight of them herself, desiring for Maud a life dramatically different from her own. This too she kept to herself.

  Occasionally the weight of her responsibilities brought on a bout of acute fatigue, yet the only time she was able to acknowledge this, and to rest, was when Maud was on an exchange visit to her friend Jean Bell in London. Knowing that both girls were sensible, were chaperoned, and were unlikely to be carried away by inappropriate excitement, knowing that they would be taken to the theatre by Jean’s parents, and driven to the country and back in Jean’s parents’ car, she allowed herself, for the space of a fortnight, to get up half an hour later in the morning, to spend the afternoon sitting in the garden of the Château d’Eau, reading the obituaries in that morning’s Figaro, and reflecting that when the time came Maud would be able to insert an equally dignified tribute to her mother, and every year would ask for a prayer and a thought on the anniversary of her death. Thus religion would be served, though they paid little enough attention to it in this life, restricting themselves to Midnight Mass in the cathedral at Christmas and the Good Friday vigil at Easter, always a bitter time, with the wind scouring the streets, their feet numb from the long inactivity, and only the thought of the summer to come—and not perhaps the Resurrection—as a sign of hope. This latent paganism, not otherwise in evidence in their modest and prudent lives, was the secret that Nadine and Maud kept to themselves, and, as a matter of respect, from each other.

  A further advantage presented by Jean Bell was that when Maud brought her back to Dijon, for her part of the exchange, the visit was always a success. Jean Bell was a most appreciative guest, and even Nadine relaxed in her company, relieved that her hospitality was judged to be adequate. It was judged to be adequate for a quite proximate reason: Jean Bell was about to embark on a course in the History of Art, and Dijon, with its abundance of mediaeval and Renaissance buildings, was all the entertainment she required. Dijon, to Jean Bell, was the Puits de Moïse, that minatory wellhead in the grounds of the local lunatic asylum, was the weeping figures on the tombs in the Musée des Beaux Arts, was the façades of the houses in the rue Babeuf and the rue Vannerie. Nadine accompanied the girls on their afternoon expeditions, and permitted herself, in the course of these perambulations, a small smile of reminiscence.

  ‘My husband and I used to take these walks,’ she explained to the visitor. ‘He knew a great deal about architecture. In an amateur way, of course. In fact there are some books of his at home, Jean, that you might like to look through. And you are very welcome to keep any that may be useful to you.’

  And sending the girls off to photograph the portals of Saint Bénigne she called at the pastry shop on her way home and bought a cherry tart for their tea.

  ‘Your mother has been so good to me,’ said Jean Bell, vigorously brushing her short hair in Maud’s bedroom later that evening. ‘I really admire her.’

  ‘Everybody admires my mother,’ said Maud.

  Her tone was neutral. It may have been that she had perceived the distance her mother kept from others. It may have been an inkling of her mother’s loneliness. It may have been the burden of the responsibility her mother had wordlessly laid upon her to marry well and to marry early. But over and above all of this was a fierce loyalty, a longing to please, to delight, to gratify, which she was careful not to show. Any sign of weakness would, she knew, be frowned upon. A certain impassivity was favoured as a mark of breeding. Thus Maud’s more instinctive feelings were rather hidden from view. It was unclear when, if ever, they would surface.

  Secretly, and no doubt fruitlessly, Nadine placed all her hopes for Maud’s future in Xavier, her sister Germaine’s brilliant son, and the meetings between the cousins that took place every summer, in August, at La Gaillarderie, the house near Meaux, where Germaine lived with her frequently absent husband, both of them fairly pleased to be out of each other’s way for a good part of the year. That was why the annual visit to La Gaillarderie was so important, although in many ways she would have been pleased to stay at home in the rapidly emptying city and spend drowsy afternoons with Le Figaro in the garden of the Château d’Eau. But Maud was eighteen; she had left school, and, apart from her intention to take a diploma in English studies at the university, there was little for her to do, her friends had dispersed, and her future must in some fashion be assured. La Gaillarderie signified various forms of exquisite discomfort, not all of them physical. Although the house looked large from the outside, there were only eight bedrooms, two of which, on the attic floor, were occupied by servants. Nadine and Maud were always asked to share a room, although the absent Robert’s room was empty: a subtle caste system was in operation and it was unthinkable that the master bedroom should be occupied by a widowed sister who had no claims on Germaine de Bretteville’s affections save those of convention. ‘My poor sister,’ she was in the habit of saying to her friends. ‘The least I can do is give her a month of good food and country air. And she does so appreciate it.’ Gritting her teeth, Nadine appreciated it, although she was all too aware of her daughter being prevailed upon to run to the post or to perform small tasks about the house, such as going to the kitchen to remind Marie, the cook, about a change in the evening menu. At least this way she would learn how to run an establishment, thought Nadine, fully conscious of the fact that Germaine found Maud far too pretty, and what was worse, far too unappreciative of her immense good fortune in being able to enjoy this invitation to be entirely acceptable.

  All this they could endure, or rather Nadine could, for the sake of Xavier, the tall, courteous and brilliant son of the house. There could of course be no marriage between the cousins, although why not? Nadine would have sacrificed any number of grandchildren to know that Maud had an enviable future, even if that future included Germaine as a mother-in-law, for she would never leave that house …

  In bleaker moments, which these days came with deliberating frequency, she knew that she was fantasising, and worse, that she was prepared to sacrifice her daughter’s future to her own peace of mind. She ached to cease her vigilance, to take her ease, to be responsible for no one but herself. Even her tiny permitted pleasures—that extra half-hour to herself in the mornings which she enjoyed when Maud was in London with Jean Bell—appeared to her in the guise of a promise. She was tired, and she knew that she had been denied the life of a real woman. Even her husband rarely figured in her thoughts these days; she was anxious to expel him and his memory from her consciousness; she had been relieved when Jean Bell had taken some of his books. Xavier, she realised somewhat shamefacedly, would have been sacrificed as well, and without compunction; she would have denied him children, and would have made him the guardian of a wife who might yet fall ill with her father’s disease. Besides, Germaine would never allow it. But, she thought, despera
tion making her ingenious, Xavier was bound to have friends.

  ‘Are you having a houseful?’ she asked on the telephone, in her meekest voice.

  ‘No doubt, no doubt,’ said Germaine. ‘You won’t mind doubling up as usual? We shall be rather crowded. And I’m sure you’ll understand if we say a fortnight rather than a month this year—the girls will be coming to play tennis, I dare say, and Xavier, well, Xavier has his own plans. You know what young men are like. In fact I have great hopes that he and Marie-Paule—you met her last summer—might be interested in each other. Such a charming girl …’

  ‘Tennis?’ enquired Nadine delicately.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure Xavier will provide partners. He has so many friends.’

  Maternal relish deepened her voice. Nadine recognised the proprietorial spirit that had so alienated her from her sister when they were both young. Then it had been their father who had been so appropriated, but he had been sacrificed without a murmur. Now, however, she must be careful not to overstep the bounds that had been assigned to her: widow, unfortunate, no money, no man, a recipient of charity which must be gratefully and admiringly received. Nevertheless she had the information she wanted, and she replaced the receiver with a very slight feeling of reassurance. Maud was, after all, a very good-looking girl.