The Bachelors, page 9
Mme Émilie's reactions, whatever the subject which provoked them, were always choice.
'Poor Léon! Only two thousand francs left! How dreadful!' she wailed when her brother told her the news.
M. Octave had been sufficiently stirred by his nephew's situation to decide to do something, and to speak to his sister about it, but no sooner had he heard the word 'dreadful' on Mme Émilie's lips than he decided that the situation was not so dreadful as all that. This was not only because it was by contradicting that every Coëtquidan managed to shape a personality for himself (ever since the Coëtquidans of the fourteenth century, who owed their existence to their systematic contradiction of the king), but because he regarded his sister as of no importance because she was dependent on him. As a rule he did not reply when she spoke to him, but continued to read his newspaper, and she would be left staring at him in silent reproach.
'Dreadful?' he said. 'What do you mean? He won't be the first to have to earn his living. He ought to be able to work, he's done nothing for twenty years. As for the two thousand francs, I shall remain sceptical until Lebeau confirms it. You know what Léon de Coantré is like: he's highly strung. And Lebeau is pessimistic on principle.'
There is always something remarkable about the baron's statements. This one is worth looking into. It is remarkable, for instance, that M. de Coëtquidan should have inferred, from the fact that Léon had not worked for twenty years, that he would find it that much easier to do so now, as though these twenty years of inaction had somehow stored up inside him a potential of unused energy — whereas in fact an aptitude or an organ are weakened by prolonged inaction. Then the assertions that Léon was 'highly strung' and that Lebeau had a tendency to look on the black side were calculated to dispense M. Octave from worrying unduly about his nephew. We must, incidentally, salute this cliché about Lebeau's pessimism — an old acquaintance, which we shall be meeting again: it was one of those indestructible family words, secretly worshipped because they are a substitute both for thought and for observation. And finally we must note that M. Octave said 'Léon de Coantré' and not simply 'Léon', thus indicating that in spite of everything his nephew was something of a stranger to him. 'Work!' said Mme Émilie. 'But what can he do?'
'I'll talk to him about it, but he is obviously more or less good for nothing,' M. Octave replied, for he wanted on the one hand to try to avoid helping Léon by affirming that he was perfectly capable of working, and on the other to belittle Léon by saying that he was incapable of it. These two propositions were mutually contradictory, but M. Octave was reluctant to dispense with either. So he alternated them.
There was a silence, during which he foresaw how it would all end, and then he sighed:
'After all, I gave quite enough to poor Angèle.' True enough. But Léon was not his mother, and would hardly be able to buy bread with the money M. Octave had given to Mme. Angèle, who had given it to her creditors.
When, at five o'clock that evening, Léon climbed the stairs in the boulevard Haussmann, he had that faint feeling of apprehension he always had when he went to call on his uncle or on Bourdillon, the fear that something might have happened since their last meeting to alter for the worse their attitude towards him, the fear of seeing a new expression on their faces, and worst of all the fear of never being able to find out why. Thus did he treat his life, innocent though it was, as if it was full of guilt. But M. Octave, at this moment, was just as embarrassed as he was, having not the slightest idea what he was going to say to him.
The baron, who believed in preparing everything in advance, regarding spontaneity as bad form, had prepared a digression which would enable him to gain time (his usual running away from reality). It consisted of a comparison between the premature mildness of the weather and the occasional warm spells at the beginning of November during his childhood at Saint-Pol-de-Léon. But this plan was upset by M. de Coantré, who was not without his little wiles, and had brought his uncle a small blue vase, worth next to nothing, in which his mother used to put flowers. He offered it to him as a souvenir, telling him that it was in this vase, a few days before her death, that his mother's feeble old hands had arranged their last bunch of flowers. This was a pure invention, which could nevertheless be called 'pious', although its sole object was to soften up the old man. So the conversation started off on a sentimental note, which opened the door to reminiscences into which M. Octave plunged with a vengeance.
Léon was supremely indifferent to M. Octave's reminiscences, but he listened with a great show of attention, put in a word from time to time, and thought, 'He'll be pleased with me for listening to him, and glad of the chance to talk about himself' — for he flattered himself that he 'understood' his uncle. But secretly his attention was concentrated on the problem of how to explain his plight and make himself interesting, and he watched for the first pause so that he could rush in.
When all this gossip had been wrapped around the object of their meeting, like the straw which Léon wrapped with such artistry round the crockery in his packing-cases, M. Octave, indulging his talent for never broaching a question openly, adopted an oblique approach and instead of referring to the new factor, which was the new debt, said:
'Well, have you done anything about finding a job?'
'Yes,' said M. de Coantré, 'I've written six letters.' (He had written three.) 'But I haven't yet had a reply.'
M. Octave then realized how rash his question had been. Remembering that Léon had asked him to make some inquiries on his behalf, he said:
'I haven't forgotten about you. I mentioned your name to Héquelin du Page. But he immediately asked me: "What exactly can he do? "'
'Thank you, Uncle Octave!' M. de Coantré fervently exclaimed. Once his uncle and M. Héquelin du Page together were looking after him, he was saved! And like an electric bulb when the light is switched on, a gleam of emotion and gratitude suddenly shone in his eyes. This look was painful to M. Octave, who had not spoken to his friend or taken any steps at all on Léon's behalf. But since he hated to suffer, he thought: 'I didn't do it yesterday, but I'll do it tomorrow. So it's as if I had done it.'
To the question of what exactly he could do M. de Coantré answered by detailing his capacities. M. Octave picked up a pencil and from time to time made notes on a piece of paper: 'gardening... knowledge of cuttings ... auxiliary hospital...' to show how seriously he was taking it all. But in petto he was thinking: 'Him a male nurse! He needs somebody to nurse him!'
When Léon said that he would not jib at manual labour, M. Octave proceeded to sing its praises:
'Peter the Great was a good carpenter, Louis XVI mended locks. I polish my own boots, I clean my own clothes, and I would mend the curtain runners myself when they break if I didn't feel dizzy on a step-ladder. There are things which the people who look after us, even if they are specialists, don't know how to do, and which one must do oneself. For example, a barber will never give you as close a shave as you will yourself. When the girl at the bootmaker's ties your laces, you invariably have to undo them again and tie them yourself. And when a policeman is trying to look up a street for you, you invariably have to take the directory away from him and look it up yourself, because he can't find it the way he's looking. Élie is being hopelessly old-fashioned when he talks about the Coëtquidan hands. When one of the chaps in my section in '70, a worker, said to me: "What white hands you've got! Honest, considering what you do with them! " I went and rubbed my hands on some old scrap iron. Besides, the Americans. . .
It was astonishing to hear the baron reciting this eulogy of manual labour — or rather not so astonishing, since the sacred character of manual labour is a specifically bourgeois invention. M. Octave's speech was interrupted by Léon who, always passionately devoted to his uncle and longing to do him a favour, both in order to oblige him and in order not to be continually at the receiving end, pounced on the detail about cleaning clothes and gave his uncle the name of a stain-remover far superior to anything else of the kind, a name which M. Octave made a note of, out of politeness, even checking the spelling, although he had made up his mind never to buy this product, which was doubly suspect because it was not he, M. de Coëtquidan, who had discovered it, and because it was Léon who recommended it.
In this connexion, Léon gave free rein to his 'bachelor' spirit with a string of domestic anecdotes in which the name Mélanie cropped up at every turn, as a normal man has an itch to bring the name of his mistress into everything he says, however dangerous it may be. According to whether the conversation revolved round him or a subject that had nothing to do with him, the baron's face alternately lit up or clouded over, as the sun alternately appears and disappears in a sky that is clear but dotted with small clouds. Léon, on the other hand, even when he was not talking about himself, kept his eyes lit up by an effort of the will, feigning a violent interest in everything connected with his uncle.
'And what if I haven't found a job by 15 October?' he asked at length, sensing that the atmosphere was propitious.
'I think between the two of us we'll manage somehow,' said the baron, looking down at his fingers and making an odd face. Léon, jumping for joy as well as anxious to compromise his uncle, rose in his seat and, leaning forward, grasped the old man's hands.
'Ah! Uncle Octave, I knew you wouldn't desert me. Think how happy you're making Mama! You really haven't changed a bit!'
M. Octave, his hands still in Léon's, had drawn back a little, squirming with embarrassment. As soon as he could do so without being rude, he extricated his hands and on the spur of the moment treated his nephew to a splendid, traditional panegyric of poverty, with the object of convincing him that he ought not to read more into what his uncle had said than his uncle had meant, and that in fact he would always be poor. He finished up with these words: 'You, my boy, ought to be able to put up with poverty more than most. You're lucky to have simple tastes and few needs. And then socially . . . how shall I put it... you, at least, if you're short of money, nobody notices. Whereas if I were obliged to lower my standard of living, it would be obvious to everyone.'
M. de Coantré was glad to learn that he was, after all, in A privileged position. They parted on a note of optimism.
On his return home, Léon wrote in the notebook in which he was wont to record succinctly the day's events and sometimes a short reflection: 'Sentimental session with old Oct. We shall see!...' This may shock some lady readers, who would prefer 'poor Léon' to be unreservedly lovable. But it is not for us to create lovable characters, but to show them as they were. And it is certainly true that Léon's remark in his diary revealed him as a man who, for all his naïvety and his often touching sentiments, was not entirely innocent.
When his nephew had gone, M. Octave wondered whom he could approach on Léon's behalf with any chance of success. He ruled out automatically all his colleagues at the bank. He had no desire for these people to know that he had a nephew who was prepared to work with his hands, and, moreover, it was a strict rule of his never to mix family affairs with those of 'the house' (as, characteristically, he called the bank, having transferred to his profession, in his 'American' way, the respect which people of his class usually reserve for their family). He also ruled out M. Héquelin du Page, because, having always obtained whatever he wanted from his alter ego without having to do anything in exchange, he made it a point of honour never to ask him for anything. And he ruled out others simply because he did not want to use up his credit with them, doubtless to no purpose. When we ask people in high places to help this or that person and they say they can do nothing, we are incredulous, we question their goodwill. But the process of elimination, which worked for M. Octave, works for us all, and if we ourselves look round among our acquaintances for people who would really be useful in any given circumstance, we find that their number, when it comes to the point, is always remarkably small.
The baron eventually hit on the idea of tackling one of his friends, an ex-solicitor called Maître Beauprêtre. He was about to telephone him, but was overcome by diffidence, which he translated as scruples; even on the telephone, which is a godsend for shy souls, asking favours embarrassed him, and he decided to write instead. But suddenly, with his pen already poised, the letter seemed difficult. He addressed and stamped the envelope, and placed it in front of him against a replica of the Statue of Liberty, as though the envelope was more than half the battle and might give out a sort of aura of encouragement and inspiration — but the letter would not come. And, unfortunately, letters do not usually count until they are written and posted.
A card of introduction serves no purpose at all. A letter of introduction seldom serves any purpose. Only a visit carries weight, a personal approach in the most warm and pressing terms, and moreover one must return to the charge. All else is vanity. Yet people refuse to recognize this, and go on asking for scribbled notes which one gives for the sake of peace and quiet. The baron's letter, without his realizing it, was the prototype of all such letters, which are in the last degree futile since they exude the unmistakable impression that the writer is not interested in what he is asking for and does not believe he will get it. And indeed M. de Coëtquidan hated asking. He had never done it for himself, having been given everything, and he found it galling, if not unjust, to have to do it for others, and especially for someone as uninteresting as his nephew. Nevertheless, he wrote four pages to M. Beauprêtre.
Then he wrote another — or rather, more or less the same — four-page letter to a first cousin who was reputed to be kind-hearted and went in for good works. 'If you can't find anything that looks at all suitable,' he told her, 'don't bother to answer.'
That evening he was dining with a stockbroker, an ostentatious vulgarian. While he was dressing, he thought of approaching him about Léon. In the smoking-room, in the drawing-room, all through the evening it worried him. But it seemed somehow improper to mix these sordid matters with a social occasion, and to ask a favour of someone who had just plied him with extremely expensive fodder. So that, though the words were always on the tip of his tongue, he continued to keep them to himself.
M. Octave gauged what he did for other people not so much by its efficacy as by the trouble he took doing it. Having written two letters, each four pages long, he considered that he had done enough for the time being, and that there was nothing more to be done but 'wait and see'.
Léon for his part, having written three letters, each four pages long, and received a promise, or an ostensible promise, from his uncle, also considered that he had done enough for the time being and that there was nothing more to be done but 'wait and see'.
However, the days went by and mail after mail brought him nothing, either from the people he had written to or from his uncle, to whom he dared not write again for fear of irritating him. When the postman rang, instead of going at once to the kitchen he waited for ten minutes in order to conceal his impatience from Mélanie. Then his face would light up at the sight of an imposing packet of letters on the kitchen table. But, on closer inspection, what a disappointment! Prospectuses from motor-car dealers, wine merchants, jewellers — everything that is likely to be sent to a count whose name appears in Tout-Paris and the Bottin mondain with H. P. (hôtel particulier — town house) beside it — together with begging letters from charities, which reminded him of a remark of his mother's in the bitterness of her last years: 'The only thing you get through knowing the best people is trade cards.'
It also happened that for two days running the postman did not come at all. (Previously he had been obliged to come every day, because M. de Coantré subscribed to L'Action française; but he had not renewed his subscription the previous month, both as a measure of economy and because any intellectual exercise, even reading a newspaper, had become more and more of an effort.) 'No mail?' he could not help asking Mélanie, thinking that she might have forgotten to give it to him.
'No, monsieur. How quiet things are!'
'No question about it, we're certainly being left in peace,' said Léon with a forced laugh. His whole life had been spent in such a way as to guarantee his being left in peace. But now this peace frightened him. It is a time-honoured process: those who are anti-social at thirty live to regret it at fifty.
Léon's plight required not so much, perhaps, a strictly financial effort as someone to examine it seriously. Over a dozen people knew about it, but, like a bunch of racing cyclists, nobody wanted to go into the lead. Most sufferers know the cure for their ills, and people around them also know the cure. And yet from all this knowledge nothing comes to bring them relief.
In this way a week went by after Léon's visit to M. Octave. At last, on the eighth day, Léon received a letter from the doctor at his auxiliary hospital. It was full of kind words: they remembered his devotion to 'our dear wounded'; they could offer him nothing for the time being, but promised to bear him in mind, 'although at the moment, in every branch, there are many applications and few vacancies'. The letter ended with 'kindest regards'.
This was not quite what Léon had expected; he expected to be given an interview. But still, the doctor was au courant and his letter was 'very friendly'...
Léon went to the boulevard Haussmann, to 'report' to his hierarchical chief.
Unfortunately, since his last visit, M. Octave's movements had been as follows. It will be remembered that he had asked his brother to obtain from Bourdillon a written statement of his present income and to bring it to him on an agreed day. That day, and those which followed it, he waited for Élie, who never came. He turned up the following week and declared quite simply he had not been able to see Bourdillon because 'that damned shop was always closed . ..'
