The Bachelors (7 page)

'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!'

Although it was part of M. Octave's stock-in-trade to spatter his conversation with English words, this time he had done it mainly for his brother's sake. And these English words did indeed infuriate M. Élie, firstly because he knew no English, secondly because 'it was a modern habit', and thirdly because, for him, in spite of 1914, Wellington was still the enemy.

M. de Coantré found himself on the landing feeling somewhat crestfallen. He had come to obtain the promise which would set his mind at rest, and had obtained nothing but the
Daily Mail
and some good advice on how to develop his memory. Nevertheless he told himself that Uncle Octave was now forewarned. 'He looks a bit like a dummy, but I know he's a good-hearted man. He'll chew it over. The first step has been taken. Besides, he told me to keep in touch. If he wasn't interested in my future he wouldn't have said that. No, it isn't going too badly.'

Meanwhile the baron had returned to his study and was apostrophizing his brother:

'So it appears you're leaving Arago?'

'Yes, feet first.
Ça!
Nothing for it but to starve to death.'

'What do you mean, starve?'

'How will I be able to five on five hundred francs a month?'

'You're sure you can't afford more?'

'How do I know!'

'What do you mean, how do you know? Surely you know how much you can put down?'

'No, I don't know.'

'But surely you keep accounts?'

'Accounts! For the few francs I've got!'

'But after all, Élie, when you run out of cash, what do you do? What happens at Lebeau's?'

'At the end of each month I go to Lebeau. He gives me the five-hundred francs for the shack. I ask him for one hundred and fifty or two hundred for myself.'

'All right. You see that gives you an income of seven hundred francs a month already. And what if your expenses come to more than two hundred francs?'

'What expenses? I spend nothing. I'm penniless.'

'All the same, your clothes ...'

'My clothes? These rags!'

'But you had to buy them at some stage.'

'Well, I say to Lebeau, "I must get a new rig. Give me six hundred francs extra."'

'And he gives them to you?'

'Yes.'

'And makes no comment?'

'He says, "I shall have to sell a share." So I say, " Sell it."'

'Ah! Ah! That's not so funny. Have you sold a lot of shares like that?'

'Don't know.'

'You don't know! Doesn't Lebeau send you an account?'

'Yes, he sends me odd bits of paper from time to time. I don't even look at them. Wipe my a ... with them. He puts down anything he likes: I don't understand a thing. They're all robbers!'

'My dear chap, the first thing you must do is to go to Lebeau and say to him: "How much capital have I got? What is my income? I must have details." When you know exactly how much you can spend per year without touching your capital, we'll see what sort of life we can afford to organize for you. Go and see Lebeau tomorrow. He will probably want three or four days to work it out. Come back and see me as soon as you get his answer. And get it in writing, otherwise what you tell me will be worthless. . ..'

M. Élie did not reply, and they began to talk of one thing and another. From time to time M. Octave glanced at his watch, which was lying on his desk; these relations of his took up an unconscionable amount of his time! At last Élie got up. But instead of going towards the door as his brother expected, he went across to the window, took in the room at a glance, and said:

'Pretty big, eh! How many rooms have you got altogether?'

'Well, there's . . . let's see . . . eight rooms,' replied the baron innocently.

'Eight rooms for you and Emilie! Well, well, splendid, you've got some breathing space! Hrrr .. .'

The baron understood. That meant: 'Couldn't you put me up?' He shuddered at the thought of sharing a house with his brother. That, never! He felt like a healthy man who is visiting a consumptive and, ashamed of his paunch, finds himself on the point of saying to the dying man: 'You're lucky! At least they take you seriously. Now, my catarrh, if you only knew what hell it is!' The baron said hastily:

'Big, I grant you. But what a place! Ceilings crumbling, no central heating, badly situated, never any sun!'

Now M. Élie, with the eye of an expert valuer, was inspecting the contents of the room. Everything bespoke the solid affluence of a man who has no desire to impress but does not count the cost when it comes to buying something he likes. M. Octave found this inspection acutely embarrassing. He could read his brother's thoughts. He imagined the shabby bed-sitting-room where Élie would have to live in six months' time. Once more he looked at his watch. The glance did not escape M. Élie.

'I see, you're throwing me out.'

'Not at all. Only I have to prepare my report for tomorrow..

M. Élie had already left the study and was now in the hall. But there, instead of going to the front door, he went into the drawing-room, the door of which was open. Suppressing the urge to say 'What do you want to nose around in there for?' the baron clenched his teeth and followed him in. The drawing-room was vast, and much more luxurious than the study. Whenever anything happened to annoy him, the baron stifled his displeasure by buying some
objet d'art
he had been coveting. There is an art in avoiding suffering, and the baron was a past master at it. Meanwhile his brother looked round the room and sniggered.

'I say, Octave, you couldn't fix me a job as assistant caretaker at your bank?'

'Assistant caretaker?' the baron muttered in a toneless voice.