The Bachelors, page 5
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BARON OCTAVE DE COËTQUIDAN, after lunching alone (his sister, who lived with him, had lunched out), was sitting in a rocking-chair reading the Daily Mail. 'Reading' is a euphemism, since he knew no English — no, let us be fair, he knew a few words. But the baron maintained that one cannot know anything about French politics without reading the British or American Press. He had a cup of coffee beside him, but he did not smoke.
He was a tall, clean-shaven man, with white hair cut short, as spruce in his attire as his brother was not. However, if we have noted at the beginning of this book that M. Élie was dressed 'like nobody else', it must be said that the baron also — in his case in an aristocratic way — wore an unusual get-up alike for his age, for his position and for the season. In this month of February in Paris, conventionally the season for dark clothes, he was wearing a light grey suit with turn-ups on the trousers and shoulders cut in the American style (which was then a rarity, for the fashion did not catch on until two or three years later). A soft white collar, a white linen bow tie knotted with studied negligence, beautiful brown laced ankle-boots (made to measure, costing three hundred francs, and lovingly boned until they had acquired that genuine [In English in the original.] chestnut glow), white woollen socks like his brother (those delicate Coëtquidan feet!), no ring, no watch-chain, no cuff-links (his shirt was a soft one with mother-of-pearl buttons). On his lapel the rosette of the Legion of Honour, in the smallest available model, which had none the less provoked a memorable scene when the baron had bought it after his promotion, protesting against its 'repulsive size' and pretending he wanted one specially made for him that was invisible to the naked eye. For M. Octave had always made a point of refusing to be satisfied with 'standard models', and would order, to his own specifications, such things as a shooting jacket in bishop's purple or a beach jacket with gilt buttons, or else a waste-paper basket made of wire-netting but 'of a size that only existed in wicker on the market' or an absolutely sensational trouser-press, of a type abandoned in 1840 though it was the only effective one, or a mysterious looking suitcase designed for luggage-racks which was supposed to have a capacity well above that of the largest suitcase normally allowed in a luggage-rack. All these objects, either because they proved useless or because the baron soon realized that they made him look ridiculous, ended up with the valet or the chauffeur after being used two or three times, and thus allowed their owner to kill two birds with one stone by giving proof, with a mere jacket in bishop's purple, at once of his munificence and the singularity of his soul.
Anyone who saw Baron Octave, member of the board of Latty's Bank and Officer of the Legion of Honour, dressed in this way would have taken him either for a genuine original or for a composite personality like an actor playing a part. The second hypothesis would have been the right one.
This important man, who by virtue of his wealth and even more his station had a voice in fairly considerable interests, had something of the childishness of his brother, the fruit of a similar upbringing, totally divorced from life. M. Élie, at different periods of his life, and even at different hours of the day, was wont to think of himself now as an officer, now as a Nimrod, now as a lady's man, and so on. Sometimes, indeed, his ideal was much more modest. One day, for example, an old friend of his passed him in the street and seeing him gradually stop, then start up in the same way, then stop again, at the same time continually turning the handle of his cane, said to him, 'I say, Élie, old man, what are you up to?' And M. Élie, still swinging his cane energetically without immediately stopping, threw him a 'Do be careful! You might give me time to put the brake on,' as he passed. For the moment, M. Élie believed himself to be a tram. On a somewhat higher level, M. Octave also had his little games. He played at being the 'modern man' — more specifically the 'modern man, American variety'.
The profound eccentricity inherent in the character of the Coëtquidans revealed itself in M. Octave at about the age of twenty-five in this form: I shall be the modern man of the family. In no time the idea had become mixed up with Americanism, and subsequently it had determined all the baron's opinions and attitudes. For example, it had prompted him to love or feign to love the democratic system, to scorn or feign to scorn people's rank, to take an interest or feign to take an interest in the machinery of business and economics, to disparage slightly or feign to disparage slightly the Deity to the point of affecting a dash of Voltairianism. But quite apart from such lofty matters, this bias also extended to the most trivial things. The desire to be a modern man, American style, explained why the baron's table was systematically vile (a businessman must have an unprejudiced mind, and therefore an unprejudiced stomach — gastronomy was anyway 'out-of-date'); why he' did' his shoes himself (an up-to-date man must be able to look after himself — though in fact it was his servant, Papon, who did the polishing and brushing, while M. de Coëtquidan merely gave a final flick with the cloth); why he had a rocking-chair in which he suffered agonies for fear of toppling over backwards but which he had seen described as an American speciality in a picture paper of 1875; why at the slightest excuse he corresponded by express letter or telegram, as if, by such speedy communication, he hoped to make up for being a hundred years behind the times by reason of his birth; and so on. All this, apart from the pleasure the baron enjoyed in being different, had the added attraction of annoying his family and thus gratifying the rebellious spirit which is one of the characteristics of the Breton nobility. M. Élie for his part deliberately exaggerated the shabbiness of his clothes, with the sole aim of annoying his brother and his sisters.
M. Octave de Coëtquidan had risen to the position he now occupied thanks to his close friendship ever since their college days with M. Héquelin du Page, who was now chairman of Latty's Bank. His business capabilities were more than questionable. In spite of his position, he shared his brother's and his nephew's ignorance of the realities of life, and their inability to adapt themselves to it. He lived almost entirely according to his own idea of himself. The rule is for a man to put on blinkers around his twentieth year and then, for the rest of his life, carry straight on like a carthorse. M. Octave had not failed to keep this rule. One remembers Michelet's cruel remark about Molière: 'Molière knew nothing of the people. But what did he know?' One might have said the same of the baron, as well as his brother: 'What did they know?' Their prejudices and their mannerisms covered them as though with a varnish preventing all contact between them and the outside world. Marie-Antoinette's famous 'If they have no bread, let them eat cake' has always been considered an odious remark. But perhaps it was simply that Marie-Antoinette believed that cake was no more expensive than bread. M. Octave thought Papon was robbing him when, after an afternoon's shopping all over Paris, he claimed to have spent four francs on trams. Four francs on trams — impossible! On top of all this, having achieved an important position through influence, the baron felt justified in regarding himself as a self-made man. [In English in the original.] He pompously declared that he had 'risen from nothing'. The human mind is endlessly ingenious in self-flattery.
In everything he did M. Coëtquidan was ruled by principles. In fact he would often get marvellously tangled up in them. For example, when he did something which bored him, he thought he was doing his duty. He would even say: 'If I didn't do what bores me, I would do nothing at all.' One could use up a whole ink-well of deep thoughts on this.
M. de Coëtquidan, then, was sitting 'reading' the Daily Mail when Papon announced M. de Coantré. M. de Coantré came in, shook hands with his uncle, and bowed a few inches too low, like a steward.
It was quite a different M. de Coantré from the one we saw in rags at the beginning of this narrative. He was wearing a dark grey suit, of good material and extremely clean. This suit dated from 1905 and, because of its cut, made an old-fashioned effect which was not, however, out of place on a man of his age. What was indeed extraordinary, if not ridiculous, was the height of his stiff collar, of a shape that had also gone out of fashion twenty years earlier, and below this collar a black silk stock with a stag's-tooth pin. His starched cuffs, cracked with use like an old face with wrinkles, were detachable. But it was perhaps his boots which cried out most eloquently their date of birth — 1900 to 1905. They were buttoned boots, square-toed, and immensely long, curling upwards like certain kinds of medieval footwear. Like the suit, they were of excellent quality and almost as good as new despite their twenty years, since M. de Coantré wore them only two or three times a year and looked after them with the greatest care.
M. de Coantré had left in the hall a short velvet-collared overcoat (of a type known as a 'bum-freezer') and a silver-handled cane which was also very 1900. But, in accordance with the conventions of his youth, he had kept his bowler hat in his hand, as well as a pair of gloves which, now that he was seated, he had carefully placed in the hollow rim of his hat, for this pair of gloves was composed of two identical ones, and M. de Coantré assumed that this was not noticeable when he held them in his hand. They were mourning gloves, for M. de Coantré, during the past twenty years, had had no occasion to wear gloves except at family funerals. And they had that pitiful flatness, that lifeless appearance of gloves that have never been worn.
No sooner was M. de Coantré seated than the baron, with the purposeful air he always showed in conference, as though to say 'Gentlemen, let us stick to the point' (a quite artificial purposefulness by which he concealed his natural timidity), switched the conversation in the direction he wanted. Pointing to the Daily Mail, he said in a stilted voice:
'Have you read Herriot's splendid speech?'
M. de Coantré knew perfectly well what his uncle was up to. He, too, tried to switch.
'I'm afraid not. With all the worries I've got at the moment I've hardly the time.'
'You should buy Le Temps on your way home. It's well worth reading. Absolutely first-rate.'
'What a dream world he lives in,' thought M. de Coantré, 'the dream world of people who have money.' (Yes, but those who have no money live in a world that is worse than a dream an obsession. It is impossible to discuss anything with them in a disinterested way; everything comes back to their bread and butter.) But he felt full of courage, and plunged straight in:
'To be quite frank, Uncle Octave, I have no feeling for politics. I saw Lebeau two days ago. We worked out together what I would be left with, and found that after I've paid their fees I shall have six thousand francs. Six thousand francs all told, and that's assuming there won't be another bombshell.'
'Lebeau is pessimistic on principle, you know,' said the baron.
M. de Coantré recognized his uncle's genius for refusing to face unpleasant facts.
'But Uncle Octave, it isn't a question of optimism or pessimism. Those are the figures, and you can't get round figures.'
M. Octave gave a little laugh.
'You can do what you like with figures. Believe me, I'm an old banker! I remember in 1919 . . .'
He described how he had falsified a balance-sheet. And his face, naturally shrewd, took on a quite remarkable expression, transfigured and as it were spiritualized by the thought of having cheated a fellow-creature. It is easily verified among animals — for example in kennels — that the most intelligent are always the most vicious.
But all this had no connexion with the financial situation — all too simple, alas! — of M. de Coantré. 'Will you allow me to summarize the whole thing?' said the count, feeling his courage waning. 'I have a piece of paper here . . .' And he produced the paper he had placed on M. Élie's table two days earlier.
'Go ahead,' said M. Octave with the forced joviality of a man who has already made up his mind. 'But let me give you a word of advice: you ought to get used to doing without notes. That's the way to lose your memory. I simply decided one fine day, "No more notes". That was in '96, the year Aunt Hortense died. Since then (he tapped his forehead) it's all in here. What about an experiment — try and explain your problem without referring to your paper?'
M. de Coantré's features had contracted slightly. 'Tomorrow I shall be on the street,' he thought, 'and all he can do is suggest experiments!'
'You know perfectly well, Uncle Octave, that I've been suffering from amnesia for twenty years. I have doctor's certificates. . . .'
'Come now! You have an excellent memory. ... I regard you as an extremely healthy man,' he added, accentuating each syllable forcefully. For he knew all about the Coué system from the newspapers, and was just the kind of man who is impressed by that sort of science.
M. de Coantré suppressed the inevitable grimace of the man who is told he is not ill. He apologized with some vigour for not being able to do the experiment, and after his uncle had said 'I won't insist', he gave him the same account he had given to M. Élie, sprinkling it again with technical words he had picked up here and there.
When he had finished, 'And now I must work,' he added. 'That is partly why I came to bother you, Uncle Octave.'
'Have you begun to look for anything?' asked M. Octave.
'Yes. I've written all over the place,' said M. de Coantré, who had done nothing of the sort. For the past two days, so great was his joy at the prospect of leaving the boulevard Arago, he had concentrated exclusively, eight months in advance, on plans for moving out of it, and deliberately refrained from thinking about his future. It was at once a 'bachelor' trait and a 'Coëtquidan' trait to avoid, for as long as possible, if not for ever, doing anything disagreeable.
'I shall speak to Héquelin du Page about it,' said M. Octave. 'He sees a lot of people. I don't. I lead a very quiet life.'
In this way he was preparing the ground, giving advance reasons for the failure of his feeble efforts. For he had no intention of losing prestige by warmly recommending this dim and ineffectual relative. At the same time he was extremely worried, for he was convinced, as his brother had been, that M. de Coantré would find nothing by himself.
'Yes,' said M. de Coantré,' I should be very, very grateful if you could mention my name to a few people. Do it in memory of mother,' he added, convinced that M. de Coëtquidan would not do it for him, and not averse from making him feel that he knew it.
The object of his visit was to obtain from his uncle a kind of promise that he would not abandon him — a promise which, after all (though the comparison did not strike him), would be no different from the one he himself had made to M. Élie the other day with so much warmth and spontaneity: 'Whatever happens I shall never desert you.' But since the baron seemed not in the least disposed to make such a promise, he felt less and less emboldened to ask him, and knew that he would leave without having pronounced the only words that had any chance of setting his mind at rest.
'And how is Mélanie, as dependable as ever?' asked M. Octave, trying to switch the subject again.
'More or less. But of course, as soon as she realizes there's no more money in the house. .. . The rats always leave a sinking ship. . ..'
A vain attempt by M. de Coantré to switch it back in his direction. M. Octave, having found his new track, was sticking to it.
'These Pickards are on the whole excellent people. When I had to find a replacement for Borel — one of our heads of department — I said . . .'
And M. Octave explained how he had supported one of the candidates for Borel's job simply because he was from Arras. M. Octave, as the reader may have noticed, had a tendency to regard everything that was said, thought or done in the light of what he himself said or had said, thought or had thought, did or had done. His brother might say 'I' [Moi, which M. Élie pronounced moa with a lordly drawl. — Tr.] with a more impressive intonation, but the impulse in both cases was the same. For bachelors, the world is a ball attached to an elastic band: however far they throw it, back it always comes.
M. Octave was in the middle of his commentary when the bell rang. M. de Coantré, more and more miserable at the thought that he would never dare to ask for a firm promise from his uncle, leapt at this excuse and got up. He had always worshipped the ineluctable, which exempted him from making any effort of the will.
Presently Papon opened the door, and M. Élie appeared. It was not entirely by chance that the whole of 'Arago' met that afternoon at M. Octave's. He had told the two of them that they could be sure of finding him there on Thursdays; any other day there might be nobody at home. He was not anxious for possible callers to meet 'Gog and Magog'.
M. Élie held out his hand to the baron, who, knowing how damp and sticky it would be, merely touched the tips of the fingers. Then M. Élie turned towards his nephew and flung at him 'Oh, so you're here!' in a surly tone of voice that would have been the height of rudeness had it not been habitual with the old man and therefore of no significance. Almost before he had time to sit down, M. Octave pointed to the Daily Mail and, adopting his affected tone, said to him: 'Have you read Herriot's speech?'
'Do you think I read that filth?'
'What?' said M. Octave, raising his eyebrows.
'Herriot! A traitor! If I were in charge I'd have him shot!'
'You don't know what you're saying,' said the baron contemptuously. However, if, when he had spoken of Herriot to his nephew, it was in order to switch the conversation, this time he had done it simply to exasperate his brother.
Seeing M. de Coantré make for the door on his way out, M. Octave picked up the Daily Mail and gave it to his nephew.
'Here. There's no point in your spending money on a newspaper when I can give you one. I've read it.' (The Coëtquidans, as we have seen, were always remarkably generous with the newspapers they had read.) 'Be sure to read the bit where he says that what makes France a power in the world is the moral strength she draws from democracy. That's what people in our world don't understand. Come, farewell. [In English in the original.] Keep me informed about your affairs, won't you? And don't forget what I told you about notes. It's a very bad habit you're getting into. Very bad!'
