Pierre et Jean (Oxford World's Classics)

oxford world’s classics

PIERRE ET JEAN Guy de Maupassant was born of upper-middle-class parents in Normandy in 1850. After the failure of his parents’ marriage he lived with his mother at Étretat, a newly fashionable seaside resort. Having enrolled as a law student in 1869, he was called up after the outbreak of the Franco-Prussian War in 1870 and served as a quartermaster’s clerk in Rouen. Following the war he left the army and eventually secured a post as a minor civil servant. His favourite pastimes included boating, especially at Argenteuil on the Seine, which was also a favourite haunt of the Impressionists. Flaubert, whom he knew through his mother, encouraged his literary activities and shaped both his style and his pessimistic outlook on life. Through Flaubert he came to know the leading figures in Parisian cultural life, notably Émile Zola, who recruited him to his new ‘Naturalist’ school of writing. ‘Boule de Suif ’, his short story about a prostitute during the Franco-Prussian War, was hailed as a masterpiece by both Flaubert and the reading public. A leading figure in fashionable society and artistic circles, Maupassant wrote prolifically and was soon the best-selling author in France after Zola. During the following decade he wrote nearly 300 stories, 200 newspaper articles, six novels, and three travel books. He earned substantial sums of money, which he spent on yachts, women, travel, and houses, and on his mother, and his younger brother Hervé, who eventually died insane in an asylum in Lyons in 1889. Despite his enthusiasm for outdoor pursuits, Maupassant’s own health had never been good. A nervous disorder possibly inherited from his mother was compounded by syphilis, contracted in 1876, and he consulted numerous doctors in the course of his short life. On New Year’s Day 1892 he attempted suicide with a paper-knife and was removed to the clinic of Dr Blanche at Passy, suffering from the syphilitic paresis, or general paralysis, which had driven him mad. He died on 6 July 1893 at the age of 42. Julie Mead studied French as an undergraduate and postgraduate at Royal Holloway, University of London; she has worked as a translator since 1996. Robert Lethbridge is Professor of French Language and Literature at Royal Holloway, University of London. He is the author of Maupassant: ‘Pierre et Jean’ (Grant & Cutler, 1984) and co-editor of Zola and the Craft of Fiction (Leicester, 1994), Maupassant conteur et romancier (Durham, 1994), and Artistic Relations. Literature and the Visual Arts in Nineteenth-Century France (New Haven, 1994). For Oxford World’s Classics he has edited Zola’s L’Assommoir (1995) and La Débâcle (2000), and Maupassant’s Bel-Ami (2001).

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OXFORD WORLD’S CLASSICS

GUY DE MAUPASSANT

Pierre et Jean Translated by JULIE MEAD With an Introduction and Notes by ROBERT LETHBRIDGE

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Great Clarendon Street, Oxford ox2 6dp Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide in Oxford New York Athens Auckland Bangkok Bogotá Buenos Aires Cape Town Chennai Dar es Salaam Delhi Florence Hong Kong Istanbul Karachi Kolkata Kuala Lumpur Madrid Melbourne Mexico City Mumbai Nairobi Paris São Paulo Shanghai Singapore Taipei Tokyo Toronto Warsaw with associated companies in Berlin Ibadan Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries Published in the United States by Oxford University Press Inc., New York Translation © Julie Mead 2001 Editorial matter © Robert Lethbridge 2001 The moral rights of the author have been asserted Database right Oxford University Press (maker) First published as an Oxford World’s Classics paperback 2001 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organizations. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this book in any other binding or cover and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Maupassant, Guy de, 1850–1893. [Pierre et Jean. English] Pierre et Jean / Guy de Maupassant; translated by Julie Mead; with an introduction and notes by Robert Lethbridge p. cm.––(Oxford world’s classics) Includes bibliographical references. I. Mead, Julie. II. Lethbridge, Robert. III. Title. IV. Oxford world’s classics (Oxford University Press) PQ2349.P5 E5 2001 843′.8––dc21 2001045174 ISBN 0–19–283147–X 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2 Typeset in Ehrhardt by RefineCatch Limited, Bungay, Suffolk Printed in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd. Reading, Berkshire

CONTENTS Introduction Note on the Text Select Bibliography A Chronology of Guy de Maupassant Maps i. Normandy ii. Seine Estuary c.1890 iii. Le Havre c.1885 PIERRE ET JEAN Explanatory Notes

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INTRODUCTION Pierre et Jean is the work of a mature artist at the height of his creative powers. It marked a turning point for Maupassant himself, confirmed in the emphases of his subsequent fiction. But Pierre et Jean also exemplifies a significant development in the French novel as a genre, as contemporary writers renewed the latter by turning away from the nineteenth-century Realist tradition in order to explore, in greater depth and from different perspectives, human psychology. In this respect, they can be seen to anticipate Proust and many of the twentieth century’s other formal experiments to accommodate the complexities of motivation and the dynamics of our emotions. In its own right, however, Pierre et Jean has remained, for generations of readers, what Henry James described as a ‘masterly little novel’, acute in its understanding, brilliantly crafted, and layered enough to sustain repeated interpretative scrutiny which has served to enrich Maupassant’s achievement. He wrote it at Étretat, in his native Normandy, between June and September 1887, and confided to his mother that while Pierre et Jean might not be a best-seller, its ‘literary success’ was assured. Maupassant’s own declared satisfaction provides a useful corrective to what might be inferred from the apparent effortlessness of a novel composed in barely two and a half months. For this is a book which can be read at many levels. It can be read as simply a study of the fictional Pierre’s progressive discovery, occasioned by a mysterious legacy, of his younger brother’s illegitimacy and his mother’s adultery. But it is also interesting that, as a glance at the Select Bibliography for this edition will suggest, there is a wide measure of disagreement about what Maupassant himself calls the ‘real meaning of the work’ (p. 7). Pierre et Jean needs to be approached in the light of his prefatory invitation to the perceptive reader to discern ‘all the fine, hidden, almost invisible threads used by certain modern artists in place of the single piece of string known as the Plot’ (p. 7).

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The Literary Context Pierre et Jean is the product of an intellectual climate marked by wide-ranging theoretical speculation on the ways in which artistic expression might best respond to the realities of human experience. The interest in the properly psychological dimensions of the latter was intensified by advances in medical psychiatry, notably in the research done by J. M. Charcot (1825–93) in the early 1880s. Such discoveries were rapidly popularized in the press, as were the ideas of many others on the workings of the unconscious, substantiating what was felt to be the inadequacy of an exclusively physiological conception of human beings. Pierre et Jean makes its own contribution to this critique of Positivist philosophy’s prioritization of the material determinants of human behaviour. At the same time such a stress on the primacy of the inner life provides a common thread between cultural phenomena as diverse as the vogue for Symbolist poetry, the belated acceptance of Impressionist painting, and French enthusiasm for the novels of Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, the contradictions and complexity of whose protagonists were contrasted to the simplistic psychology of characters explained in purely external terms. For both writers and reading-public such comparisons confirmed the emergence of a different conception of the genre, in which the novel would explore the mechanics of the subjective consciousness rather than simply record the details of social contexts. J. K. Huysmans’s A rebours (1884),1 for example, is located in a wholly interior world, and its lack of a traditional plot is characteristic of a tendency in a significant number of novels of the period (including Pierre et Jean) to relegate the elaboration of a ‘story’ in the interests of more closely focused analyses of mental states. Only with hindsight, it has to be said, can the stages of this evolution be identified and the contribution of successive novelists assessed. One name which needs to be singled out, however, is that of Paul Bourget (1852–1935); and this is not so much because his contemporary reputation as the most brilliant writer of his generation is necessarily deserved, but because, in the critical debates of the 1880s, he was hailed as the leading representative of an aesthetic whose procedures were antithetical to those of Zola’s Naturalism. 1 Translated by Margaret Mauldon as Against Nature (Oxford World’s Classics, 1999).

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His Cruelle Énigme (1885) and Un crime d’amour (1886) mark a date widely seen as the moment when the complexity of individual psychology makes its appearance in the French novel. And it encouraged the critics of the day to define the psychological novel as a genre in its own right, and one moreover in the mainstream of a French tradition stretching from Mme de Lafayette to Stendhal. Maupassant’s reference to ‘the kind of psychological study I have undertaken in Pierre et Jean’ (p. 3) can be fully understood only against the background of such an intellectual climate. He was implicated in the discerned evolution of the French novel at this time by virtue of his own development. More astute critics had already detected a change of emphasis between Bel-Ami (1885) and Mont-Oriol (1887), the novel which immediately precedes Pierre et Jean. The former is a roman de mœurs (or ‘novel of manners’) of a Balzacian kind, as indeed Une vie (1883),2 his very first novel, had been; Mont-Oriol, on the other hand, so isolates a group of characters in a provincial spa in order to concentrate on the vicissitudes of their private relationships that it virtually qualified as what was known as a roman d’analyse. More generally, this intensified psychological focus may possibly be related to Maupassant’s contemplation of his own mental deterioration after 1883. It has also been suggested, however, that he was deeply impressed by his friend Bourget’s literary and social success. What is certain is that, at this stage in his career, Maupassant was seen to be moving in the same general direction towards a conception of the novel as a vehicle for psychological investigation. Pierre et Jean is both part of this evolution and yet deliberately subverts the simplified categories of a critical debate which opposes roman de mœurs and roman d’analyse, observation and psychology. In the preface to Pierre et Jean, written in September 1887 (see below), a clear preference for the ‘objective novel’ does not preclude admiration for ‘the purely psychological novel’ (p. 9) of which ‘works of art that are as beautiful as any other’ (p. 10) are the product. That he is thinking of Bourget here is not in doubt, for this part of the essay is virtually identical to Maupassant’s article on him in June 1884, which also concludes with a qualified sympathy for this alternative to the Flaubertian model. But that absolute (‘purely’) is significant, 2

Translated by Roger Pearson as A Life (Oxford World’s Classics, 1999).

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pointing to the fact that both its preface and Pierre et Jean itself attempt to reconcile antithetical procedures.

The Origins of Pierre et Jean The genesis of Pierre et Jean is shrouded in ambiguity, rumour, and speculation. On the one hand there is the testimony of the writer’s neighbour at Étretat, Hermione Lecomte du Noüy, who recorded in her memoirs that the idea came to him as a result of hearing of a friend, with an elderly father and pretty young mother, who had mysteriously inherited a fortune from a friend of his parents. On the other hand Maupassant’s letter of 2 February 1888 to Édouard Estaunié tells another story. Estaunié, then entirely unknown to Maupassant, was working on a first novel (eventually published three years later as Le Simple) whose basic subject seemed so similar to that of Pierre et Jean that he had written expressing his fear that he might be accused of plagiarism. Maupassant sought to reassure the younger writer by explaining that he himself had worked from an item seen in a newspaper which Estaunié could well have spotted on the same day. What has continued to intrigue the historians of Pierre et Jean is that neither version has ever been substantiated. And some of them have suggested that Maupassant’s subsequently authorizing Estaunié to make his reply public should be seen, above all, as part of a wider strategy designed to conceal origins to the novel which are more deeply personal. Those who subscribe to such a hypothesis are not surprised by the inventive directions of what Mme Lecomte du Noüy described as the ‘inescapable assumption’ by which Maupassant explained a mysterious legacy. Irrespective of whether this has a verifiable source, it does seem almost inevitable that he should imagine its recipient being the illegitimate product of adultery. For the related questions of illegitimacy and doubtful paternity have long been recognized as heading a major section within the subject-classification of Maupassant’s work as a whole, with between thirty and forty of his texts including variations on the theme. Those unconvinced that the banality of a newspaper clipping qualifies as the ‘unnoticed, invisible, and mysterious’ conjunction which Maupassant offered by way of explanation to Estaunié have accordingly tried to determine whether the facts of the novelist’s biography might be more revealing. And

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one factor invariably cited in such critical perspectives on Pierre et Jean is the mystery surrounding Maupassant’s own birth (5 August 1850). In particular, the considerable evidence that much of his official birth certificate is a fabrication has encouraged scholars to wonder whether his mother’s patently unreliable account of where exactly her son was born may point to a dark family secret. The most sensational ‘version’ of this is the persistent legend that Maupassant’s real father was Gustave Flaubert. It is worth repeating that it has been effectively demolished on many occasions, even if it is not beside the point that this baseless rumour was current during Maupassant’s own lifetime. But all such autobiographical explanations of his recurrent focus on the theme of uncertain paternity need to be qualified in two ways: first, illegitimacy is merely symptomatic of the more far-reaching drama of biological origins; and one thus has to proceed with caution in assessing the ‘fact’3 that Maupassant fathered three children himself out of wedlock, the last of which was born in late July of the summer of Pierre et Jean’s composition; and, secondly, while the Flaubert legend may well have provided a more intimate note to the mystery of his own origins, it is to be seen, above all, as part of the confrontation with the specifically literary originality which Maupassant writes about in the novel’s preface. The same critical problem emerges if one tries to gauge the extent to which Maupassant modelled his characters, even minor figures, on those he knew. Marowsko, for example, probably owes something to the numerous pharmacists he consulted about his poor health over the years, not least the Polish one at Bezons. Even ‘La Belle Alphonsine’ (p. 83), presiding over the inn at Saint-Jouin, is not simply an invention; the textual parallels point unmistakably to ‘La Belle Ernestine’ recalled in Maupassant’s article in the Gil Blas of 1 August 1882, and reputed to be the author’s first sexual conquest at the age of 18. If this is true it says something about Maupassant’s sense of humour that this lady’s fictional role should be to lend Mme Rosémilly the ‘coquettishly turned up’ skirt (p. 84) instrumental in Jean’s seduction! Of less anecdotal interest is the difficult relationship between Maupassant and his younger brother Hervé (b. 19 May 1856). They certainly appear to have been as different as the two 3 Over which there is a large question mark; see Jacques Lecarme, ‘Le Maupassant de Morand, ou la biographie impossible’, in Louis Forestier (ed.), Maupassant et l’écriture, (Paris: Nathan, 1993), 271–83 (p. 276).

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brothers of Pierre et Jean, with Guy superior both in age and intellect and often patronizing about his sibling non-commissioned cavalry officer turned unsuccessful horticulturalist. But the complex tension between them was exacerbated during the period he was engaged on Pierre et Jean. For that summer Hervé became seriously ill and, as well as looking after his brother’s wife and child, Guy found himself responsible for medical arrangements leading to treatment in the asylum to which his brother would in due course return––dying there totally insane on 13 November 1889, at the age of 33, and thus providing the novelist with a horrific presage of the destiny he so rightly feared. It is worth remembering, however, that Maupassant did not need his own experience to provide a model for its fraternal drama. To take a literary example, we know how much he admired Edmond de Goncourt’s intimately nostalgic portrayal of fraternal complementarity in Les Frères Zemganno (1879). And closer models can actually be found in the stories of the Old Testament, notably, of course, in Cain’s destiny to be a ‘vagabond upon the Earth’ in retribution for the jealous violence inflicted on the favoured Abel, his younger brother; or in Jacob cheating Esau, his elder brother, of his birthright. Fraternal enmity has the status of a cultural archetype. If the relationship between the two Maupassant brothers made a specific contribution to the fictional situation in Pierre et Jean, it must be seen in the context of Guy’s feelings towards his mother. Hervé was a ‘swine’ in his elder brother’s eyes above all because he considered him to be responsible for his mother’s suffering, whether through his financial difficulties or his terminal illness. That is integral to the extent to which Laure de Maupassant, after her separation from Guy’s father when he was 13, absorbed her son’s life into her own. And there is little doubt that, for Maupassant himself, her inordinate centrality left its mark. Even as an adult he was never far from her side, and his savagely utilitarian approach to the opposite sex may well have its origins in the contempt he felt for every woman with the exception of a mother whom he explicitly considered different in her purity. This did not exclude a more ambiguous attitude towards her possessiveness. Such contradictions clearly inform the umbilical drama of Pierre et Jean’s final pages. Similarly, so completely was Maupassant devoted to a woman whose husband’s supportive role he had taken on in the latter’s absence that, inevitably

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perhaps, his biographers have not found it difficult to talk about the novel being a textual fantasy partially liquidating his own Oedipal complex. To survey this evidence of the personal origins of Pierre et Jean is both significant and potentially misleading. For while such factors can be related to the novel, they are not, for the most part, reducible to it. Indeed, the fact that they seem wilfully to frustrate this process is itself interesting. Even the banality of the fictional brothers’ names is almost too deliberately removed from the aristocratic ‘Guy’ and ‘Hervé’ which the snobbish Laure de Maupassant invented for her sons. The dim-witted Louise (who also invests her ego in her son’s success) bears as little resemblance to Maupassant’s cultured and intelligent mother as Roland does to his notoriously debonair father. And whereas in the novel the younger brother ‘helpfully’ dispatches Pierre overseas, in real life it was Guy who tried to obtain a posting for Hervé in distant Panama. Rather than accurately transcribing elements of Maupassant’s experience, Pierre et Jean thus reworks these into structures which serve to differentiate the text from its own origins. As he writes in its preface, ‘we . . . always show ourselves’, making the point that while the imagination generates fictional versions of the authorial self, ‘the trick is not to let the reader recognize this self behind all the various masks which serve to hide it’ (p. 10). That imperative is consistent both with aesthetic impersonality and with Maupassant’s abhorrence for narcissistic self-reflection, his well-known refusal to have his photograph taken or his portrait painted. But rather than being simply non-confessional, Pierre et Jean allows us to identify Maupassant at one remove from the textual mirror in which he is reflected. This problem is acutely located in the autobiographical status of Pierre. When we are told that ‘his mother was all that he loved in this world’ (p. 60), Maupassant does move into the confessional mode. Such a superimposition of voices is partly inevitable, given that Pierre is the privileged observer through whom much of the novel is presented. The affinities are no less clear. Pierre shares with his creator a world-weariness as well as a love of boating as a respite from pain, but also that separation of tenderness and sensuality which colours his misogyny and scorn for marriage. With his heightened sensibility and intellectual gifts, there is general agreement that in Pierre Maupassant reveals much of his true self. Equally

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important, however, is the fact that the character is differentiated from him in so far as he is viewed in an ironic perspective. There is even a certain amount of specific self-criticism, in Pierre’s disdain for sentences without adjectives and a moralizing pomposity akin to Maupassant’s inability to resist interpolating those maxim-like generalizations which betray his authorial presence. But it is the failure of Pierre’s larger ambitions which is really instructive in this respect, with the correlations in the drama of consciousness underlined by Pierre being a doctor by profession. For the doctor is often the surrogate of the novelist in nineteenth-century French fiction, culminating in Zola’s self-portrait in Le Docteur Pascal (1893).4 It makes his failure doubly illuminating, referring us both to Maupassant’s private fears and to the experimental methodology of which the doctor is representative. For the limits of Pierre’s understanding can be related to the fallacy of the quest for knowledge which is a recurrent feature of Maupassant’s writing, underlined in microcosm in those optical instruments in the novel subordinate to the physiological make-up of the observer (p. 20). Pierre’s intermittent lucidity is compromised by his distorting subjectivity as his intelligence is negated by intuitive drives. And his being engaged in imaginative reconstruction ‘with the persistence of a hound sniffing out a scent’ (p. 61) points to animal origins to which Maupassant is no exception. The ironic distance from, and the ambivalence of, such a self-portrait thus exemplifies what Maupassant called the writer’s doubtful privilege of watching himself in the very act of observing the world. This kind of ‘autoscopic hallucination’ has been related to the eye-troubles diagnosed by an ophthalmologist in 1883 as well as to Maupassant’s use of narcotics as an antidote throughout the 1880s. He resorted to ether almost continuously while writing Pierre et Jean. Yet however crystalline the vision (or so he claimed), he also admitted that such a disembodied lucidity, whether metaphorical or in literally staring at his own reflection in the mirror, entailed a psychic separation leaving him unsure of his own identity. His experience of a phantom double is authenticated by contemporaries and receives expression in much of his fiction, increasingly in his short stories of 1886–7 and notably in Le Horla, first published in October 1886 and enlarged a year 4 See Mary Donaldson-Evans, Medical Examinations: Dissecting the Doctor in French Narrative Prose, 1857–1894 (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2000).

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later. Its narrator’s confrontation with an imaginary alter ego is inseparable from Maupassant’s terrified perception, during this period, of an alienation which would make him, like his brother indeed, what the French call an aliéné. Hervé, however, only concretized such a disjunction. For the variants on self-spectacle in Maupassant’s work can be traced at least as far back as 1875. Pierre’s discovery of ‘another independent and violent self ’ (p. 36) within him, as well as Pierre et Jean’s doubling strategies, have to be seen in this context. And while Pierre’s failure registers a fear of creative impotence symptomatic of the problematic self, that estrangement simultaneously points to Maupassant’s achievement.

The ‘Preface’ to Pierre et Jean Ever since the original appearance of Pierre et Jean in volume form on 9 January 1888, Maupassant’s essay entitled ‘The Novel’ has invariably prefaced editions of the text. Whether or not it should be considered as a preface, in the strict sense of the word, remains more questionable. Maupassant composed it immediately after finishing work on the novel itself, but arranged that the essay should be published separately. He later explained that it was only printed alongside Pierre et Jean in response to his publisher’s need to fill out what would have made too slim a volume, arguing that there was absolutely no relation between the two. There is, nevertheless, something rather too categorical about Maupassant’s denial of his essay’s prefatory status. The appearance of Pierre et Jean was postponed for a week to enable prior publication of his critical study in the Figaro’s Supplément littéraire on 7 January. Maupassant’s genuine outrage at the unauthorized cuts made to its text5 is clear from the subsequent correspondence with Émile Strauss, instructed to start legal proceedings against the Figaro’s directors who eventually issued a public apology to the author’s satisfaction. But this also served to encourage the very debate that he had always hoped his essay would provoke. Its introductory caveat partly anticipates that debate, in so far as unfavourable private and public reaction to what elsewhere Maupassant does refer to as ‘my preface’ threatened to embrace his achievement in the novel itself. Posterity has been less unkind. 5 Leaving out from ‘Thus the critic . . .’ (p. 3) to ‘The artist tries, and either succeeds or fails’ (p. 5).

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Indeed, the modern rehabilitation of Maupassant’s essay has gone so far that it has sometimes been unduly praised. An intelligent text it may be; but many readers will find it dislocated, irritatingly discursive, and uncomfortably self-conscious. Nevertheless, in spite of its deliberately generalized title (‘I want to deal with the Novel in general’, p. 3), Maupassant’s essay does provide valuable insights into his own art; and, in spite of its disclaimers, it also inevitably reflects some of the preoccupations of the particular novel to which it is contemporary. Most of the preferences expressed in ‘The Novel’ can be traced back to his seven-year literary apprenticeship under Flaubert, whose seminal influence Maupassant explicitly acknowledges here (pp. 11– 13) and which by no means came to an end with the former’s sudden death on 8 May 1880. Where the essay strikes a distinctly topical note is in the introductory section devoted to the bewildering multiplicity of the novel form, in which Maupassant challenges the right of any critic to pronounce that ‘the great flaw in this work is that it is not a novel in the proper sense of the word’ (p. 9). He thereby precisely anticipates the vexed question of whether Pierre et Jean should be considered a ‘novel’ at all. And his own hesitations about its exact status––variously termed ‘novel’, ‘short novel’, ‘roman de mœurs’, ‘roman d’analyse’, ‘psychological study’, and even ‘nouvelle’––may well acccount for an argument whose premiss is the impossibility of defining the novel as a genre. That argument is integrated within the central thrust of Maupassant’s essay, however, by virtue of the fact that the very range of fictional texts he cites is itself testimony to the astonishing diversity of forms in which the individual talent can find expression. For if there is a single idea which informs ‘The Novel’ as a whole, it is undoubtedly the concern for originality. This is highlighted in the singularity of the interpretation of reality which the novelist transcribes, the need for the writer to assert his individual personality (both in his choice of subject and its selective treatment), and the primacy of a necessarily subjective vision. Maupassant’s rejection of artificially novelistic manipulation, as well as his assimilation of the Flaubertian preference for an ‘objective’ mode which excludes the fracturing presence of authorial omniscience, are dictated by the imperative of communicating to the reader the full force of the true artist’s unique apprehension of experience. In arguing that the

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relativization of perspective makes ‘reality’ and ‘illusion’ synonymous, Maupassant substitutes for the absolute of truth, the notion of sincerity: ‘the writer’s only mission is the faithful reproduction of this illusion using all the known artistic methods at his disposal’ (p. 8). Such artistic licence enables the novelist to present not so much a ‘banal photograph of life, but to provide us with a vision that is at once more complete, more startling, and more convincing than reality itself ’ (p. 7). And this distinction between the literally accurate and the fictionally plausible leads Maupassant to the strikingly modern conclusion that ‘gifted Realists should really be called Illusionists’ (p. 8). Pierre et Jean is a novel which can only be understood in the light of these priorities. Over and above the imminent publication of Pierre et Jean, it was hardly by chance that it should have been precisely in September 1887 that Maupassant felt the need to break a self-imposed critical silence in order to declare his own independence. For, on 18 August, there had appeared in Le Figaro what has been known ever since as Le Manifeste des cinq. In this diatribe, ostensibly provoked by the ‘obscenities’ of Zola’s La Terre, its five signatories (minor writers now largely forgotten), irritated by being considered part of Zola’s ‘school’, denounced Zola himself in a language vitriolic enough to ensure that for the next few weeks both the Parisian and provincial press avidly reported the polemical fury which now characterized the debate about the future of the French novel. Maupassant’s own immediate approach to Le Figaro, with a view to clarifying his aesthetic allegiance, may have been motivated by intentions not altogether different from those of the authors of Le Manifeste des cinq; for as he later explained to his lawyer, his essay was a summary of ‘my ideas on my art’ (a phrase which belies its professed neutrality) ‘in order to put an end to opportunities to make false and misleading statements about where I stand’, the most prevalent of which was, and indeed still is, that he should be grouped as one of the exponents of Zola’s Naturalism. What Maupassant thought of Le Manifeste des cinq itself is not on record; but in so far as this was only the most sensational manifestation of a literary quarrel that had raged since the serial-publication of Zola’s L’Assommoir in 1876, the contempt for such partisan exchanges which Maupassant displays in ‘The Novel’ could hardly have endeared him to those engaged in exacerbating the tone of the debate. And a number of the covert

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references within it (see Explanatory Notes) are less opaque if its polemical context is borne in mind. At the same time, Maupassant’s essay of September 1887 can be approached from an angle which relates it to the novel he had just completed in a rather different way. For to read the two texts side by side is to be struck by a number of significant preoccupations which they share. Indeed, if one restores them to their true chronological sequence, it could be argued that Maupassant’s essay simply rationalizes some of the intuitive insights of the fictional text. For example, the former’s emphasis on the subjectivity of perception is not merely the philosophical underpinning of a technical device; the equation of ‘illusion’ and a private ‘reality’ is clearly central to a novel which dramatizes the processes of imaginative construction. So too, the problematic nature of observation and truth is a concern which we find in Pierre et Jean at the level of both character and plot. Maupassant’s discourse on the limits of understanding (using the example of two very different kinds of men, p. 10) can also be read as an oblique commentary on Pierre Roland’s predicament, whose faith in ‘hard work and science’ (p. 58) is insufficient to allow him ‘to imagine how it would feel to be’ (p. 34) his brother, to ‘get inside’ (p. 60) Maréchal, or to come to terms with his own or his mother’s emotional life. Above all, however, it is the essay’s dominant preoccupation with originality itself which points back to the novel. To be sure, this is the legitimate priority of any artist and one which is evident in Maupassant’s writing throughout his career; and the autumn of 1887 was undoubtedly a propitious moment for him to reassert his independence. But there is in the preface to Pierre et Jean so compelling a concern for differentiation that it alerts us to implications beyond the specific aesthetic position the essay elaborates. Apart from the explicit references to originality, variations on the theme are to be found in the stress on the innovatory, on the personally unique, and on difference and diversity. And such an ideal is balanced by the underlying threat of creative impotence located in the semantic configuration of repetition, imitation, and conformity. This same quest for originality is encoded in Pierre et Jean. The very concept is obviously exemplified by the relationship between individual and crowd, in both the literal and figurative sense. In Maupassant’s case, as the biographical evidence of his almost

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pathological discomfort in a theatre audience is consistent with his horror of crowds, so his aversion to literary groupings cannot be explained simply in terms of the Flaubertian legacy or contemporary critical polemics. For, as he wrote in 1882, the individual’s free will and intellectual initiative are constantly under threat from the instinctual dynamics of collective structures; once integrated within them and subject to such deterministic forces, the rational being is submerged; and Maupassant goes on to say that the crowd’s analogy with ‘society as a whole’ necessitates the artist remaining independent of the social nexus, in the anguished solitude which is equated with intelligence. It is hardly by chance that this is also the drama played out in Pierre et Jean. That is not to suggest, of course, that this thematic continuity between the novel and its preface is intentional. But to relate (to take another example) the latter’s call for a critical methodology ‘without . . . ties with any family of artists’ (p. 3) to the fictional Pierre’s progressive alienation from those who circumscribe his individuality is to highlight the associative interplay of common ideas. Such parallels can also be taken rather further. For, in his essay, Maupassant cites Flaubert’s ‘truth’ that only by distinguishing the apparently similar ‘from any other being or any other objects of the same race or kind’ (p. 13) can artistic originality be achieved. And yet, in the novel, Pierre discovers that differentiation is an illusion in so far as his originality is compromised by the reality of his origins. Maupassant’s achievement in Pierre et Jean is ultimately to be situated in the ironic space between those two versions of the ‘truth’.

Pierre et Jean as a Naturalist Novel In the contemporary literary debates outlined above, those critics who welcomed Maupassant’s defection from the Naturalist ‘camp’ by praising the psychological dimension of Pierre et Jean were only partly right. The rather different emphasis in Anatole France’s review of the novel is closer to the mark: ‘This is not a pure Naturalist novel. The author is well aware of it. He knows exactly what he’s doing.’ For what distinguishes Pierre et Jean is the hybrid nature of a novel working between two existing modes, both of which are evident in its narrative strategies. As one of those ‘Illusionists’ he defines in its preface, Maupassant

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organizes his text in such a way as to persuade the reader to subscribe to the illusion that his fiction has the status of fact. Pierre et Jean is a Realist novel in the sense that it takes place in a world which is recognizably real. Assembled in the great French port of Le Havre, its characters move through streets and locations which Maupassant visited to ensure that the allusive setting to the novel is a broadly accurate one. The same applies to a familiar Normandy coastline, with its distinctive topography, its network of lighthouses and its well-known villages and ports. The occasional invented name or substitution do not alter the text’s realistic status, which is a function not of its literal accuracy but of the linguistic authority of the references which punctuate the text. Whether in the shape of geographical allusions or the specialized vocabulary of maritime activities, these further the process of immersing the reader in a milieu which undoubtedly exists. That milieu is ‘filled out’ by a number of textual details which make of Pierre et Jean a roman de mœurs in its own right. For the first and only time in Maupassant’s work as a novelist, we are offered a study of the commercial ‘petite bourgeoisie’. Far from having created an abstract space in which to stage a psychological drama, Maupassant presents us with a social class for which money is a dominant preoccupation but which is also seen, more generally, to be a major determinant on the behaviour of individuals. The Roland family are representative of the city in which they live, with the appropriately named ‘Place de la Bourse’ and the ‘bassin du Commerce’ at its centre. M. Roland’s ritual contemplation of the port’s raison d’être reflects his own, even transferring such values to his idle pastimes, surveying his catch ‘with the trembling pleasure of a miser’ (p. 19). Likewise, his wife Louise is portrayed as having a soul ‘as orderly as an account book’ (p. 20), astutely beating down the rent on the apartment she will obtain and lovingly furnish for Jean. The pleasure she too gains from the latter’s new-found wealth is simply more discreet than Roland’s unconcealed glee, while Jean himself undergoes a transformation with ‘the self-assurance that money brings’ (p. 48). Conversely, Pierre nurtures an unfulfilled hope of enrichment, feverishly calculates how much he might earn as a doctor on land and sea, and finds both his exotic dreams and professional career blocked by his impoverishment. More significantly, money also shapes all the novel’s personal

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relationships. Marriage, for example, is seen as a commercial arrangement. For both his mother and Jean, Mme Rosémilly is a financial investment as a future wife; and Jean’s assessment of what she is literally worth equates her with a happiness he is not prepared to forgo. In every sense, money opens the door; as his mother instructs Jean to lead Mme Rosémilly in to the celebratory dinner, in a scene which anticipates the entry into his equally magnificent residence with its ‘bridal chamber’ and ‘a real double bed’ (p. 94). Sex too can only be purchased, exemplified by the waitress who offers Pierre physical closeness ‘with the easy intimacy of a woman for sale’ (p. 45), thereby linked to the women at Trouville ‘setting a price on their favours’ (p. 73). And he himself recalls past liaisons ‘broken off once that month’s money had run out’ (p. 44), which are the vulgar substitute for erotic fantasies accessible only to the rich. Even Louise Roland’s love-affair with Maréchal is conceived by Pierre in these terms. The lover becomes synonymous with the fortune he leaves, is posthumously inscribed in the ‘gilt frame’ (p. 77) of his portrait, and reincarnated in Jean whose similar blond hair and beard ‘made a golden stain on the white linen’ (p. 69) of the bed. For Louise, the legacy is tangible proof of Maréchal’s love. But all forms of affection in Pierre et Jean are measured in monetary terms. When Maréchal’s name is first mentioned, Roland immediately remembers him as ‘chief clerk in the Ministry of Finance’ (p. 27) when asked whether he was ‘a friend of yours’. Friendship is equated with business, loans, and complimentary theatre-tickets. Marowsko’s relationship with Pierre is one of financial dependency too, the pharmacist having only come to Le Havre in the hope that the doctor’s fortune will be responsible for his own; and, as he greets Pierre ‘with outstretched hands’ (p. 37), so his bitterness at the latter’s departure reveals the true nature of his attachment. In a moment of lucidity, Pierre reflects on the absurdity whereby ‘we get all worked up about paltry sums of money’ (p. 35). Yet money is seen to be more important than honour, sympathy, and bereavement; it fuels fraternal jealousy and influences sexual and maternal predilection. For what we find in Maupassant’s novel is a world in which money not only defines the structure of human relationships, but also determines the individual’s destiny. It allows Roland to leave Paris; it provides Jean with a future; and its absence prevents Pierre from cutting himself off from his mother’s

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purse-strings and fulfilling his ambitions. Thus Marowsko’s shop is dimly lit ‘in order to save money’ (p. 37) and the Rolands’ ‘narrow house’ (p. 25) with its ‘tea napkins which are never washed in thrifty households’ (p. 30) is contrasted with Jean’s spacious residence and its cupboards full of clean linen. The same stark opposition is repeated in the lower decks and the first-class sections of Pierre’s ship. Such environments, however, not only reflect their inhabitants; they too are determinants. For whereas a ‘luxurious opulence’ (p. 124) enables the wealthy passengers of the Lorraine to rest, the steerage likened to a mine-shaft merely adds to the suffering of the crushed masses below. These social determinants are appropriately brought together in the novel’s repeated scenes of material consumption in the shape of food and drink. This is also a technical device which enables Maupassant to assemble his characters to voice preoccupations which revolve around finance and furnishings. Yet the function of such scenes is not limited to the evidence of banality they provide. In one sense, food and money have an obvious correlation: one class of passenger makes for the ship’s dining room while destitute fellowtravellers ‘hoped, perhaps, not to die of hunger’ (p. 125); Roland has expectations of ‘some extra special dinners’ (p. 77) as a result of the Maréchal legacy; and ‘the accession of Jean the Rich’ (p. 49) is the occasion of a feast of monumental proportions. More significant is the role of food and drink in a common system of exchange. Between Pierre and the waitress, for example, ‘his buying her this drink’ (p. 45) is the ‘tacit permission’ for sexual intimacy. Lecanu, on the other hand, invites the Roland family to digest his news of the inheritance before he feels able to accept their hospitality in return. The precise parallels between the food on display in Jean’s palatial residence and at the earlier dinner are equally suggestive, pointing to a substitution of desires, and underlined by the fact that the satisfied audience at Jean’s apotheosis have no further need to eat. Such a system of exchange binds its participants together into a cohesive group to which the individual is subordinate. Potentially disruptive outsiders like Mme Rosémilly are invited to partake of meals and marriages which integrate them within the social structure. Those unable, or unwilling, to conform to its timetable and values are left with a ‘cold and dried up’ cutlet (p. 41) and forced from the collective table to look for sustenance. In the midst of private

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gluttony, Pierre is an uncomfortable presence at odds with a family whose members determine his expulsion. He can thus no longer have a civic place, eating ‘at a cheap inn where the countryside began’ (p. 74), while Jean is cooked for in a ‘stage-set’ (p. 93). So too, while ‘the wealthy of every continent would dine together’ inside a structure whose interior resembles ‘that of grand hotels, theatres, and public places’ (p. 124), the displaced poor will wander ‘an unknown country’ (p. 125) in search of food. The society portrayed in Pierre et Jean is one which testifies to the survival of the fittest. It is hardly by chance that Mme Rosémilly, who exemplifies the successful adaptation to environment, should put captured shrimps in her basket ‘along with some seaweed to keep them alive’ (p. 88). The biological parallels are themselves illuminating, for the specifically social milieu is by no means the only environmental determinant in the novel. For Maupassant presents human beings as a species subject to natural laws too, with Nature itself as a force over which individuals have no control. The weather, for example, determines the timing and the course of excursions; the fog puts a stop to sailing expeditions made possible by the wind; and as ships have to wait for the tide, so this drives people off the beach at Trouville and forces the family to beat a hasty retreat at Saint-Jouin. And in their interaction with the world around them apprehended by the senses, the novel’s characters are also influenced in more insidious ways. Mme Roland succumbs to the physical well-being induced by the waves, while both she and Mme Rosémilly feel the ‘weight’ of ‘the vast horizon of sea and sky’ (p. 24); and nature is responsible for Jean’s sexual arousal: ‘the scent of the hills, gorse, clover, and grasses mingling in the warm air with the salty odour of the exposed rocks excited him further, causing a mildly intoxicating effect’ (p. 85). Such a stress on the physiological, in the shape of heredity, is clearly central to the novel’s plot. Equally obviously, sinew determines the outcome of rowing competitions, gender the nature of emotional response, and physical attributes the force of erotic attraction. The recurrent references to disease, however, underline the real implications of this particular emphasis. Pierre’s warning to his father speaks of an inexorable logic: a glass of champagne, he says, ‘burns right through the gut, upsets the nervous system, slows down the circulation, and brings on the apoplexy which all men of your

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constitution are prone to’ (p. 50); though the guests do not think so, it is an entirely appropriate commentary on an event which represents the triumph of materiality and the unwitting celebration of the fact that Maréchal is no more than ‘decomposed’ flesh (p. 63). Only the reader will notice the link between ‘icing-sugar bells, like a sponge-cake cathedral’ (p. 49) to be consumed and Pierre’s impression that a ‘small timepiece had swallowed a cathedral bell’ (p. 70) as he listens to its deafening chimes. Yet striking clocks, whitening hair, ageing parents, and decayed windmills all point to the same temporal flow of physical disintegration and mortality. These biological determinants ultimately reduce men and women to the level of animals, as Maupassant’s analogies suggest. Pierre, as a child, greets ‘with all the hostility of a small spoiled animal’ the newly born ‘other little creature’ (p. 17) who is his brother. His father displays ‘the suspicion of a fox who comes across a dead chicken and suspects a trap’ (p. 51), as well he might given the encouragement to toast the family’s deceased benefactor. His sententious ‘we’re not beasts of burden, we’re men’ (p. 42) is acutely ironic; for only his social class separates him from the ‘herd’ of humanity in the ship, with its ‘stench of bare flesh more sickening than that of the pelt or wool of animals’ (p. 125). In the Trouville episode, the females are seen as ‘agile and elusive prey’ (p. 73) in a mating ritual. The force of all these analogies is to define human motivation in terms of bestial appetites, whether those of lust or greed. The same is true of other emotions: Pierre’s secret rage makes him as dangerous as a ‘rabid dog’ (p. 82); Marowsko’s affection for him is likened to ‘the love of a fawning dog’ (p. 59) and his mother’s suffering to that of ‘a poor beaten mutt begging for mercy’ (p. 123). The characterization of Mme Rosémilly ‘who lived life instinctively, like a free animal’ (p. 17) is merely representative. What is stressed throughout the novel is the primacy of those instincts, clearly informed as it is by that pervasive materialism evident in Maupassant’s work as a whole. He deserves a place among the Naturalists by virtue of, in his own words (in Le Gaulois of 17 April 1880), ‘a similar philosophical tendency’, and Pierre et Jean is no exception to this self-confessed affinity. Its characters are subject not only to the pressures of economic circumstance and social class, but also to their chemistry. To read it is to enter a fictional world elaborated in structures of causality which make of individuals impotent victims of such fatalities.

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Pierre et Jean as a Psychological Study The novel’s impact, however, also derives from the particular narrative arrangement which accounts for its status as a psychological study. For what Maupassant has done is to displace its central focus: away from the forces which shape behaviour, and towards the individual’s apprehension of these social and biological determinants. The subordination of rationality to the instinctual, for example, is not just recounted by the novelist, but also experienced by a narrator-figure confronting the contradictions of his mind. The same applies to the relationship between self and social structure. In other words, those features which can be related to a Naturalist tradition are integrated within a perspective designed (in both senses) to reinforce verisimilitude by eliminating authorial omniscience. In practice, this displacement of narrative focus is not so radical as to offer the reader unmediated access to the workings of the subjective consciousness. Whether inscribed in the impersonal distance of a third-person narration or within the indirect discourse of a character’s point of view, there are in fact constant reminders of Maupassant’s presence, not least in those authorial generalizations which sometimes give Pierre et Jean an aphoristic texture theoretically precluded by an ‘objective’ portrayal. It remains true that the foregrounding of the psychological study has far-reaching consequences for the whole shape of the novel which is, in several important respects, very different from a conventional roman de mœurs. It is devoid of historical specificity; that it ‘takes place’ in about 1885 can be inferred only from an exchange between the Rolands halfway through the text (p. 58). It also has a severely shortened time-scale: the first five chapters extend over a mere four days; Chapters 6–8 cover forty-eight hours ‘a week or two’ (p. 80) later, and include the notation that the Lorraine will leave ‘next month’ (p. 111); and this leaves an indeterminate number of days (only two of which are detailed) for Pierre to make arrangements for his departure on 7 October. Both this rigorous concentration and the generalized historical vacuum are designed to facilitate Maupassant’s psychological analysis in a text whose ‘events’ are reduced to minimal importance. With the exception of the news of the legacy, which indirectly inspires Jean’s active courtship of Mme Rosémilly and Pierre’s decision to leave, Pierre et Jean could almost

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be described as a novel in which nothing happens. The only ‘event’ as such occurs a quarter of a century before it begins, with Mme Roland’s adulterous liaison. This enables Maupassant to chart mental developments for which external events are merely the catalyst. There is no attempt at the kind of biographical comprehensiveness we find in the appropriately entitled Une vie. We learn no more about the past of Pierre et Jean’s characters than is strictly necessary; their futures are simply indicated by extension. Both are beyond the scope of a novel whose dramatic interest is deliberately limited to the reflective space where past and future intersect. This also accounts for Maupassant’s choice of characters. His small cast accommodates the technical imperatives of a limited dramatic focus, to the extent that even the episodic figures are a function of the psychologies of the family members. Though the Rolands may be representative of a certain class, Maupassant is not concerned to situate them within a panoramic view of contemporary society. And he overcomes the potential problems posed by their banality and limited introspective facilities by making Pierre a doctor. For, justified by a medical training, his capacity for diagnosis allows Maupassant to integrate psychological analysis within a fictional subjectivity. Pierre’s suffering is charted in the appropriately clinical terminology of the character’s self-diagnosis, from initial debilitating and ‘niggling’ physiological symptom to a cancerous growth which reaches a climax in his outburst to Jean in Chapter 7; and only in its properly terminal phase is there some abatement: ‘and of his wound, so raw up until then, all he was left with was the tingling of a healing scar’ (p. 124). Such a progression alerts us to the fact that the novel’s structure is also a function of its psychological focus, determined less by its chapter-divisions than by the shift of point of view which highlights the stages of Pierre’s mental anguish. That structure also reflects Jean’s progressive appropriation of his brother’s place in his mother’s affections, underlined by the contrastive parallels between the opening and closing family excursions in La Perle. The novel’s dramatic tension is sustained by intensifying Pierre’s anguish through the temporal continuity of Chapters 2–5, in alternating rhythms of momentary respite and increasing despair, but delaying its climactic outburst until Chapter 7––which is not yet the denouement. And a key feature of this arrangement, testifying to Pierre et

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Jean’s status as a psychological novel of the kind pioneered by Bourget, is its similar reliance on a movement by association. Such workings of the unconscious are used by Maupassant to justify the order of narrative sequences. This is noticeable in Chapter 3, for example, where Pierre’s ‘to talk intimately with a woman is itself a balm to suffering’ (p. 44), followed by Maupassant’s ‘he began to think about women’, eventually leads to a recollection of the waitress Pierre then proceeds to visit; similarly, in Chapter 9, his comparison between his distress and that of ‘a poor man about to hold out a begging hand’ (p. 120) brings to mind Marowsko and the decision to bid him farewell, while his conjuring up ‘a mental list of everyone he knew or had known’ (p. 121) immediately inspires his second visit to the waitress. Such an associative mechanism, often sparked by involuntary memory, can thus be considered a technical device. The economy of Maupassant’s text lies in the synthesizing of this structural principle and a crucial element of the psychological drama located in Pierre. That drama takes the form of a quest to assert his individual identity in the face of the social and biological fatalities which threaten his originality. That the reader may perceive Pierre as being different is a result of both narrative design and characterization. For if Pierre qualifies as the ‘hero’ of the story, it is not only because it is the workings of his mind which provide the main interest of Pierre et Jean as a ‘psychological novel’, but also because his very capacity for reflection differentiates him from the unthinking mediocrity and placid contentment of his blood-relations. He is, by temperament, unable to subscribe to an ideology of conformity attested to by his parents’ instigation that he should be like Jean; and it is significant, of course, that in his inability to row like his brother, the family boat veers off course. As ‘Pierre’s opinion was bound to be different’ (p. 18), so too his hesitations about a choice of career bear witness to the difficulty of integrating himself within the social structure; and, as his father’s habitual addressing him as ‘doctor’ (p. 16) suggests, even Pierre’s finally opting for medicine simply reinforces his status as a déclassé. The idealist continually ‘throwing himself into new projects’ (p. 16), seeking expression in ‘a new career’ as ‘a new track’ (p. 40), differentiates him from those satisfied with repetition who find their jovial spokesman in Beausire: ‘bis repetita placent’ (p. 48). Pierre’s exchange with Marowsko defines the nature of his quest exactly:

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greeted by the question ‘So what’s new, my dear doctor?’, he replies, ‘Nothing. Everything’s the same as usual’ (p. 38), which explains his despair. For Pierre’s quest for originality is always doomed to fail, whether sought for in others or in himself. One of the reasons why the suspicion of his mother’s adultery is so distressing to him is that she is thereby divested of her exceptional qualities: ‘his mother had simply done the same as the others!’ (p. 73). Even his escapist fantasies are subverted by remorseless patterns of repetition. The maiden voyage of a new ship to the New World may seem like a fresh start; but, rather than being the exotic destination of his dreams, it is clear that New York will be another version of Le Havre; and as his father notes, Pierre’s departure is in fact only the first leg of a return journey. Such circularity is a feature of all Pierre’s literal and figurative ventures.6 Each excursion not only brings him back to his point of departure, but also intensifies the suffering he had tried to escape. His wanderings in Le Havre take him to Jean, met on the water’s edge and then evoked in the conversations with both Marowsko and the waitress which have the opposite effect to the solace Pierre seeks. The momentary release afforded by taking out La Perle is cut short by the mist which drives him back and then invades the city, plunging Pierre into renewed introspection. So too his outing to Trouville merely provides him with further evidence for the suspicions he attempts to banish from his mind. The novel is structured by expeditions which delineate Pierre as a figure of search and quest; but as he physically has to return each time to the increasingly intolerable paternal home, so his search for the truth is inscribed in an analogous pattern, moving back to its own origin: ‘so he tried to discover what was gnawing at him, this need for movement but desire for nothing’ (pp. 33–4). As well as making Beausire’s Latin motto doubly ironic, these failures are suggestive in themselves. For Pierre’s circular movements point to the problematic nature of the independence he seeks to assert. On the one hand this is motivated by a profound disgust for the conformity of collective structures; on the other, the solitude Pierre chooses is equally destructive: ‘he needed company, and yet 6 On Maupassant’s exploitation of such repetition as a structuring principle, see Jean-Louis Cabanès, ‘Ressassement et progression narrative dans Pierre et Jean’, in Forestier (ed.), Maupassant et l’écriture, 187–96.

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didn’t want to meet anyone’ (p. 33). In that remark, in which Pierre’s introspection and Maupassant’s commentary elide, we find a concise formulation of the problem. For both disgust and need inform a dialectic which structures Pierre’s exits from––and return to––those relationships which circumscribe his individuality. These are suffocating, degrading, and anathema to the intelligence; but nonintegration is equated not simply with loneliness, but with the exile of the dead. Pierre et Jean explores the ramifications of that problem in both private and social terms by integrating Pierre’s relationship with his mother within the drama of the family itself. As far as the former is concerned, the text provides ample evidence to justify describing Pierre’s obsessive love as Oedipal.7 The tension between incestuous feeling and innocent adoration is unmistakable. It is already suggested in the scene in Chapter 5 where Pierre knocks at his mother’s bedroom door, with his hand ‘limp and trembling on the door handle, almost incapable of the minimal effort needed to turn it to go in’ (p. 70). He is here, in the most literal sense, on the threshold of that ‘primal’ discovery that the object of his infantile desire sleeps in his father’s bed. The immediate consequence of such a revelation is that Pierre suddenly sees his mother as a sexual being in her own right. Though this explains his incredulous rage towards (as the French text has it) père Roland, the latter’s dormant carcass provides a less unequivocal statement of his mother’s sexuality than her relationship with Maréchal, both symptom and synonym of ‘this horrible thing he had discovered’ (p. 70). It is this radical redefinition of perspective which undermines the certainties of Pierre’s own identity. Because Pierre himself, however, is not fully aware of the true feelings for his mother, the presentation of that relationship is marked by the text’s pervasive irony. The latter is, for the most part, consistent with the principle of ‘impersonality’; but by pointing to a complexity beyond the character’s understanding, Maupassant simply underlines the reasons for Pierre’s failure which he also makes explicit: ‘he had both an excitable and cautious side to him; . . . But ultimately his first instincts outweighed the others and heart always triumphed over mind’ (p. 33). Even in subsequently 7 See Timothy Unwin, ‘Jealousy and its Displacements: A Reading of Pierre et Jean’, Essays in French Literature, 30 (1993), 101–13.

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bringing this authorial commentary within Pierre’s own reflections, Maupassant reinforces the pre-emptive ‘always’ which speaks of the inherent failure of the analytical intelligence. For in the very process of trying to come to terms with the workings of the subsconscious, Pierre’s rational self is subverted by them. His every attempt to master his jealousy is frustrated, as is escape from it; for the associative movements of his mind are beyond the control of the intellect. And Maupassant alerts us to the ways in which, while trying to understand himself, Pierre so rationalizes his feelings that it leads to a misapprehension of his suffering. He mistakes symptom for cause: the legacy and Mme Rosémilly for a jealousy that is instinctual. As in the diagnosis of his mother’s ills, Pierre’s merciless analysis ultimately exacerbates his own condition. The depth of the psychological focus of Pierre et Jean is thus enlarged in so far as point of view is not just a spatial principle of narrative procedure, but is itself the object of investigation. This drama of perception is exemplified by the Trouville episode in Chapter 5; seen from afar, the beach with its decked-out figures is beautiful; and yet its subsequent demystification, its degraded ‘reality’, is itself a construction of Pierre’s tortured mind, within whose distorting subjectivity the (possibly) innocent trippers on the sands are transformed into the inhabitants of a gigantic brothel. This is only one, however, of numerous instances of modulation of point of view which illustrate Maupassant’s remarks in the novel’s preface about the relativization of perspective and a consciousness limited by those ‘bodily organs’ (p. 8) of which it is a function. Pierre’s mother, too, is a beautiful Madonna-figure, ‘so good, so simple, so respectable’ (p. 54), seen from afar by the worshipping child himself capable, in retrospect (though without being able to act upon it), of more objective self-appraisal: ‘his quasi-religious love for his mother had made his scruples more acute, scruples which were pious and admirable, but exaggerated’ (p. 55). Any assessment of Pierre’s apparent moral superiority has to take account of such ambiguities. On the one hand, he can contrast his own implicit integrity and Jean’s planned exploitation of his clientele only hours after calculating in even greater detail precisely the same strategy of enrichment; on the other, a puritanical contempt for the waitress’s calumny of ‘decent women’ as characteristic of ‘her filthy prostitute’s mind’ (p. 54) is inverted in his own vision of every

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woman on the beach selling herself. It is not the least of the text’s ironies that Pierre is unable to reconcile his scientific knowledge that ‘a whole race can originate from a single embrace’ (p. 69) with the emotional reality that ‘his mother had surrendered to the caresses of some man’ (p. 120) for reasons akin to his own need for a woman’s ‘caress’ (p. 45). In underlining for the reader how Pierre’s jealousy makes him an unreliable narrator, Maupassant leaves us with the paradox that the character most obsessed by the truth is himself most prey to his illusions.

The Patterning of the Text In his prefatory essay, Maupassant refers to those apparently insignificant textual details in which the ‘true meaning’ of a work is to be found. In Pierre et Jean, these patterns are always suggestive. Its setting, for example, clearly has a symbolic value and is used to throw light on the psychological study. The sexual drama is elaborated along a coastline notable for its indentations and orifices, with its equally figurative ports hidden from view, and concealing rivers emerging from the splayed northern and southern flanks of Normandy; and between its awesome cliff-faces there are mysteriously fertile inlets which Jean and Mme Rosémilly circumnavigate during their courtship; after dallying ‘on the very edge of the precipice’ (p. 85), growing desire brings them to ‘a much deeper crevice where long weeds, peculiarly coloured and swaying like wisps of pink and green hair, flowed beneath the rippled surface of the water that flowed towards the distant sea along an invisible fissure’ (p. 87). Pierre, on the other hand, identifies with the anthropomorphized ships hooting in distress in the dark as they seek access to the harbour; and that the latter is not innocently picturesque is confirmed in Chapter 9 where the Lorraine’s departure is likened to a birth. The fishing smack stealthily making its way into ‘the wide and dark open channel between the jetties’ (p. 35) tells us as much about his feelings (‘if only one could live aboard such a boat’) as the promiscuous succession of ships, invited in by ‘a retired sea-captain’, which intensify Pierre’s jealousy as he watches over the entrance to (to restore both the homophonic pairing of the original French and the traditional maternal associations of the sea) la mer/mère. So too, when he takes out his father’s boat with his permission, the text goes

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much further than simply the pathetic fallacy whereby Pierre’s emotions correspond to the weather; for this compensatory moment has much in common with the erotic fantasies generated by the earlier invisible entry, with the bow of La Perle opening up the sea ‘like the blade of a runaway plough’ (p. 56); bathed by the ‘caress’ of the stiffening breeze, Pierre can at last experience the illusion of frustrations overcome: ‘feeling peaceful and contented . . . guiding this wooden and canvas object like a swift, docile winged beast, its every movement responding to his desire, obeying the pressure of his fingers’ (p. 56). The same connotations mark the splendid arrival of the Prince Albert ‘in a great hurry, like a mail boat making a deadline, and her upright bows sliced through the sea, churning up two trails of thin transparent waves which ran along the length of her hull’ (p. 22); to which Roland (that other ‘retired sea-captain’) doffs his hat as generously as he had welcomed Maréchal, and which leaves behind it ‘on the calm, glinting surface’ a barely discernible but nonetheless perceptible trace. In a novel informed by fraternal rivalry for a mother’s affection, Pierre’s irritation ‘at having being denied the pleasure of the sea by his brother’s presence’ (p. 37), or, to take yet another example, the Seine being compared to ‘a wide arm of sea separating two neighbouring territories’ (p. 72), all such quotations in the original French play on the mer/mère pairing, illustrating its preface’s remarks about the choice of le mot juste. In other cases Maupassant’s metaphors may testify to that creative process which enables a writer’s language to be deciphered beyond his conscious intentions. The implications of such recurrent symbolism are certainly not exclusive to the novel’s Oedipal drama. When Pierre’s mother’s ‘how lovely the sea is’ is qualified by Mme Rosémilly’s ‘but sometimes it can cause a lot of harm’ (p. 23), this exchange appositely reflects an ambivalence which makes of the protective harbour a castrating ‘devouring ogre’ (p. 23); but it also has a more general significance. The ‘rippling water’ (p. 56) over which Pierre exerts a mere semblance of control is an image exactly repeated in that of the rock-pools which excites Jean’s lust for Mme Rosémilly, ‘more cautious’ but ‘equally determined to go into the water in due course’ (p. 87). The sea itself is thus only the most prevalent of those fatalities of nature to which all the characters are ultimately subordinate. Pierre’s outing in La Perle is a defeat for his rational self which

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submits to a ‘mysterious force’ (p. 56); in a space resonant in its appeal only to the senses, with his ‘eyes half closed against the dazzling rays of sunlight’, he abandons his lucidity, ‘dreaming, as you do on horseback or on the deck of a ship’ (p. 56). The meaning of this episode is confirmed by its parallels with two other scenes it prefigures: first, Pierre’s trip to Trouville where the movement of the boat over the water ‘dissipated his thoughts’ (p. 72); and secondly, the novel’s closing scene in which he envisages his destiny on the Lorraine at the mercy of the ocean into which the ship appears to sink as it goes over the horizon. The differences between these three scenes are to be found in the tonality of Pierre’s perspective (optimistic, obsessed, resigned). Only in the last is the blending with nothingness consistently explored in images of death; but between Pierre’s directionless wanderings in La Perle and the anticipated existence on the Lorraine there is a continuity of withdrawal from the structures of the rational world. The sea is thus a matrix for numerous patterns of images which articulate this process of dissolution. The intermittent fog, for example, is to be considered in this wider thematic context. The equally symbolic lighthouses, fitfully illuminating the darkness, can obviously be related to the drama of perception, as can details like Pierre’s lighting a match on the jetty to read the names of the incoming ships, and the spy-glass mentioned in the first chapter and the last; but so too can Louise Roland’s distorted impression of her son’s departure. Misted-over eyes subvert clarity of mind as much as the literal and figurative mists which envelop Pierre. Such evidence of fluid materiality can be linked not only to the fatally disintegrating effects of wine, but also to other textual details which speak of loss of outline: the tea in which biscuits dissolve, evanescent champagne bubbles, the evaporating froth on glasses of beer, the Lorraine ‘melting’ (p. 128) into the ocean, ‘fermenting’ (p. 54) jealousy. Repeated images of this kind set up a pattern of analogies, between the physical world and emotional states. A common fluidity erodes resolve, will-power, and lucidity, working against the consciousness. Another recurrent and related feature of the text is therefore the somnolence which is equated with non-thinking. Between this and interpolated awakening, the novel’s central drama can be traced in explicit ways. For Pierre et Jean is structured not only by outings and meals, but also by the long siestas subsequent to them. Mme Roland is lulled by

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the water; her husband enjoys an ‘invincible slumber’ (p. 71); Jean is ‘in a deep, animal-like sleep’ (p. 69); Marowsko, the waitress, and Papagris all doze. Only Pierre struggles to keep awake, and yet as he avoids alcohol when he needs to reflect, he also goes from café to café to alleviate his suffering. It seems hardly by chance that he so often drinks a glass of water before lapsing––at the end of so many chapters––into the soothing comfort of non-consciousness. To juxtapose his ‘slumber bathed in champagne’ (p. 54) and an irrational ‘dormant’ (p. 17) jealousy is thus to illustrate once again how Maupassant’s choice of metaphors brings together disparate elements in a coherent thematic design. The fact that this infrastructure embraces all the characters of Pierre et Jean is itself partly responsible for the parallels that can be established between them. For it needs to be stressed that Pierre’s quest is reflected in all the other literal and figurative quests of the book which further illuminate his own. Fishing, for example, is an activity of not merely anecdotal interest. The comparisons between fish and human beings go beyond the mention that the former too are asleep; at the dinner, Beausire can exactly imitate a tropical species which look ‘as funny as the inhabitants’ (p. 49), while Roland’s cursing makes no distinction, ‘addressed as much to the indifferent widow as to the uncatchable creatures’ (p. 19). Parallel quests have a characteristic rhythm: ‘they had fished until midday, then dozed, then fished again without having caught a thing’ (p. 19). And what both Pierre and his father survey in the basket is more sinister than they realize, for in its maternal ‘belly’ (p. 15)––which is like the seething ‘flat belly of the Ocean’ (p. 23), the ‘bellies’ (p. 59) of the stinking houses, the ‘immense belly’ (p. 126) crawling with humanity––is evidence of carnality and putrefaction, that stench of death at the centre of Pierre et Jean, reaching from Maréchal’s demise to Pierre’s eventual resignation to a resting-place likened to a coffin. With their ‘final fatal gasps of air’ (p. 15) the trapped creatures of the novel’s exposition refer us to its fictional characters. The fish make ‘useless, limp efforts’ (p. 15) which correspond to Pierre’s ‘useless’ (p. 17) efforts to escape from the stultifying network of relationships in which he is enmeshed. Entrapment is a theme in its own right. Mme Roland is ‘shut in the prison’ (p. 65) of her shop. Pierre ends up in ‘a little floating cabin which, from now on, would be the confines of his life’ (p. 123). Jean is ‘hooked’ and ‘tied’ (p. 89) by

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Mme Rosémilly during the later fishing expedition to Saint-Jouin which also invites a metaphorical reading; he is so like those ‘creatures caught unawares by her subtly slow technique’ (p. 88) that when she gingerly lifts the shrimps from the net, ‘squeezing the tips of their whiskers between two fingers’ (translating barbe here), we are reminded of Jean taking his ‘fair beard in his hand’ and ‘smoothing it down to the tips of the hairs, as if trying to make it longer and thinner’ (p. 29) upon hearing of his enrichment. Even apparent success, in other words, is ironically revealed as failure. For rather than being given his freedom by the will, Jean is thereby subject to Maréchal’s will and volition, and consequently integrated into a banal domesticity which is savagely taken apart in the rest of the novel. Between fishing, courtship, marriage, love-affairs, and careers, there is a uniformity of pattern which ultimately equates one quest with another to provide the dominant tonality of the novel. Louise has the same aspirations as Pierre to escape its horizons of mediocrity. With her sentimentality born of books, ‘applauding actresses swooning on stage’, and dreaming of ‘moonlight, travel, kisses in the evening shadows’ (p. 65), there are precise echoes of Emma Bovary’s gullibility, not least in her lament to Jean: ‘Ah, how happy I could have been if I’d married another man’ (p. 113). But she lacks the tragic status of Flaubert’s heroine, to the extent that she in fact reduplicates in her love-affair with Maréchal both the financial selfinterest and the structure of bourgeois order by transforming him, in her imagination, into her ‘real’ husband (p. 104), and projecting an everlasting aura over a romance whose ending she had accepted with characteristic reasonableness. One of the functions of such parallels is to suggest the general failure which Pierre’s destiny, far from being original, simply repeats. He has enough in common with both his parents to mock the arrogance of his ‘you and I differ’ (p. 42). Roland too has dreams of setting sail for Senegal, thereby trivializing Pierre’s own exotic ambitions. They have the same distrust of women, while the father suffers from a malaise as inexplicable as his son’s. As far as Pierre and his mother are concerned, a mutual longing to escape is complemented by the fact that they both look to the sea in search of disembodied peace; but a similar passivity is suggested by their invariable positions at the rear of their respective boats. The debased currency of their common Romantic idealism can purchase only cliché and contradiction. For while Pierre

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imagines his mother making Maréchal into a hero, entering her life ‘as lovers do in books’ (p. 65), he struggles to retain an image of her as fairy princess he no longer believes in, and himself subscribes to those ‘legends’ (p. 37) which transform Marowsko into a figure of epic proportions. Patterns of this kind are inadequately accounted for by mere heredity. Those that derive from this grouping cut across such explanations altogether. Pierre’s comparison between himself and a pauper like Marowsko is not simply an associative device. The latter being described as having the ‘intonations of an infant learning to speak’ (p. 38) is related to Pierre’s traumatic assimilation of adult codes. They have both come to Le Havre to find a place in the social structure, and when Pierre is forced into exile too, Marowsko feels as betrayed by his provider as Pierre himself. Their destinies run so close that even the medical cupboard in Pierre’s cabin exactly resembles the one in Marowsko’s equally narrow shop; though it is only a bitterly ironic twist that Maréchal’s kind recourse to a Parisian chemist when Pierre was ill as a child should have caused his later suffering, to which Marowsko is blind. That Mme Roland, ‘a somewhat sentimental but thrifty’ (p. 17) woman, should be like Maréchal, a ‘sentimental man’ (p. 63) with money, is less surprising. What is more curious is that her husband has something in common with the episodic Joséphine, the maid too stupid to be party to family secrets. Joséphine, however, is also like Mme Roland: both are unconcerned by the father’s tantrums and treat him with similar scorn. For Roland, indeed, his wife is simply another servant, a role which she contentedly adopts in substituting herself for Jean’s own maid. Linked by a common activity of serving food and drink, this pattern comes full circle in the parallels between Mme Roland and the café waitress; and as Pierre is called upon to diagnose his mother’s suffering, the waitress tells him that, had she known he was a doctor, she would have come to him when she was ‘ill’ (translating the more mirroring French of souffrante) (p. 45). Nevertheless, the most explicit such analogy is that between Mme Roland and Mme Rosémilly. That they should sew and travel side by side may be fortuitous; that they see themselves reflected in the grieving figures in the prints on Mme Rosémilly’s wall is not, ‘so similar that they could have been sisters’ (p. 114). For it is made clear that Jean’s future wife will re-enact Mme Roland’s marital destiny. Mme Rosémilly is as

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charmed by Beausire’s sophistication, ‘almost forgetting her promise and Jean who followed her in a daze’ (p. 90), as she is as irritated by the latter’s clumsiness. To Pierre’s ‘I’m learning how a man prepares himself to become a cuckold’ (p. 91), his mother objects that Mme Rosémilly is ‘as honourable as they come’, thus echoing his misconception of herself. Even more significant, though at first sight possibly unsuspected, are the parallels between Pierre and Jean. At one level they display oppositions almost mathematical in their inverted symmetry; at another the text assimilates them. Maupassant portrays Pierre in Jean’s legal role, both in appearance and temperament, assembling a ‘case’ (p. 66) against his mother, and finally resembling ‘a judge satisfied with his work’ (p. 82). Conversely Jean’s attitude to Mme Roland, particularly in Chapter 7, is that of a caring physician. Pierre’s rationalization of his self-interest is reflected in Jean’s, subsequent to the latter himself experiencing ‘the sharp stab of emotion provoked in us by a terrible thought’ (p. 107); and the feeling of being ‘like a man who has fallen into the water without ever having learned to swim’ (p. 99) recalls Pierre’s of having ‘been thrown from the deck of a ship a hundred leagues out to sea’ (p. 73). Both brothers need to go outside the family in order to think, but in wandering off to the harbour, having ‘opted for solitude’ (p. 33), Pierre finds another ‘loner’ (solitaire, p. 36) in Jean; just as, at the end of the novel, he is briefed by a ship’s doctor described as ‘a young man with a fair beard who looked like his brother’ (p. 119). These substitutions assimilating the two brothers underpin the novel’s psychological study. Jean’s taking Pierre’s place in the Oedipal drama of his mother’s affections is substantiated by symbolic details as well as being charted by the shift in narrative perspective which gradually displaces Pierre’s point of view. Both returning home to ‘share their father’s pleasure’ (p. 16), it is Jean who finally assumes the status of the ‘thief ’ (p. 69, p. 108). What is more, the characters thus function within the related drama of identity. For as the revelation of his mother’s sexual self is inseparable from Pierre’s discovery of ‘the other self which is to be found in each of us’ (p. 34), Jean’s role is that of this alter ego. Pierre’s pent-up ‘self-loathing’ (p. 98) reaches its climax in the confrontation between them. But this disjunction is registered most clearly in the earlier scene in which they lie side by side, only divided by a partition-wall, the one

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conscious in his suffering, the other contentedly unconscious in his ‘animal-like sleep’ (p. 69). As Pierre struggles throughout against an ultimately triumphant irrational self, so, by the end of the novel, this symmetry has been reversed: Jean rationalizes his future during a sleepless night while it is now Pierre who gives in to ‘an animal-like sleep’ (p. 122). The perception of a different ‘other half ’, in fracturing the illusion of unity, also alienates private and public selves. Jean is the latter: integrated into the social world, enjoying its material benefits, setting up his legal practice at the address Pierre had chosen for a surgery, and secure in the preferences of the triadic surrogate of his mother, the waitress, and Mme Rosémilly. As its very title suggests, Pierre et Jean is structured in terms of the two brothers’ antithetical yet complementary selves, alternately rivals and fellowsufferers (like the twin beacons and sirens), divided against, and at one with, each other. A number of critics have played with that title as ‘Pierre e(s)t Jean’, such punning thereby catching the spirit of this text. At one level, many of its character-patterns, justified by family links and affinities, are perfectly consistent with verisimilitude. Yet, at another, this patterning is taken to lengths which are not, underlining the artifice of Pierre et Jean and the extent to which Maupassant is, in effect, playing with his characters and, ultimately, his reader.8 Wordplay, in the shape of puns and double entendres, is certainly in evidence within the text. The authorial humour is sometimes wry and often savage, if not always amenable to translation into English. When his parents are asked whether they were ‘on very intimate terms with’ Maréchal, Pierre listens to his unfaithful mother describe him as ‘a faithful friend’ (p. 53); he unwittingly recalls her lover as ‘a man who had known their mother’ (p. 67, with the original French here, connu, having the biblical sense of ‘carnal knowledge’), while Jean’s reproach is truer than he knows, accusing Pierre of ‘torturing Mother as if it’s her fault’ (p. 97, faute also meaning ‘carnal sin’). At the same time, this is also a feature of the text which, rather than simply pointing to their blindness, bypasses the characters altogether while alerting us to Maupassant’s presence as storyteller; and it is significant that the effectiveness of this kind of 8 As Mary Donaldson-Evans has suggested in her brilliant ‘Maupassant Ludens: A Re-examination of Pierre et Jean’, Nineteenth-Century French Studies, 9 (1981), 204–19.

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punning often depends on the text being read aloud, in keeping with Maupassant’s formidable reputation as a raconteur. This is particularly the case in his exploitation of the myriad possibilities of onomastic word-play. Pont-Audemer (p. 35) is a variation on a homophonic theme (eau de mer) as is Pierre’s evocation of Castellamare (p. 66) (château de la mer). More mischievous is Trouville as the site of sexual availability. Saint-Jouin is where decisions are reached to join in holy matrimony, and where the alliance between Jean and his mother is forged at Pierre’s expense. It is as appropriate that the Prince Albert should be named after a deceased husband who was not the official king, as it is for Pierre to leave on the Lorraine––that province of so much strife, and in exile after 1870––rather than the Normandie (which was substituted in the manuscript for L’Amérique), the ship of his motherland. Nor are the names of the characters innocently invented. In Mme Rosémilly, rose-et-mille (flowers and money) suggests a woman both sentimental and pragmatic, that pious and skilful strategist living on the Route de Saint-Adresse (adresse also meaning ‘skill’). Léon Maréchal is linked to that most un-leonine of lovers, the Léon of Madame Bovary whose heroine, as has been suggested, has much in common with his mistress; and the martial grandeur of his name is subverted by all the ‘captains’ who parade their inanity through the novel, not least Roland himself as ‘captain of the Perle’ (p. 52). The former dealer in precious stones who gives this name to his boat and calls his son Pierre (the French for ‘stone’) is, of course, the last person to discover any secret at the heart of his oyster! Dr Pirette (p. 119) is Pierre in another form, as ‘Pierrot’ (translated as ‘little Pierre’, p. 55) suggests how he is diminished when he clowns for the family’s pleasure. The names of Pierre’s professors have animal connotations, while verbal associations may partly explain the comparison between Marat and Marowsko. More curious is the phonemic interechoing between these, the episodic figures of Marchand, MasRoussel, and Marival, and Maréchal himself. It is possible that this prefix is another variant on the punning of mer and mère. But they can also be seen as a kind of audible joke, a studied tease which highlights the very act of naming. As such, these choices establish between author and reader a knowing relationship informed by nods and winks. They are part of the process whereby the work plants its clues, in a novel which has

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much in common with a detective story––Pierre being the sleuth engaged in a search for motive, opportunity, and proof which is not merely circumstantial, in order to arrive (if necessary through securing a confession) at the truth. That structure sustains the dramatic interest of the novel. Yet there is no mystery not easily resolved. Right from the start, we are told that Roland is not a ladies’ man and adores being taken in by lies. His wife’s reactions to the memory of Maréchal are plain to see. We learn that it was he who rushed off to get a doctor at Jean’s birth, while his imagined words ‘I helped bring this boy into the world’ (p. 31) tell it all. We also chuckle when Roland recalls that Maréchal ‘came in to order something, and then he came back often’ (p. 58). And how this story will end is equally obvious. As early as Chapter 3 Pierre is left alone while the family make arrangements for Jean’s new life; and it is saturated in prefigurations of death, in motifs and metaphors of solitude and exile. Inscribed in Maréchal’s will, for example, is the clause that the legacy will go by default to ‘abandoned children’ (p. 28). Even the biscuits offered to M. Lecanu are sealed in coffin-like ‘metal containers for trips around the world’ (p. 30). Many of these presages, of course, the reader tends not to see, integrating such details only in retrospect. Indeed, Maupassant encourages the reader to adopt Pierre’s point of view, and to follow his investigations via the clues he finds (like matching hair and dates). But the authorial irony is aimed both at Pierre––who is largely blind to the structure of signposts and never has the truth revealed directly to him––and at the reader. In the reader’s case, this irony is more complex. For while the truth seems apparent, the reader tends to ignore the extent to which, in the suspension of disbelief, the ‘Illusionist’’s artifice has been taken at face value––at the level of appearance in spite of its thematic subversion––in spite of the novel’s quite extraordinarily contrived patterns and its incredibly schematic arrangement. This is further illustrated by the book’s triangles, extending from all the threesomes of the drama to those incidental triads like the house on three floors, Lecanu’s clerk having been three times, Joséphine’s three entries with tea-things, and the thrice-striking clock. Pierre makes three visits to Marowsko and to the harbour, and three boat trips, including the three hours he spends sailing La Perle. We are told that he was 3 years old when his parents met Maréchal, and he needs to find an annual rent of 3,000 francs. And all this in a novel

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of nine chapters and six principal characters, with its three old sailors (Roland, Papagris, and Beausire) and its triple surrogate of Louise, Mme Rosémilly, and the waitress. Nor do these few examples exhaust a phenomenon discernible even in the organization of its narrative sequences. When one adds to this the symmetries generated by its doubling procedures, Pierre et Jean does indeed appear artificial in the extreme, as contrived as those two pairs of prints working by analogy in Mme Rosémilly’s drawing room, which their spectators take as real reproductions of genuine scenes and admire with the required gravity of emotion. In the final analysis the patterns of Pierre et Jean both contribute to its aesthetic unity and function within the same self-conscious perspective as its preface. For if the latter provides Maupassant with a mirror in which he can rationalize his artistic strategies, the novel itself encodes that awareness of his imaginative playing with words. This very activity is dramatized in the scene in Chapter 2 in which Pierre helps Marowsko find a name, precisely, for his latest liqueur. In their own search for le mot juste, ‘Lovely Ruby’ (p. 39) is rejected as being too metaphorically precious and pretentiously symbolic; on the other hand, the name finally agreed upon, ‘Currantina’, is the nearest to the raw material from which Marowsko’s invention has been distilled, without, of course, being quite the same thing. As has been suggested, Marowsko is another of Pierre’s subject-doubles, exiled from his mother-country, not fitting (even into his clothes!), not integrated into the marriages and meals of materialist bourgeois France. Above all, however, he is like Pierre because he too is engaged in a quest for originality; and in this scene he thinks that, at last, after two months’ work, he has wrought from an ordinary fruit ‘a new concoction’, as Pierre acknowledges: ‘Very, very good, and quite a new flavour. A real find, my friend!’ (p. 38). Yet this drama of expression is circumscribed by what habitually happens to Marowsko’s discoveries: they are not recognized unless they are bought by café-owners as a result of being advertised in newspapers in exchange for bribes. His creative inventions, in other words, have to be retailed so that he can survive and labelled so that they can sell, assimilated into, and degraded by, those public values for which ‘a real find’ is a luxurious apartment (p. 57). In the parallel failures of both the alchemist and Pierre, one can discern Maupassant’s own quest for originality, fearing that his novel’s quality would preclude it

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from a being a commercial success. As his preface makes explicit, he too is searching for a language in which his inventions allow the reader to recognize the raw material from which it is created, but which is manifestly not synonymous with that reality.

The Originality of Pierre et Jean Assessed against the criteria set out in ‘The Novel’, the measure of the originality of Maupassant’s recognizably Realist text is therefore the extent to which it is not simply a copy of the particular reality it seems to transcribe. That achievement rests on the overlaid paradox that this construction of the ‘Illusionist’ demystifies what its preface calls ‘an illusion of the world’ (p. 8). His conception of experience is properly theatrical. For if Maupassant shows human beings subject to fatalities beyond their control, by the same token their attempts to shape their own destinies are illusory, like Jean’s ‘decision’ to get married or Pierre’s ‘determination’ to leave. So too, differentiation from biological origins is merely an illusion of the ego which seeks social or intellectual forms as a means of asserting its reality. The remorseless analogies of Pierre et Jean equate all such forms of behaviour with a transparent masquerade. As suggested by its interdependent scenarios of a ‘romantic comedy . . . played out throughout the fishing trip’ (p. 89) of Chapter 6, the trivial games that people play (fishing, rowing, sailing) are ultimately no different from apparently more serious activities. Human dramas are played out against the backdrop of the cycle of the seasons, the sea, and the stars, reducing their protagonists to the status of insects. What they achieve is purely by chance, and as fragile as the sand-castles trampled on by the children in the park. That Pierre’s final departure should be likened to both a birth and a death is consistent with a pattern of images in which, for Maupassant, life and mortality are synonymous. The consequences of so pessimistic a vision of experience are potentially far-reaching in so far as the particular construction unmasked in Pierre et Jean is that of the family itself, with its values designed to guarantee that structure against the disorder of instinctual drives. The chaos of natural forces perceived by Jean and Mme Rosémilly on the edge of the (sexual) abyss exactly parallels Pierre’s discovery in the bowels of the Lorraine; for as the rocks piled on top

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of each other (p. 85) resemble the ruins of a city divested of its civilization, so, not far below the veneer of the upper decks, the creatures ‘stretched out on shelves one above the other or in teeming piles all over the floor’ (p. 125) have returned to their animal origins. The family, in Maupassant’s novel, is seen disguising these by providing the natural self with a social role, transforming the biological female into wife and mother and differentiating father and son in her affections. Only the waitress retains a sexual freedom outside the family network, but she is without a name, as stateless as the exiles on the ship. The repressive codes which enable the family to maintain a semblance of order are not limited to such expulsions. It does so too, for example, by averting its eyes from the bed, by not soliciting intimacy, and by burning the evidence of passion. Pierre et Jean simultaneously reveals that order to be an arbitrary one and questions the very basis of those absolute judgements which make it against the law to commit incest and adultery. Marriage and adultery are subjects to which Maupassant frequently returned in his journalism of 1881–4, presaging their treatment in Pierre et Jean. His invariable conclusion is that marriage is an ‘anti-natural’ state, admitting that his sympathy for infidelity was deeply subversive. It is incest, however, which represents the definitive negation of family rules, the ultimate interdit (the ‘non-sayable’) in a novel whose tranquil conversations assure the Rolands’ material future and only become disruptive when emotions break through. Pierre et Jean is not overtly, of course, a novel about this taboo. But its patterns provocatively assimilate incest and adultery by revealing the ‘lie’ (p. 68) of paternal rights at the family’s centre. Though Roland surveys la mer(e) ‘like a self-satisfied proprietor’ (p. 16), the paternal home is not inviolable. His potency is a sham; his wishes and advice are ignored, and he is progressively divested of his authority. Not only is he not consulted about Jean’s marriage, but the novel’s closing scene shows the former ‘captain’ reduced to a superfluous passenger in the family boat, while Beausire (that other ‘intimate friend’ (p. 18) whose very name aligns him with Maréchal), ‘sitting between the two women’ (p. 127), is at the helm. As Mme Roland blushingly admits, ‘we do everything without telling him’ (p. 116). No wonder that her bovine husband can appreciate the difficulties encountered by the ‘pilots of Quillebœuf’ ‘unless they negotiate the channel every day’ (p. 23). In the French text he is always

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père Roland, thereby divested of his sexuality; and as we are alerted to this when told that Louise ‘always called her husband Father at home, and sometimes Monsieur Roland in front of strangers’ (p. 25), so this is deliberately repeated at the very moment Jean takes his father’s place at the head of the family table. He also takes from him Mme Rosémilly’s arm, thus prefiguring the exceptional entwinement with his mother only possible after Chapter 7. For that chapter sees the consummation of this Oedipal drama in the scene between these two which has earned enough critical admiration to repay the amount of work, judging by its extensive rewriting, which Maupassant devoted to it. The substitution, in the manuscript, of ‘kissed her dress’ (p. 100) for the original ‘kissing her neck, her shoulder, and her bosom’ does not alter the fact that this is a seduction scene. And its ‘hidden meaning’ (p. 6) is illuminated not only by the equations between Roland and Pierre, and between Jean and Maréchal (remembered by the father as being ‘a brother’ (p. 53) ), but also by Mme Roland wanting to stay the night and returning to her husband’s bed ‘feeling once again the familiar excitement of past adulteries’ (p. 105). By relating explicit and covert discourses in this way, Maupassant seeks to demystify the fictions which assure a society of its differentiation from the bestial. That the family functions as a microcosm of the larger collective organization is confirmed by the fact that the novel’s private Oedipal drama too is linked to the economic codes of the bourgeois world. The impoverished Pierre is kept at the door of transgression while Jean is powerful enough to make his way through that door to his mother on the bed. But the bourgeois characters are only distinguished from the suffering poor on the Lorraine by their confidence in the illusions they elaborate. And that confidence itself serves to explain Pierre et Jean’s textual strategies. Maupassant is perfectly aware that, in a society ‘where good taste is hard to come by’ (p. 75), books are read ‘not for their artistic value but for the melancholic and gentle daydreams they awakened in’ (p. 20) a Mme Roland whose vulgar literary tastes correspond exactly to those decried in his preface. What has been called Maupassant’s ‘ludic cynicism’ is responsible for his refusal to cater for the expectations of such a readership. This ‘Roman de(s) Roland’ is cast in an ambiguous mode. Far from offering the reader what its preface terms a ‘dramatic catastrophe’ (p. 7), the novel closes with the

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family order reimposed. And that Mme Roland should be instrumental in this accounts for the ambivalence with which we are encouraged to view her. For while she goes beyond the structure of legimitate emotions, she is also, and above all, ‘an orderly woman’ (p. 17). While her preoccupation with harmony is not limited to interior decoration, the design she chooses for Jean’s bedroom (invested with ‘all of a mother’s love’) is grotesquely inappropriate; for, even on the curtains around a conjugal bed she had so detested herself, there is an emblematic ‘shepherdess in a medallion framed by the joined beaks of two doves’ (p. 94). Such is the depth of complacency confronted by Maupassant that he inverts the conventions of the family’s vicarious experience by ending his own novel of adultery, not with a murder or a suicide, but with a marriage. At the same time, his self-awareness extends to doubts about his entire project. By taking the narrative beyond Pierre’s point of view, Maupassant seems to be distinguished from the character’s failure to have the truth confirmed. What Pierre does surmise simply condemns him to a futile suffering. More problematic is the recognition that the ‘truth’ discerned in Pierre et Jean is no more valid than the ‘lie’ it uncovers. Pierre’s reconstruction of events is properly novelistic. But, for that very reason, it may be no more than another subjective illusion. His version of his mother’s love-affair is neither identical to, nor any less distorted than, her own confession. That same ‘vivid and wild imagination’, we are told in an authorial aside, has been ‘captured’ (p. 37) by the myths surrounding Marowsko. And it also generates a tragic vision of his own destiny. Set alongside this, however, there is a more prosaic account. Rather than being tossed about on the roaring ocean, the Lorraine sets sail on a sea as smooth as polished steel; and, instead of being subject to the unleashed forces of the natural world, Pierre (as both the meeting with Dr Pirette and the architectural analogies suggest) is as integrated as Jean, if less securely, within a social structure. The final family conversation includes the promise to ensure that Pierre is present at the wedding which will consecrate the triumph of order. In such resigned compromises we find the most bitterly ironic of Maupassant’s self-reflections. Not only is Pierre locked in egoism at the sight of the fellow-sufferers with whom he cannot communicate, but there is an acknowledgement that his revelations function primarily as a personal catharsis, ‘as if emptying his

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sorrow into the invisible, deaf winds that carried his words away’ (p. 98). The fear of ‘a lie impossible to reveal’ (pp. 68–9) is confirmed by the text’s images of itself, the most important of which is Maréchal’s portrait. This is Maupassant’s clearest borrowing from Bourget’s André Cornélis (1887), in which the handling of such a self-conscious device is in keeping with Hamlet’s famous ‘the play’s the thing | Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king’. Pierre similarly tries to prove his mother’s guilt by gauging her reactions to a representation of her past. It is ‘read’ by all the members of the family, provoking their contributions to the novel’s own reconstruction of events. Because it is open to different interpretations, however, the lifelike but cryptic ‘portrait of a friend, portrait of a lover’ (p. 72) offers Pierre no certainty. It also mirrors the reader’s deciphering activities. And it is significant that, having been briefly on display, by the time the novel is over, the portrait is locked away and hidden once again. But the effectiveness of Maupassant’s ‘disturbing little painting’ (p. 72) can perhaps be judged by comparing Pierre et Jean to Mme Rosémilly’s ‘sentimental maritime scenes’ (p. 114). Inspiring ‘decorum and a sense of order’ (p. 115), the latter are consistent with a room whose symmetrically aligned chairs are only momentarily displaced by the ritual of legitimizing Jean and Mme Rosémilly’s sexual dalliance in the midst of nature. They exert a ‘fascination’ on those ‘moved and captivated by the banal poignancy of these unambiguous, poetic subjects’; and, like Mme Roland’s reading, they engender ‘reverie’. Their stylized representations of suffering in no way disturb the ordered space they decorate. Maupassant’s text tries to do something else. For, as he puts it in his preface, the novelist’s aim ‘is not to tell us a story, to entertain us, or to appeal to our emotions, but rather to force us to think’ (p. 6). And this requires both involvement in, and abstraction from, a recognizably fictional reality neither exclusively symbolic, like the pictures on the wall, nor simply anecdotal, like the story of a crime in the newspaper––which also caters for an unthinking ‘fascination’ (p. 42). The reader is thus invited to see illustrated in Pierre et Jean what is considered to be the most succinct statement of his aesthetic: ‘a work of art is only distinguished if it is at the same time both symbolic and exactly representative of reality’ (La Vie errante, 1890). But unlike the gallery of mirrors in the Lorraine, it should also trouble his sleep.

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Pierre et Jean is very different from those pictures on Mme Rosémilly’s wall ‘instantly understood, requiring neither mental effort nor prolonged scrutiny’ (p. 114). Yet it is not certain that readers will discern its ‘hidden meaning’ as well as believe in its ‘events’. Such doubts in the novel’s preface echo Maupassant’s nostalgic evocation, three years earlier, of an eighteenth-century reading-public’s appreciation of a writer’s secretive procedures: ‘It sought the underlying and inner meaning of words, delved into what the author was trying to do, read slowly so as not to miss a detail, and then, having understood a sentence, went back to discover whether there was more to it than might appear. For intelligent minds, carefully prepared for literary effects, were subject to that mysterious power which subtly brings a work of art to life.’ In Pierre et Jean, by contrast, that other ‘cashier . . . reading a novel’ (in the café) illustrates a mindless boredom (p. 45). For another way in which Maupassant’s text is a product of the post-Naturalist crisis of the French novel is that it dramatizes the contemporary artist’s lost belief in that imaginative ‘power’. In L’Inutile Beauté (1890), art is conceived as both the free play of the imagination momentarily transcending deterministic forces, and yet ultimately as insubstantial as other human activities. Such an ambivalence towards his own writing, alternately asserted as a raison d’être and cynically dismissed as a way of earning a living, informs the very texture of Pierre et Jean. While a language both natural and deliberate gives him enormous freedom, Maupassant simultaneously watches himself playing with words. The patterns of his artefact can be equated with those of Mme Roland’s tapestry, ‘a difficult and intricate piece of work’ (p. 78), with her eyes moving between the portrait and counting stitches. Maupassant’s impish delight in his inventions may seem to coexist uneasily with a terrible despair. It is also consistent, however, with a critical questioning of the genre in which, alongside the superior truth of ‘lies’, the novel parades its own artifice and signals its author’s awareness of being engaged in a fictional sport. The novel’s identity too becomes problematic in illuminating its own origins. In the ways in which it anticipates that modern concern whereby the text is given to observing itself in the process of its own making, not the least original dimension of Pierre et Jean is the extent to which it encodes the drama of originality itself.

NOTE ON THE TEXT This translation is based on the text of Pierre et Jean edited by Louis Forestier in the Pléiade edition of the Romans (Paris: Éditions Gallimard, 1987), widely considered to be the most authoritative edition of Maupassant’s works. Pierre et Jean first appeared in the Nouvelle Revue in three instalments (1 and 15 Dec. 1887; 1 Jan. 1888) before being published in volume form by Paul Ollendorff in January 1888. I am extremely grateful to Professor Robert Lethbridge for his encouragement and lively debate on the more specific problems of retaining Maupassant’s symbolic and suggestive use of language in the translation of this novel (see Introduction).

SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY Editions Pierre et Jean, in Louis Forestier’s edition of Maupassant, Romans (Paris: Bibliothèque de la Pléiade, 1987); includes a synopsis of the composition of both the novel and Maupassant’s prefatory essay, notes on the text, and successive amendments from the manuscript to the final version of Pierre et Jean in volume form. These 90 pages of material appended to the text constitute the most scholarly introduction to the novel. Readers wishing to go back to the original French text should note that, by contrast with occasional transcription errors which have crept into some paperback reprintings of Pierre et Jean, this Pléiade edition of the novel remains the most accurate and authoritative. Complementary to this edition of Maupassant’s novels is his Contes et nouvelles, 2 vols., ed. Louis Forestier (Paris: Bibliothèque de la Pléiade, 1974–9). Pierre et Jean, ed. Pierre Cogny (Paris: Garnier 1966); as well as having very useful information about the novel, the introduction to this edition incisively demolishes speculation that Flaubert may have been Maupassant’s real father. Pierre et Jean, ed. G. Hainsworth (London: Harrap, 1966); this has been subject to successive reprintings and remains an excellent edition of the novel in the original French, with introduction and notes in English, including an appendix devoted to ‘The Testimony of the Manuscript’. Pierre et Jean, ed. Daniel Leuwers (Paris: Garnier-Flammarion, 1999); this paperback edition is generally reliable. Pierre et Jean, ed. Bernard Pingaud (Paris: Collection Folio, 1982; repr. 1999); this is notable for its stimulating introduction. Biography Ignotus, Paul, The Paradox of Maupassant (London: University of London Press, 1966). Lanoux, Armand, Maupassant le Bel-Ami (Paris: Fayard, 1967; repr. Livre de Poche, 1983). Lerner, Michael, Maupassant (London: Allen & Unwin, 1975). Steegmuller, Francis, Maupassant: A Lion in the Path (New York: Collins, 1949; repr. London: Macmillan, 1972). Troyat, Henri, Maupassant (Paris: Flammarion, 1989).

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Readers should note that, while all the above are variably colourful and intelligent versions of Maupassant’s life, none is wholly accurate and they tend to borrow inaccuracies from each other. His biographers lack a comprehensive edition of the writer’s correspondence; and they face major problems in distinguishing fact from Maupassant’s own autobiographical accounts (often somewhere between semi-fiction and fantasy). One exception to this is Roger Williams’s exploitation of scientific evidence to reconstruct Maupassant’s medical history, in his The Horror of Life (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1980), 217–72. Excellent collections of photos and images related to Maupassant’s life are to be found in: Album Maupassant, ed. Jacques Réda (Paris: Bibliothèque de la Pléiade, 1987). Maupassant (1850–1893); catalogue of the centenary exhibition (Fécamp, 1993). Maupassant inédit: iconographie et documents, ed. Jacques Bienvenu (Aix-en-Provence: Edisud, 1993).

Critical Studies General Bury, Marianne, La Poétique de Maupassant (Paris: SEDES, 1994). Donaldson-Evans, Mary, A Woman’s Revenge: The Chronology of Dispossession in Maupassant’s Fiction (Lexington, Ky.: French Forum, 1986). Sullivan, Edward D., Maupassant the Novelist (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1954); chapter 9 is entirely devoted to Pierre et Jean. Vial, André, Guy de Maupassant et l’art du roman (Paris: Nizet, 1954); notwithstanding its date of publication, this remains the starting point for any serious study of Maupassant the novelist. On Pierre et Jean Artinian, Artine, ‘Guy de Maupassant and his Brother Hervé’, Romanic Review, 39 (1948), 301–6. Aubéry, Pierre, ‘Images du Havre dans Pierre et Jean, de Guy de Maupassant’, Le Bel-Ami, 7 (1958), 13–22. Boak, Denis, ‘Pierre et Jean: The Banal as Tragic’, Essays in French Literature, 15 (1978), 48–55. Cabanès, Jean-Louis, ‘Ressassement et progression narrative dans Pierre et Jean’, in Louis Forestier (ed.), Maupassant et l’écriture (Paris: Nathan, 1993), 187–96.

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Donaldson-Evans, Mary, ‘The Sea as Symbol: A Key to the Structure of Maupassant’s Pierre et Jean’, Nottingham French Studies, 17 (1978), 36–43. —— ‘Maupassant Ludens: A Re-examination of Pierre et Jean’, Nineteenth-Century French Studies, 9 (1981), 204–19. Forestier, Louis, ‘La Nourriture dans Pierre et Jean’, in Christopher Lloyd and Robert Lethbridge (eds.), Maupassant conteur et romancier (Durham: University of Durham, 1993), 149–59. Freimanis, Dzintars, ‘More on the Meaning of Pierre et Jean’, French Review, 38 (1965), 326–31. Giachetti, C., ‘Déficits métaboliques: sommeil et nutrition dans Pierre et Jean de Maupassant’, French Review, 67 (1994), 767–75. Grant, E. M., ‘On the Meaning of Maupassant’s Pierre et Jean’, French Review, 36 (1963), 469–73. James, Henry, ‘Guy de Maupassant’, in Partial Portraits (London: Macmillan, 1888), 243–87. Lethbridge, Robert, Maupassant: ‘Pierre et Jean’ (London: Grant & Cutler, 1984). Mrowa-Hopkins, C., ‘Le Dialogue dans Pierre et Jean’, Essays in French Literature, 30 (1993), 75–85. Niess, Robert, ‘Pierre et Jean: Some Symbols’, French Review, 32 (1959), 511–19. Patrick, Jonathan, ‘Maupassant’s Pierre et Jean: A Note on Mme Rosémilly’, French Studies Bulletin, 76 (2000), 5–8. Sachs, Murray, ‘The Meaning of Maupassant’s Pierre et Jean’, French Review, 34 (1961), 244–50. Simon, Ernest, ‘Descriptive and Analytical Techniques in Maupassant’s Pierre et Jean’, Romanic Review, 51 (1960), 45–52. Unwin, Timothy, ‘Jealousy and its Displacements: A Reading of Pierre et Jean’, Essays in French Literature, 30 (1993), 101–13. West-Sooby, John, ‘Le Regard dans Pierre et Jean’, Essays in French Literature, 30 (1993), 86–100.

Further Reading in Oxford World’s Classics Maupassant, Guy de, A Day in the Country and Other Stories, trans. and ed. David Coward. —— Mademoiselle Fifi and Other Stories, trans and ed. David Coward. —— A Life, trans. and ed. Roger Pearson. —— Bel-Ami, trans. Margaret Mauldon, ed. Robert Lethbridge.

A CHRONOLOGY OF GUY DE MAUPASSANT 1850

5 August: birth of Henry René Albert Guy de Maupassant, probably at Fécamp on the coast of Normandy, the first child of Gustave de Maupassant and Laure Le Poittevin. 1851–4 Comfortably off, the Maupassants live in a number of places in the Normandy area (Rouen, Fécamp, Étretat) before moving into the Château de Grainville-Ymauville near Goderville in the vicinity of Le Havre. 1856 Birth of Guy’s brother, Hervé. 1859 Financial problems lead Gustave de Maupassant to enter employment with the Banque Stolz in Paris. Family move to Passy. October: Guy enters the Lycée Napoléon (now the Lycée Henri IV), where he remains for the academic year. 1860 Failure of the marriage between Gustave and Laure. Gustave remains in Paris, where he works for the Banque Évrard for the next twenty-five years. Laure and her two sons move to Étretat, where Laure has bought a house, Les Verguies. 1863 Legal separation of Gustave and Laure (divorce not being legalized until 1884). October: Guy becomes boarder at a Catholic school in Yvetot. Begins writing verse. 1863–8 Schooling at Yvetot, holidays swimming and boating at Étretat. On one occasion swims to the assistance of the poet Swinburne, who has got into difficulties. Following expulsion from school for some lewd verse, Maupassant is sent as a boarder to the Lycée Corneille in Rouen. His correspondant (a friend of the family chosen by parents of boarders to act as guardian) was Louis Bouilhet (b. 1821), the writer, city librarian, and close friend of Flaubert. Bouilhet and Flaubert encourage and advise him in his writing. 1869 18 July: death of Louis Bouilhet. 27 July: passes his baccalaureate (‘mention passable’). August: meets the painter Gustave Courbet (1819–77). October: enrols as a law student in Paris, and lives in the same apartment block as his father. This Chronology is based on that provided by Louis Forestier in his edition of Maupassant’s Contes et nouvelles in the Bibliothèque de la Pléiade.

Chronology 1870 1871 1872

1873 1874 1875 1876 1877

1878

1879 1880

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15 July: France declares war on Germany. Maupassant is called up and, after training, posted as a clerk to Rouen. 1 September: French defeat at Sedan. 28 January: Armistice signed. September: leaves the army. Applies to join the Ministry for the Navy and the Colonies as a civil servant. Application refused, then Maupassant offered an unpaid position pending a vacancy. Begins to be a frequent summer visitor to Argenteuil on the Seine, where boating and female company occupy his time. 1 February: appointed to a position on a monthly salary of 125 francs, plus an annual bonus of 150 francs. Continues to spend time at Argenteuil when he can. 25 March: confirmed in his post at the Ministry and salary increased. Continues to enjoy life at Argenteuil, and to write verse, stories, and plays. February: his first short story to be published, La Main d’écorché, appears under the pseudonym Joseph Prunier. Now fully involved in Parisian literary life (Flaubert, Mallarmé, Zola, Huysmans, Mendès, Turgenev). Consults doctor about chest pains. 2 March: aware of having contracted syphilis. August: obtains two months’ sick leave. Suffering from hair-loss, headaches, eye problems, stomach pains. December: tells Flaubert of his plans for a novel (A Life). Transfers to the Ministry of Education. Working on A Life. Leaves it to one side to concentrate on a long poem (La Vénus rustique) and some short stories. 10–13 October: invites Flaubert to his mother’s house at Étretat and shows him his unfinished novel. Maupassant is now earning 2,000 francs a year, and receiving an annual allowance from his father of 600 francs. 19 February: first night of his play L’Histoire du vieux temps, which is well received. January–February: accused of publishing an obscene poem (Une fille). A letter in his defence from Flaubert contributes to the case being dropped. Further health problems, including an eye lesion and renewed hair-loss. 16 April: Zola publishes the anthology of Naturalist writing Les Soirées de Médan, stories about the Franco-Prussian War including Maupassant’s Boule de Suif, which Flaubert hails as a masterpiece. 8 May: sudden death of Flaubert. 1 June: obtains first of several periods of sick leave until

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1881 1882 1883

1884 1885 1886

1887

1888

1889 1890

1891 1892

Chronology he ceases work in 1882. September–October: visits Corsica with his mother. May: publication of La Maison Tellier, the first of his many collections of short stories. 1 October: a fragment from the beginning of A Life published in the review Panurge. 27 February: birth of Lucien Litzelmann, son of Josephine Litzelmann and thought to be Maupassant’s child. On the same day A Life begins to appear in serialized form in the Gil Blas. The last instalment appears on 6 April. Maupassant’s first novel is then published by Havard. January: publication of Au soleil, his first travel book. 6 April–30 May: Bel-Ami, his second novel, appears in Gil Blas and is then published by Havard. 19 January: marriage of Hervé. 1–15 August: visit to England. Stays with Baron Ferdinand de Rothschild at Waddesdon Manor, near Oxford. Visits Oxford, then London. 23 December: first instalment of Mont-Oriol, his third novel, appears in Gil Blas. January: Mont-Oriol published in book form. Maupassant spends the summer in Étretat. June–September: writes Pierre et Jean, followed by a prefatory essay, ‘The Novel’. 1 December: first of three instalments of Pierre et Jean serialized in La Nouvelle Revue. 15 December: second instalment of Pierre et Jean. 1 January: last instalment of Pierre et Jean appears in La Nouvelle Revue. 7 January: ‘The Novel’ published (with unauthorized cuts) in the literary supplement of Le Figaro. 9 January: Pierre et Jean, together with ‘The Novel’, published in book form by Ollendorff. June: publication of Sur l’eau, his second travel book. May: publication by Ollendorff of Fort comme la mort, his fifth novel. August: takes brother to an asylum in Lyons. 13 November: death of Hervé. 6–24 January: publication of La Vie errante, his third travel book, in series of articles in L’Écho de Paris, before its publication in book form in March. 15 May: his final completed novel, Notre cœur, begins to appear in the Revue des deux mondes: published in book form in June. His health is now giving serious cause for concern. January–March: begins another novel, L’Angélus. 4 March: first performance of his play Musotte. After visiting his mother on New Year’s Day, he returns home (at

Chronology

1893 1903

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Cannes); tries to kill himself that night by slitting his throat with a paper-knife. 8 January: taken to the clinic of Dr Blanche in Passy (now part of Paris) and diagnosed as suffering from paresis (or general paralysis), the tertiary stage of syphilis. 6 July: death of Maupassant. 8 July: burial in the cemetery of Montparnasse. Zola gives the funeral oration. 8 December: death of Laure de Maupassant in Nice at the age of 82.

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PIERRE ET JEAN

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THE NOVEL It is not my intention here to defend the short novel that follows. Quite the opposite, in fact, as the ideas I am going to try to get across would, if anything, lead to criticism of the kind of psychological study I have undertaken in Pierre et Jean. I want to deal with the Novel in general. I am not alone in being accused of the same thing by the same critics* each time a new book appears. Amidst complimentary phrases, I regularly find this one, always penned by the same people: ‘The great flaw in this work is that it is not a novel in the proper sense of the word.’ One could reply using the same argument: ‘The great flaw in this writer who flatters me with his judgement, is that he is not a critic.’ So what are the essential qualities of a critic? Being wholly objective, without preconceived opinions, ideas from any particular school, ties with any family of artists, a critic must understand, distinguish, and explain all the widely contrasting tendencies, the most conflicting temperaments, and accept the most diverse artistic experiments. Thus the critic who, after Manon Lescaut, Paul et Virginie, Don Quixote, Les Liaisons dangereuses, Werther, Elective Affinities, Clarissa Harlowe, Émile, Candide, Cinq-Mars, René, Les Trois Mousquetaires, Mauprat, Le Père Goriot, La Cousine Bette, Colomba, Le Rouge et le noir, Mademoiselle de Maupin, Notre-Dame de Paris, Salammbô, Madame Bovary, Adolphe, M. de Camors, L’Assommoir, Sapho, etc.,* still dares to write, ‘This is a novel, that is not’, seems to me to be endowed with a perspicacity remarkably like incompetence. Usually this critic understands by the term ‘novel’ a more or less plausible adventure, arranged like a play in three acts, the first containing the exposition, the second the action, and the third the denouement. This kind of structure is perfectly acceptable provided that all others are equally so. Is there a set of rules for writing a novel, any deviation from which would require a story to bear a different name? If Don Quixote is a novel, is Le Rouge et le noir one as well? If

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The Novel

Monte-Cristo* is a novel, what about L’Assommoir? Is it possible to make a comparison between Goethe’s Elective Affinities, Dumas’s Les Trois Mousquetaires, Flaubert’s Madame Bovary, Monsieur O. Feuillet’s M. de Camors, and Zola’s Germinal?* Which of these works is a novel? What are these famous rules? Where do they originate from? Who made them? By virtue of what principle, whose authority, and what reasoning? It seems, however, that these critics know for certain, beyond any doubt, what constitutes a novel and what distinguishes it from another novel which isn’t a novel. This quite simply means that, without producing anything themselves, they are enlisted into a school and reject, as novelists themselves do, any works conceived and executed outside their chosen aesthetic mode. An intelligent critic should, on the contrary, look for everything that is least like any novels already written and encourage young writers to try out new ways wherever possible. All writers, Victor Hugo as much as M. Zola,* have persistently demanded the absolute, unquestionable right to write, that is to imagine or observe, in accordance with their personal conception of art. Talent comes from originality, which is a special way of thinking, seeing, understanding, and judging. The critic who thus claims to define the Novel according to his preconceptions, based on the novels he likes, and to establish inflexible rules governing its composition, will always come up against an artistic temperament introducing some new style. A critic really worthy of the name should simply be an unbiased analyst, without preferences, detached, and, like an expert in paintings, should only assess the artistic value of the work of art submitted to him. His open-minded understanding should so override his own personality that he can bring to our attention and praise books which as a man he dislikes, but as a judge must comprehend. But the majority of critics are merely readers, which is why they almost always take our work apart for the wrong reasons or congratulate us without reservation or moderation. The reader, who only wants a book to satisfy the natural inclination of his mind, just asks that the writer caters for his predominant taste, and will invariably call a work or passage remarkable or well written when it engages his own imagination, whether it be idealistic, cheerful, licentious, sad, dreamy, or positive.

The Novel

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In short, the reading-public is made up of many groups crying out to us: ‘Console me.’ ‘Amuse me.’ ‘Make me sad.’ ‘Move me.’ ‘Make me dream.’ ‘Make me laugh.’ ‘Make me shudder.’ ‘Make me cry.’ ‘Make me think.’ Only a select few minds ask the artist: ‘Create something beautiful, in the form that best suits you and according to your own temperament.’ The artist tries, and either succeeds or fails. The critic should only judge the outcome of what the author has tried to do; and it’s none of his business to deal with the aims in themselves. This has already been written thousands of times. It will always have to be repeated. So after the literary schools that were intent on giving us distorted, superhuman, poetic, sentimental, charming, or magnificent visions of life, there came a realist or naturalist school claiming to show us the truth, nothing but the truth, the whole truth. One must accept these utterly different art theories with equal interest and judge the works they produce exclusively from the point of view of their artistic worth, accepting a priori the general ideas from which they were born. To contest an author’s right to create a poetic or realistic work is to want to force him to alter his temperament, to challenge his originality, to deny him the use of the eyes and intelligence nature has given him. To find fault with him for seeing things as beautiful or ugly, minor or epic, appealing or sinister, is to find fault with him for distorting things in some way and for not seeing them as we do. Let the writer be free to understand, observe, and create as he sees fit, as long as he is an artist. When judging an idealist, let us be carried away poetically and then show him that his dream is mediocre, banal, not fantastic or lavish enough. But when judging a

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The Novel

naturalist, let us show him how truth in real life differs from the truth in his book. It is obvious that such contrasting schools have had to use radically different methods of composition. The novelist who transforms the undisputed, stark, and unpleasant truth in order to derive from it an exceptional and charming story must, without worrying too much about plausibility, manipulate events as he chooses, preparing and arranging them to please, inspire, or move the reader. The framework of his novel is merely a series of ingenious combinations leading skilfully to the denouement. The incidents are structured, building up to the climax and the sense of an ending which is a supreme and decisive event, providing a satisfying answer to all the questions raised at the outset, closing off the reader’s need to know, and finishing off the story so completely that he is not left wondering what will happen the next day to even the most captivating of characters. By contrast, the novelist who claims to present us with an exact replica of life must go to lengths to avoid linking any events that would seem exceptional. His aim is not to tell us a story, to entertain us, or to appeal to our emotions, but rather to force us to think and to understand the hidden and profound meaning of events. Through having observed and contemplated, he looks at the universe, things, facts, and mankind in a way that is his own and is a result of his observation and reflection. It is this personal view of the world that he is attempting to communicate to us by reproducing it in a book. In order to move the reader in the same way that he himself has been moved by the spectacle of life, he must reproduce it before our eyes with scrupulous accuracy. He must therefore put together his work in such a skilful, disguised, and apparently uncontrived manner that it is impossible to discern or identify the plan and discover his intentions. Instead of plotting a story and making it unfold in a compelling way to the very end, he will take his character or characters at a certain point in their lives and lead them from one stage to the next through a set of natural transitions. In this way, he will demonstrate sometimes how people change when subject to circumstances in which they find themselves, sometimes how feelings and passions develop, how people love or hate, the conflicts within any social

The Novel

7

world in the intersections of bourgeois, financial, family, and political interests. The skill of his plan will not therefore consist in emotion or charm, in an enthralling opening or dramatic catastrophe, but in the inventive grouping of changeless little facts out of which the real meaning of the work will emerge. If he is to put across in three hundred pages ten years of someone’s life to show what its specific and characteristic significance has been amongst all those other lives lived around it, he must know how to eliminate from the innumerable trivial daily events all those that are of no use to him, and to highlight, in a special way, all those that would otherwise have passed unnoticed by the less perceptive observer and which give the book its meaning and value as a whole. It can be seen that such a method of writing, so different from the old method clearly visible to all, often throws critics, as they fail to discern all the fine, hidden, almost invisible threads used by certain modern artists in place of the single piece of string known as the Plot. In short, if yesterday’s Novelist selected and recounted life’s crises, the critical states of the soul and mind, today’s Novelist writes the history of heart, soul, and mind in their normal state. To create his desired effect, that is, the feeling of simple reality, and to draw from it the artistic teaching he wants, namely to reveal real contemporary man as he sees him, he must use nothing but facts that are incontestably and consistently true. But even if we look at things from the realist artist’s point of view, we must examine and question their theory, which, it would seem, can easily be summed up in these words: ‘The whole truth and nothing but the truth.’ Their objective being to extract from certain unchanging and common facts an underlying philosophical vision, they will often have to modify events for the sake of plausibility and to the detriment of truth, for ‘The true can sometimes lack verisimilitude.’* The realist, if he is an artist, will not try to show us a banal photograph of life, but to provide us with a vision that is at once more complete, more startling, and more convincing than reality itself. To recount everything would be impossible, for it would require at least a volume a day to list the multitude of insignificant incidents that fill our lives.

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The Novel

So a choice has to be made––which is the first way in which the theory of the whole truth is undermined. Besides, life is made up of the most differing, unexpected, conflicting, ill-assorted things; it is brutal, incoherent, disjointed, full of inexplicable, illogical, and contradictory disasters which can only be classified under the heading ‘faits divers’.* This is why the artist, having chosen his theme, will select from such a life cluttered with random and trivial events only those characteristic details useful to his subject, and will reject all the rest as superfluous. Here is one example out of thousands: a considerable number of people in the world die every day as a result of accidents. Yet can we drop a roof tile on the main character’s head, or throw him under the wheels of a carriage mid-story, on the pretext that accidents must be taken into account? Life leaves everything within the same perspective, hastens events or drags them out indefinitely. Art, on the other hand, lies in forethought and preparation, managing skilfully disguised transitions, bringing to light essential events by literary skill alone while giving others their due, depending on their significance, in order to create the desired profound sense of special truth. To create the real, therefore, amounts to giving a total illusion of the real consistent with the normal logic of events, not in transcribing them slavishly in the haphazard way they occur. I conclude from this that gifted Realists should really be called Illusionists. How childish, in fact, to believe in reality when each of us has our own reality in our thoughts and bodily organs. The eyes, ears, sense of smell, and different tastes of each of us create as many versions of reality as there are men on earth. And our minds, which receive instructions from these differently affected organs, interpret, analyse, and judge as if each of us belonged to an entirely different race. So we each merely create for ourselves an illusion of the world which may be poetic, sentimental, joyful, melancholy, sordid, or sombre depending on our individual nature. And the writer’s only mission is the faithful reproduction of this illusion using all the known artistic methods at his disposal. Illusion of beauty––a human convention! Illusion of ugliness––a matter of opinion! Illusion of truth––never constant! Illusion of the

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vile––attractive to so many! The great artists are those that impose their personal illusion on mankind. So let us not fall out over any one theory, as each is merely the generalized expression of a self-analysing temperament. There are two theories in particular which have often been set against each other rather than accepting the validity of both––that of the purely psychological novel and that of the objective novel.* Advocates of analysis call for the writer to focus his attention on revealing the slightest development of a mind and all the most secret motives that determine our actions, making the event itself of only secondary importance. An event is the final destination, simply a milestone, the pretext for the novel. According to them, these works, at the same time exact and made up, where invention is indistinguishable from observation, should be written in the same way that a philosopher composes a book on psychology, revealing the most distant origin of cause and effect, explaining all the reasons behind every desire, and detecting every reaction of a soul driven by self-interest, passion, or instinct. On the other hand, advocates of objectivity (what a ghastly word!) aspire to giving us an exact representation of what takes place in life, taking care to avoid any complicated explanation, any dissertation on motives, and limit themselves to showing us people and events. For them, the psychology should be hidden within the book as it is in reality behind life’s events. The novel conceived in this way gains in intensity, momentum of narrative, colour, and dynamism. So, instead of lengthy explanations of a character’s state of mind, objective writers seek the action or gesture that such a state of mind must inevitably make this man perform in a given situation. And they make him behave in such a way throughout the book so that all his acts and movements are reflections of his inner nature, his every thought, his every wish or hesitation. Thus they hide the psychology rather than display it, they make it the framework of the novel just as the unseen skeleton makes up the framework of the human body. The artist who paints our portrait* doesn’t display our skeleton. It also seems to me that the novel executed in this way gains in sincerity. First, it is more convincing, because the people we see in action around us don’t tell us the motives that they act on. Next we must take into account that if through observing men we

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can determine their nature accurately enough to foresee how they will behave in almost every situation, if we can say with certainty, ‘Such a man with such a temperament, in such a case, will do this,’ it doesn’t follow at all that we can determine, one by one, all the secret stages of his thought processes, which are not our own, all the mysterious promptings of his instincts, which are not the same as ours, all the complex impulses of his nature, the organs, nerves, blood, and flesh of which are different from our own. Whatever the genius of a feeble, gentle, passionless man who loves nothing but knowledge and work, he will never be able to transport himself completely enough into the heart and body of some strapping and lively fellow, who is sensual, fierce, excited by every desire and even by every vice, to understand and point out the most intimate impulses and sensations of such a different individual, even if he can anticipate and recount every act in his life perfectly well. In short, the writer who goes in for pure psychology can only substitute himself for all his characters in the various situations in which he places them, because it is impossible for him to change his own bodily organs, which are the only intermediaries between the outer world and us, which impose their perceptions on us, determine our sensitivity, and create in us a soul essentially different from all those around us. We cannot avoid conveying some of our own vision and knowledge of the world, acquired with the help of our senses, our ideas on life, to each of the characters whose personal and unknown being we claim to expose. We therefore always show ourselves in the body of a king, an assassin, a thief, or an honest man, a prostitute, a nun, a young girl, or a trader at her market stall, as we are obliged to ask ourselves the following: ‘If I were a king, murderer, thief, prostitute, nun, young girl, or market trader, what would I do, how would I think, how would I react? And so we only diversify our characters by changing the age, sex, social standing, and all the circumstances of our own life which nature has surrounded with an impenetrable barrier of bodily organs. The trick is not to let the reader recognize this self behind all the various masks which serve to hide it. But even if pure psychological analysis is questionable from the point of view of complete accuracy, it can still give us works of art that are as beautiful as any other. Take the Symbolists today.* And why not? Their artistic vision is a

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respectable one; and a particularly interesting thing about them is that they understand and proclaim the extreme difficulty of art. Indeed a man must be utterly crazy, utterly audacious, utterly presumptuous, or utterly foolish to be writing at all these days! After so many masters with such varied natures, such multifarious genius, what remains to be done that hasn’t already been done? What remains to be said that hasn’t been said already? Which of us can boast of having written one page, or even a sentence, which cannot be found somewhere else in a similar form? When we read, we who are so saturated in French writing that our whole body feels like a paste made of words, do we ever find a line or thought that is unfamiliar, that we haven’t had at least a confused premonition about? The man only concerned to keep his public entertained by timehonoured means writes with confidence, in all the innocence of his mediocrity, works intended for the ignorant masses with nothing better to amuse themselves. But those weighed down by all the centuries of past literature, whom nothing will satisfy, disgusted because they dream of something better, for whom everything already seems deflowered and whose own work always seems to them useless and hackneyed, come to view the art of literature as something intangible and mysterious, a few pages from the greatest master revealing only the barest glimpse of it. Twenty or so lines of verse or sentences jump out at us and thrill us to the core like a startling revelation, but the following lines are like any other lines, and the prose that flows on afterwards like any other piece of prose. Men of genius will almost certainly never experience such anguish and torments, because within them lies an irresistible creative force. They do not sit in judgement on themselves. The others, the rest of us who are simply conscientious and tireless workers, can only struggle against this invincible discouragement by unrelenting effort. Two men, by their simple and illuminating teachings, have given me this strength to keep on trying: Louis Bouilhet* and Gustave Flaubert. If I now speak of them and myself, it is because their advice, summarized in just a few lines, will perhaps be of use to some young men with less self-confidence than one usually has when one starts to write.

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Bouilhet, whom I grew close to first, about two years before becoming good friends with Flaubert, by repeating to me that a hundred lines or even fewer are enough to make the reputation of an artist, if they are faultless and contain the essence of the talent and originality even of a second-rate man, made me understand that continual work and a thorough technical understanding can, on a day of clear-thinking, strength, and spontaneity, together with the happy union of a subject matching all the inclinations of our own mind, give rise to a short, unique work as perfect as we can produce. It was after that that I understood that the most famous of writers have hardly ever left more than a single volume, and that, above all, we must have the good fortune to find and pick out from the multitude of subjects from which we can choose, the one which will engross every one of our capabilities, all our personal worth, and all our artistic power. Later on Flaubert, whom I used to see occasionally, took a liking to me. I took the risk of sending him some of my literary efforts. He was good enough to read them and responded: ‘I don’t know whether you will have any talent. What you have brought me demonstrates a certain amount of intelligence, but don’t forget this, young man, that talent, as Chateaubriand* said, is only lengthy patience. Work.’ I did work, and I often returned to him, realizing that he was fond of me, because he jokingly took to calling me his disciple. For seven years I did poetry, I did tales and short stories, even the most appalling play. None of this has survived. The master read it all, and then the following Sunday, over lunch, elaborated on his criticisms and gradually drove home to me two or three principles which summarize his long and patient teachings: ‘If you have originality’, he would say, ‘you must above all set it free; if you don’t, you must acquire it.’ Talent is lengthy patience. It is a question of looking at anything you want to express long enough and closely enough to discover in it something that nobody else has seen before. In everything, there’s something waiting to be discovered, simply because we tend to look at the world only through the eyes of those who have preceded us. The most insignificant thing contains something of the unknown. Let’s find it. To describe a fire burning or a tree on a plain, let’s

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stand facing that fire and that tree until for us they no longer look like any other tree or any other fire. It is in this way that we become original. Furthermore, having set down this truth that in the whole world there are no two grains of sand, two flies, two hands, or two noses which are exactly identical, he forced me to express in a few sentences a being or an object in such a way as to define it clearly, to distinguish it from any other being or any other objects of the same race or kind. ‘When’, he said, ‘you pass by a shopkeeper sitting on his doorstep, or a concierge smoking his pipe, next to a rank of carriages, show me everything about that shopkeeper or concierge (how they look, how they’re sitting, and in those outward physical details––thanks to the acuteness of your images––their inner character), and in such a way that I would never confuse them with any other shopkeeper or concierge and, with a single word, how one cab horse is different from the fifty others in front of it and behind it.’ I have developed elsewhere* his ideas on style. They are closely related to the theory of observation I have just set out. Whatever we want to say, there is only one word to express it, one verb to animate it, and one adjective to qualify it. We must therefore look for that word, verb, or adjective until we discover it and never settle for anything less, never resort to sleights of hand, even inspired ones, or the antics of language to sidestep the difficulty. The subtlest of things can be conveyed and recorded by applying this line by Boileau:* ‘The power of a word is discovered in its careful positioning.’ There is no need for the bizarre, complicated, elaborate, and tortuous vocabulary forced upon us today in the name of artistic style,* in order to clarify all the finer points of thought. But we must distinguish with the utmost precision all the modifications in the value of a word according to the position it occupies. Let’s have fewer nouns, verbs, and adjectives with almost ungraspable meanings, but more variety of phrases, diverse in their construction, ingeniously divided up, full of sonorities and subtle rhythms. Let’s strive to be excellent stylists rather than collectors of rare words. It is, in fact, more difficult to handle a sentence as one wishes, to make it say everything, even what is not expressed, to fill it with inferences, secret and unformulated intentions, than to invent new

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expressions or to dig out of old, unknown books all the ones that are no longer in use, have lost their meaning, and have become for us a dead language. The French language, moreover, is like pure water that mannered writers have never succeeded in muddying and never will. Each century has thrown into this limpid current its own fashions, pretentious archaisms, and affectations, with none of these useless attempts and pathetic efforts staying afloat. The nature of this language is to be clear, logical, and vigorous. It will not let itself be weakened, obscured, or corrupted. Those who these days use imagery without being careful about abstract terms, those who make hail or rain fall upon the cleanliness of window-panes, are fine ones to throw stones at the simplicity of their fellow-writers! These will perhaps hit the writers who have a body, but they will never touch simplicity, which does not.* Guy de Maupassant La Guillette,* Étretat, September 1887

PIERRE ET JEAN CHAPTER 1 ‘Blast!’ old Roland exclaimed suddenly, having sat for a quarter of an hour without moving, staring at the water and every now and again gently lifting his line which was plunged into the depths of the sea. Madame Roland, half dozing in the stern next to Madame Rosémilly who had been asked to join this fishing expedition, woke up and turned towards her husband: ‘Now, now, Gérôme!’ Exasperated, the old boy replied: ‘They’re just not biting any more. I haven’t caught a thing since midday. You should only ever go fishing with men; with women, you always get going too late in the day.’ His two sons, Pierre and Jean, one to port, the other to starboard, who each held a line wound around his index finger, started to laugh at the same time, and Jean replied: ‘You’re not being very polite to our guest, father.’ Monsieur Roland appeared embarrassed and apologized: ‘I’m terribly sorry, Madame Rosémilly, that’s just the way I am. I invite ladies because I enjoy their company, and then, as soon as I get out on the water, I think of nothing but fishing.’ Madame Roland was by now completely awake and looking sentimentally towards the wide horizon of cliffs and sea. She murmured: ‘And yet you’ve got yourself a good catch.’ But her husband shook his head as if to say no, as he cast a proprietary eye over the basket in which the fish caught by the three men still struggled feebly, making a slight noise with their slimy scales and flapping fins, their useless, limp efforts, and their final fatal gasps of air. Old Roland gripped the basket between his knees and tipped it towards him until the silvery creatures touched the brim in order to look at those at the bottom, their deathly struggle intensifying, and the strong odour of their bodies, the healthy stench of a fresh catch, rose from the full belly of the basket.

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The old fisherman inhaled keenly, as if smelling roses, and declared: ‘My word, what a fresh lot they are!’ And he went on: ‘How many have you caught, doctor?’ His elder son, Pierre, who was thirty years old with black sideburns cut like a magistrate’s, a trimmed moustache, and a clean-shaven face, replied: ‘Oh, not many, three or four.’ The father turned to the younger son: ‘What about you, Jean?’ Jean, a tall, blond young man, with a full beard and much younger than his brother, smiled and murmured: ‘About the same as Pierre, four or five.’ They always told the same lie, which delighted old Roland every time. He had wound his line around a rowlock and, folding his arms, he announced: ‘I’m never going to try fishing in the afternoon again. It’s no use after ten o’clock. The damn creatures won’t bite anymore, they’re just sleeping in the sunshine.’ The old boy surveyed the sea around him like a self-satisfied proprietor. A former Parisian jeweller, he had been torn away from his counter by an uncontrollable love of boating and fishing as soon as he had made enough to live modestly from his investments. So he retired to Le Havre, bought a boat, and became an amateur sailor. His two sons, Pierre and Jean, had stayed in Paris to continue with their studies and came out from time to time in the holidays to share their father’s pleasure. After completing his studies, the elder son, Pierre, five years older than Jean, had felt a vocation for a variety of professions, and tried about half a dozen, one after the other, eagerly throwing himself into new projects each time he found himself rapidly disillusioned with the one before. Finally medicine had attracted him, and he set to work with such enthusiasm that he had recently qualified as a doctor after a relatively short period of study and with exemptions obtained from the Ministry. He was impetuous, intelligent, volatile, and stubborn, full of utopian views and philosophical ideas. Jean, as blond as his brother was dark, as placid as his brother was excitable, and as gentle as his brother was vindictive, had calmly studied law and had received his Bachelor of Law diploma at the same time as Pierre had qualified.

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Both of them were now taking time off at home, and both were making plans to set themselves up in Le Havre if they managed to do so under favourable conditions. But a kind of jealousy, the sort that lies dormant and grows almost unseen between brothers or sisters and which only surfaces in later years when one of them marries or receives a stroke of good fortune, made them aware of a fraternal and harmless antagonism between them. Of course they loved each other, but each watched the other closely. Pierre, five years old when Jean was born, had looked on with all the hostility of a small spoiled animal at the sudden arrival of this other little creature who lay in the arms of his father and mother and was as loved and cherished by them. From birth, Jean had been a model of gentleness, willingness, and equanimity; and Pierre became more and more annoyed at hearing the endless praises sung of this plump child whose gentleness struck him as feeble, his willingness as foolish, and his easygoing ways as naive. His parents, placid people who dreamed of decent and average positions for their sons, reproached Pierre for his indecisiveness, his successive crazes, his aborted ventures, and his useless bursts of enthusiasm for lofty ideals and fanciful careers. As an adult, they no longer said to him, ‘Look at Jean and follow his example,’ but every time he heard the words ‘Jean’s done this, Jean’s done that’, he understood completely the significance and hidden meaning behind them. Their mother, an orderly woman who was a somewhat sentimental but thrifty middle-class housewife blessed with the gentle nature of a shop assistant, constantly smoothed over the petty rivalries which cropped up daily between her two grown-up sons as a result of the sort of trivial incidents which family life often throws up. In fact, a minor event disturbed her peace of mind at that very moment and she feared one slight complication. During the winter months whilst her children were completing their respective studies, she had got to know one of their neighbours, Madame Rosémilly, the widow of a seagoing captain who had died at sea two years previously. The young widow, only twenty-three years old, a capable woman who lived life instinctively, like a free animal, as if she had seen, experienced, understood, and weighed up every possible eventuality and had judged it with a sound, dogmatic, and kindly mind, had taken to dropping by in the evenings to work at

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her tapestry and chat for a while over a cup of tea with her friendly neighbours. Old Roland, driven by his passion for everything nautical, questioned their new acquaintance constantly about her late husband, and she spoke about him, his voyages, and the tales he used to tell, without getting emotional about it, coming across as a sensible and resigned woman who loved life and was respectful of death. On their return, the two sons, finding this pretty widow ensconced in their household, had immediately set about paying court to her, more out of a need to outdo each other than to please her. Their mother, always wise and practical, eagerly hoped that one of the two would succeed as the young lady was rich, but at the same time hoped that the other would not have to suffer. Madame Rosémilly was blonde with blue eyes, had a halo of wispy hair ruffled by the slightest breeze, and had a bold, audacious, and challenging look about her that did not fit at all with her methodically sensible mentality. Already she seemed to prefer Jean, attracted to him by a similarity in their natures. This preference, however, could only be detected in an almost imperceptible change of voice and expression, and in the fact that she often agreed with his point of view. She seemed to understand that Jean’s opinion would reinforce her own, whereas Pierre’s opinion was bound to be different. Whenever she spoke about the doctor’s ideas, whether it be his views on politics, art, philosophy, or moral values, she would add now and again: ‘You’re on your high horse again!’ He would then look at her with the cold stare of a magistrate constructing his case against women, all women, wretched creatures that they were! Before his sons had returned, old Roland had never invited her to join one of his fishing trips, having never even once taken his wife along, as he liked to set off before daybreak with Beausire, a retired captain of an ocean-going ship, whom he had met in the harbour while watching the tides and who had subsequently become an intimate friend, and with the old sailor Papagris, nicknamed JeanBart,* who looked after the boat. But one evening the previous week when Madame Rosémilly was having dinner with them, she had said, ‘I should think fishing must be really enjoyable!’, and the former jeweller, delighted and

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overcome with the desire to share his passion, to convert others to it like a priest, cried: ‘Would you like to come along?’ ‘I would love to!’ ‘Next Tuesday?’ ‘Fine, next Tuesday then!’ ‘Are you the kind of woman who could be ready to leave at five in the morning?’ She gave a cry of astonishment: ‘Absolutely not!’ He was disappointed, his spirits dampened, and he suddenly had doubts about her commitment. However he still asked: ‘What time could you be ready to leave?’ ‘Well... at nine o’clock!’ ‘Not before?’ ‘No, not before, that’s extremely early as it is!’ The old man hesitated. There was no way they would catch anything as the fish stop biting once the sun is up; but the two brothers were keen to arrange the outing, to organize everything, and to finalize it all there and then. So, the following Tuesday, the Perle had dropped anchor beneath the white cliffs of Cap de la Hève, and they had fished until midday, then dozed, then fished again without having caught a thing, and old Roland, realizing only late in the day that Madame Rosémilly was really only interested in enjoying the boat trip itself, and seeing that his lines no longer twitched, had, in a fit of uncontrollable impatience, let out a heartfelt ‘blast’ which was addressed as much to the indifferent widow as to the uncatchable creatures. He was now looking at the catch, his catch, with the trembling pleasure of a miser; then, looking up at the sky, he noticed that the sun was going down: ‘Well, my boys, what if we started to head back?’ Both of them pulled up their fishing lines, wound them up, fastened the cleaned hooks into corks, and waited. Roland had stood up to survey the horizon like a captain: ‘The wind’s dropped,’ he said, ‘we’ll have to row, boys!’ And suddenly, pointing northwards with his arm, he added: ‘Look! It’s the Southampton boat.’ Above the flat surface of the sea which stretched out like an immense shiny piece of blue cloth with fiery and golden flecks, a blackish cloud rose in the distance against the pink sky in the

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direction to which he was pointing. Beneath it they could make out the ship, looking very tiny from so far away. Towards the south you could see even more plumes of smoke, lots of them, all making their way towards the jetty of the harbour with its white outline and its beacon standing upright like a horn on the end of it. Roland asked: ‘Isn’t the Normandie* due in today?’ Jean replied: ‘Yes, Father.’ ‘Pass me my spy-glass, I think that’s her over there.’ He pulled out the brass tube, held it to his eye to adjust it whilst locating the right spot, and suddenly, delighted at having pinpointed it, he exclaimed: ‘Yes, it’s her all right! I recognize her two funnels. Would you like to have a look, Madame Rosémilly?’ She took the thing and pointed it towards the distant liner, no doubt not even managing to position it correctly, seeing just blue with a circle of colour, a rainbow ring, and other strange effects as in an eclipse, which made her feel ill. Handing it back she said: ‘Anyway I’ve never known how to use one of those instruments. It even used to annoy my husband, who spent hours at the window watching the ships go by.’ Irritated, old Roland went on: ‘It must be something to do with your eyes because my glass is first-rate.’ He then passed it to his wife: ‘Would you like to try?’ ‘No, thank you. I already know I won’t be able to use it.’ Madame Roland, a woman of forty-eight, but who didn’t look it, seemed to be enjoying this outing and the day’s end more than the others. Her chestnut brown hair was only just beginning to turn grey. She looked calm and sensible, a happy and kindly appearance which was a pleasure to watch. As her son Pierre put it, she understood the value of money, but this didn’t prevent her from indulging in the pleasure of dreams. She loved to read novels and poetry, not for their artistic value but for the melancholic and gentle daydreams they awakened in her. A line of poetry, even a banal or poor one, would touch the right chord, as she liked to say, and give her the sensation of a mysterious desire almost fulfilled. She enjoyed these mild emotions slightly stirring a soul otherwise as orderly as an account book. Since moving to Le Havre, she had visibly put on weight and her formerly supple and slender waist was now much fuller.

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This boat trip had thrilled her. Her husband spoke to her sharply, but not maliciously, bullying her without anger or hatred, rather like a petty store keeper who cannot give orders without swearing. He controlled himself in front of strangers, but in his family he let himself go, playing the tyrant, although he was actually afraid of everyone. She would always give in and never asked for anything as she had a horror of noise, angry scenes, and pointless discussions; so it had been a long time since she had dared to ask Roland to take her out in his boat. Hence her delight in seizing this opportunity, and she was savouring this rare new pleasure. Since they had set out she had given herself up entirely, body and soul, to this gentle gliding over the water. Without a thought in her head, her mind didn’t drift off into memories or dreams; she felt as if her heart, like her body, was floating on something smooth, fluid, and delicious, lulling her into a sluggish state. When the father gave the order to return––‘Right, get ready to row!’––she smiled as she saw her sons, her grown-up sons, remove their jackets and roll up their shirt sleeves to reveal bare arms. Pierre, the one closer to the two women, took the oar to starboard, Jean the one to port, and they waited for the captain to give the command ‘Full speed ahead!’, anxious as he was that every manœuvre should be carried out correctly. Together and as one they let their oars drop and then leaned back, pulling with all their might; and a contest of strength began. They had come out very gently under sail, but the wind had dropped and suddenly the male pride of the two brothers was stirred by the prospect of this chance to pit their skill against each other. When they went fishing alone with their father, they rowed like this without anyone at the helm, as Roland would be sorting out his lines whilst he kept an eye on the boat’s course which he directed with the odd gesture or word: ‘Ease off, Jean.’––‘Now you, Pierre, pull harder.’ Or he would say: ‘Come on number one, come on number two, a bit of elbow grease.’ The one who had been dreaming would pull harder, and the one who had got carried away would slacken off, and the boat would right itself. Today they were going to show off their biceps. Pierre’s arms were hairy, a little on the thin side but sinewy; Jean’s were plump and white with a touch of pink, a knot of muscles rippling beneath the skin.

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Pierre had the advantage to start with. Clenching his jaw, frowning, his legs stretched out, and the oar gripped in his hands, he made it bend along its whole length with each of his efforts, and the Perle drew nearer to the coast. Old Roland, seated at the bow so as to leave the whole back bench to the two ladies, almost shouted himself hoarse giving the orders: ‘Gently, number one; number two, pull harder.’ But number one only redoubled his frenzy and number two couldn’t keep up with this frantic rowing. Finally the captain shouted: ‘Stop!’ The two rowers lifted their oars simultaneously, and Jean, on his father’s orders, rowed alone for a few moments. But from that point onwards he maintained the advantage; adrenalin flowing, he was finding his rhythm, whereas Pierre, panting and worn out from his burst of activity, was flagging and gasping for breath. Four times in a row old Roland had to stop them to allow the elder brother to get his breath back and to set the straying boat on course. Finally the doctor, sweat pouring from his brow, his cheeks pale, looking angry and humiliated, said: ‘I don’t know what’s come over me, I’ve got a tight pain in my chest. I was fine to begin with but it’s knocked me for six.’ ‘Would you like me to take both the oars and row alone?’ asked Jean. ‘No, thanks, it’ll pass.’ Annoyed, his mother said: ‘Look, Pierre, what’s the point of getting yourself in such a state, you’re not a child after all!’ He shrugged his shoulders and started to row again. Madame Rosémilly appeared not to see, understand, or hear anything. With every movement of the boat, her delicate fair head gave a pretty little jerk backwards, lifting her fine hair off of her temples. But old Roland cried out: ‘Look, the Prince Albert’s catching us up.’* And everyone looked. The Southampton boat, long and low, with its two funnels sloping backwards and its two yellow paddleboxes, round like cheeks, was coming in at full steam, crammed with passengers and open parasols. Her fast-moving paddles noisily beat the water and left it foaming behind so that she appeared to be in a great hurry, like a mail boat making a deadline, and her upright bows sliced through the sea, churning up two trails of thin, transparent waves which ran along the length of her hull. As she drew nearer to the Perle, old Roland raised his hat, the women waved their handkerchiefs, and half a dozen or so parasols

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vigorously bobbed up and down in reply as the liner moved off, leaving a few gentle ripples on the calm, glinting surface. And other boats, similarly topped by smoke, could also be seen racing along from all points of the horizon towards the short white jetty which swallowed them up one after the other like a mouth. Fishing smacks and large sailing boats with slender masts gliding along across the skyline, hauled by unseen tugboats, were all advancing at different speeds towards this devouring ogre who, from time to time, having eaten his fill, spat out into the open sea another stream of liners, brigs, schooners, and three-masters loaded with entangled rigging. Steamers sped off left and right over the flat belly of the ocean, whilst sailing ships, abandoned by the tugboats which had towed them out, remained motionless as they draped themselves, from main-top to fore top-gallant, with the white or brown canvas which seemed red in the setting sun. With her eyes half closed, Madame Roland murmured: ‘My word, how lovely the sea is!’ Madame Rosémilly, giving a long sigh, but not a sad one, replied: ‘Yes, but sometimes it can cause a lot of harm.’ Roland shouted: ‘Look, there’s the Normandie on her way in. Isn’t she enormous?’ Then he provided a commentary on the opposite coastline; right over there, on the other side of the Seine estuary, twenty kilometres wide, he said. He pointed out Villerville, Trouville,* Houlgate, Luc, Arromanches, the Caen river,* and the rocks in the bay of Calvados* which made navigation dangerous as far up as Cherbourg. Then he went into the problem of the sand banks along the Seine that shift with each tide and thwart even the pilots of Quillebœuf * themselves unless they negotiate the channel every day. He explained how Le Havre divided Lower from Upper Normandy. In Lower Normandy the flat coast of pastures, meadows, and fields comes right down to the sea. In contrast, the Upper Normandy coast is straight; one huge, carved-out, jagged, and magnificent cliff creating an immense white wall as far as Dunkirk, every indent in which hides a village or a port such as Étretat, Fécamp, Saint-Valéry, Le Tréport, Dieppe, and so on.* The two women were not listening, filled as they were by a sense of well-being and excited by the sight of the sea covered with ships running about like animals around their lair. They said nothing,

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somewhat crushed by the vast horizon of sea and sky, and silenced by the soothing and magnificent sunset. Only Roland talked on incessantly; he was one of those people impervious to everything. Women, who are more sensitive, often feel, without understanding why, that the sound of needless chatter is as irritating as uncouth behaviour. Pierre and Jean had calmed down and were rowing slowly, and the Perle, which seemed tiny next to the large ships, made its way towards the port. Once she was alongside the quay, Papagris the sailor, who was waiting there, took the ladies by the hand to help them out, and then they made their way into town. A large crowd, the crowd that goes down to the jetty every day at high tide, was also quietly returning home. Madame Roland and Madame Rosémilly walked ahead, followed by the three men. As they went up the Rue de Paris* they stopped now and again in front of a boutique or jeweller’s to look at a hat or piece of jewellery, then went on their way having discussed them. In front of the Place de la Bourse,* Roland surveyed, as he did every day, the commercial docks which were full of ships which spilled over into yet more docks, where huge hulls, belly to belly, were touching each other four or five rows deep. All the countless masts with their spars, jibs, and rigging which stretched along several kilometres of quays made this open space in the middle of the town look like a large, dead wood. Seagulls circled above this leafless forest on the lookout for debris thrown into the water, ready to plummet down like falling stones, and a ship’s boy who was fixing a pulley to the end of a royal mast seemed to have climbed up there to go bird-nesting. ‘Would you like to have dinner with us? Nothing formal, but just to finish off the day together?’ Madame Roland asked Madame Rosémilly. ‘I’d be delighted to, and I accept the invitation just as informally. It would be miserable to have to go home all alone this evening.’ Pierre, who had overheard and who was beginning to be irritated by the young woman’s indifference, muttered: ‘So now the widow’s becoming a permanent fixture.’ He had taken to calling her ‘the widow’ over the past few days.

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The way he pronounced it, although it meant nothing, was enough to annoy Jean who found it mean and cutting. The three men did not speak another word to each other until they reached home. It was a narrow house in the Rue BelleNormande,* with a ground floor and two smaller floors above. Joséphine, the maid, a nineteen-year-old country girl who cost them little, and who displayed more than her fair share of bovine provincial bewilderment, opened the door, closed it again behind them, followed her employers upstairs to the parlour on the first floor, and then told them: ‘There was a man what come ’ere three times.’ Old Roland, who never spoke to her without shouting and cursing, bawled: ‘Who in God’s name was it then?’ She never let her boss’s outbursts upset her, and so she continued: ‘Some man from the solicitor’s.’ ‘Which solicitor’s?’ ‘From Monsieur Canu’s, of course.’ ‘And what did this man have to say?’ ‘That Monsieur Canu would come this evening in person.’ Maître Lecanu was both lawyer and something of a friend to Monsieur Roland, and managed his affairs. It must be an urgent and important matter for him to have notified them that he would be calling that evening. The four Rolands looked at each other, disturbed by this news as people of modest means are by the thought of a lawyer being involved, conjuring up all sorts of ideas about contracts, legacies, lawsuits, desirable or unwelcome events. After a few moments of silence the father murmured: ‘What on earth could it be?’ Madame Rosémilly started to laugh: ‘It’s a legacy, I’m sure of it. I always bring good luck.’ But they weren’t hoping for the death of anyone who might leave them something. Madame Roland, who had an excellent memory for family connections, immediately began to go over all the marriages on both her and her husband’s sides, going a long way back and exploring every branch of the family tree. Before she had even taken off her hat, she asked: ‘Tell me, Father’ (she always called her husband Father at home, and sometimes Monsieur Roland in front of strangers), ‘tell me, Father, can you remember who married Joseph Lebru the second time around?’

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‘Yes, one of the Duménil girls, the stationer’s daughter.’ ‘Did he have any children by her?’ ‘At least four or five, I think.’ ‘No, nothing from that side then.’ She was already keenly following up on her leads, pinning her hopes on the thought of a bit of money dropping from the sky. But Pierre, who loved his mother dearly and knew that she had a tendency to daydream, feared disappointment, distress, or even sorrow if the news turned out to be bad rather than good, and so stopped her. ‘Don’t get carried away, Mother, there aren’t any more American uncles* these days! I think it’s more likely to be a possible marriage for Jean.’ Everyone was surprised by this suggestion, and Jean was a little annoyed that his brother had made it in front of Madame Rosémilly. ‘Why me rather than you? It’s highly unlikely. You’re the elder, so you’d be the first one they’d think of. Anyway, I don’t want to get married.’ Pierre laughed: ‘So you’re in love then?’ Irritated, Jean replied: ‘Do you necessarily have to be in love to say that you don’t want to get married yet?’ ‘Ah, I see. The “yet” changes everything. You’re waiting.’ ‘All right, let’s say I’m waiting, if you like.’ But old Roland, who had been listening and thinking it over, suddenly hit on the most likely solution. ‘Of course! How silly of us to rack our brains. Maître Lecanu is a friend of ours, he knows that Pierre is looking for a medical practice and Jean for a legal one, no doubt he’s found something for one of them.’ It was so simple and so plausible that everybody had to agree. ‘Dinner’s ready,’ announced the maid. They all went to their rooms to wash their hands before taking their places at the table. Ten minutes later they were eating in the small dining room on the ground floor. Nobody said anything, to start with, but after a bit, Roland again expressed his astonishment at the lawyer’s visit. ‘I mean, why didn’t he write, why did he send his clerk three times, why come in person?’ Pierre thought this was quite normal.

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‘He probably wants an immediate answer, and maybe there are confidential clauses better not put in writing.’ All four of them remained preoccupied, however, and a little put out that they had invited a stranger who would hamper their discussions and any decisions to be taken. They had just gone back up to the parlour when the lawyer was announced. Roland rushed forward. ‘Good evening, Maître.’ He addressed Monsieur Lecanu using ‘Maître’, a title which every lawyer has as a matter of course. Madame Rosémilly stood up: ‘I’m off home, I’m very tired.’ There were a few feeble attempts to make her stay, but she refused and left without one of the three men offering to accompany her home as they usually did. Madame Roland fussed around the newcomer: ‘A cup of coffee, Monsieur?’ ‘No, thank you, I’ve come straight from dinner.’ ‘A cup of tea, perhaps?’ ‘I won’t say no, but maybe a bit later. We need to talk business first.’ In the deep silence which followed these words, nothing could be heard but the rhythmic sound of the ticking clock and, downstairs, the clattering of pans being washed up by the maid, who was too stupid to think of eavesdropping. The lawyer continued: ‘When you were in Paris, did you know a Monsieur Maréchal, Léon Maréchal?’ Together Monsieur and Madame Roland exclaimed: ‘Indeed we did!’ ‘Was he a friend of yours?’ ‘Our best friend, Monsieur, but a true Parisian who never leaves the city. He’s chief clerk in the Ministry of Finance. I haven’t seen him since I left the capital, and now we’ve even stopped writing. You know what it’s like when people live far away from each other...’ The lawyer went on in a serious tone: ‘Monsieur Maréchal has passed away.’ The husband and wife simultaneously made the same reflex gesture of sad surprise, whether genuine or feigned, with which one receives such news.

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Monsieur Maréchal continued: ‘My colleague in Paris has just informed me of the main provision of his will in which he names your son Jean, Monsieur Jean Roland, as his sole beneficiary.’ They were so surprised that nobody could find a word to say. Madame Roland, mastering her emotion, was the first to stammer: ‘Oh good Lord, poor Léon... our poor friend... oh dear me... dead!’ Tears welled up in her eyes, the silent tears of women, those crystal drops of sorrow straight from the soul which run down their cheeks with so much pain. But Roland was thinking less about the sadness of this loss than the hope it brought. However, he didn’t dare to start asking questions immediately about the clauses of the will or about the exact sum involved, and so, in order to make his way towards the interesting issue, he asked: ‘What did poor Maréchal die of ?’ Monsieur Lecanu had no idea. ‘I only know’, he said, ‘that having died with no immediate heirs, he leaves his entire fortune, an income of some twenty thousand francs in three percent bonds, to your second son, having seen him born and grow up, and deeming him worthy of this legacy. Should Monsieur Jean fail to accept, the inheritance will go to a home for abandoned children.’ Already old Roland could hardly conceal his joy and he exclaimed: ‘My word, that’s a gift straight from the heart! I must say that if I didn’t have any relatives, I certainly wouldn’t have forgotten my good friend either.’ The lawyer smiled: ‘I was pleased to be able to tell you this in person. It’s always a pleasure to be the bearer of good news.’ It hadn’t even occurred to him that this good news was the death of a friend, old Roland’s best friend at that. Roland himself had suddenly forgotten the close friendship he had proclaimed earlier with such conviction. Only Madame Roland and her sons continued to wear sad expressions. She was still crying a little, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief and then pressing it against her mouth to stifle her heavy sighs. The doctor mumbled: ‘He was a good man and kind to us. He often invited my brother and me to dinner.’

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Jean, his eyes wide open and shining, took his groomed, fair beard in his right hand as he often did and smoothed it down to the tips of the hairs, as if trying to make it longer and thinner. On two occasions his lips moved as if to pronounce a similarly suitable remark, and, having thought hard, he only managed to come up with: ‘He was very fond of me, it’s true, he always kissed me when I went to see him.’ But the father’s thoughts were racing ahead, running around the idea of the news of this inheritance which he already saw as secured, the money lurking around the corner just waiting to roll in later, or tomorrow, on a simple word of acceptance. He asked: ‘Are there any possible complications? Any lawsuits? No matters in dispute?’ Maître Lecanu seemed quite calm: ‘None. My colleague in Paris assures me that the situation is straightforward. It only requires Monsieur Jean’s acceptance.’ ‘Perfect. And the terms of the legacy are quite clear?’ ‘Very clear.’ ‘Have all the formalities been dealt with?’ ‘All of them’ Suddenly the former jeweller felt somewhat ashamed, a vague, instinctive, and fleeting sense of shame at having been so hasty to ask for the details, so he went on: ‘You understand that the only reason I’m asking you right away is to avoid any unpleasantness for my son that he might not have foreseen. Sometimes there are debts, an awkward situation, or I don’t know what else, and then you end up in a terrible mess. However, I’m not the one who is inheriting, but I’m thinking more of the little one.’ In the family Jean was always known as ‘the little one’ even though he was much taller than Pierre. Madame Roland suddenly seemed to be waking from a dream, remembering something far off and almost forgotten that she had once heard but was not really sure about, and she stammered: ‘Weren’t you saying that our poor dear Maréchal had left all his fortune to my little Jean?’ ‘Yes, Madame.’ She went on, simply: ‘That makes me very happy, for it’s proof how much he cared.’ Roland stood up: ‘My dear Maître, would you like my son to sign the acceptance now?’

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‘No, no, Monsieur Roland. Tomorrow, tomorrow at my office at two o’clock if that suits you.’ ‘Of course, of course! That will be fine.’ Madame Roland, who had also stood up and was smiling through her tears, took two paces towards the lawyer, placed her hand on the back of his armchair, and, casting him a gentle look of motherly gratitude, asked: ‘What about that cup of tea, Monsieur Lecanu?’ ‘I will gladly accept one now, Madame.’ They summoned the maid who first brought out biscuits in deep tins, that tasteless, brittle confectionery from England, apparently baked for parrot’s beaks and sealed into metal containers for trips around the world. Next she went to fetch some grey napkins folded into little squares, those tea napkins which are never washed in thrifty households. She returned a third time with the sugar bowl and the cups, then she went off to boil the water. And so they waited. Nobody spoke, they had too much to think about and nothing to say. Only Madame Roland tried to make conversation. She related their fishing trip, sang the praises of the Perle and Madame Rosémilly. ‘How charming!’, added the lawyer at intervals. Roland, with his back pressed against the marble fireplace as though it were winter with a fire blazing, his hands thrust in his pockets, and his lips moving as if he were about to whistle, was unable to stand still, tortured by an uncontrollable desire to give vent to his feeling of joy. The two brothers, sitting in two similar armchairs, their legs crossed in the same way, one on each side of the table in the middle, were staring ahead of them in a similar manner, but each wore a different expression. Finally the tea arrived. The lawyer took his, sugared it, and drank it after dipping into it one of the dainty galettes which was too hard to bite. He then stood up, shook everybody by the hand and left. ‘It’s agreed, then,’ repeated Roland, ‘your office tomorrow at two.’ ‘That’s right, tomorrow at two.’ Jean hadn’t said a word. The silence returned once he had left until Roland came over and clapped his open hands on his younger son’s shoulders, exclaiming: ‘So, you lucky devil! Aren’t you going to give your father a kiss?’ Jean smiled and kissed him, saying: ‘I didn’t think I needed to.’

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But the old boy couldn’t contain his jubilation any longer. He paced up and down, ran his clumsy fingers over the furniture as if playing the piano, turned on his heel and said over and over again: ‘What luck! What luck! What a stroke of luck!’ Pierre asked: ‘So you used to know this Maréchal well in the old days, did you?’ His father replied: ‘Indeed we did! He spent every evening with us. But don’t you remember how he used to pick you up from school on your days off and then often took you back after dinner? Why, he was even the one who went for the doctor on the morning Jean was born. He had just eaten with us when your mother felt the pains. We realized immediately what the problem was and he rushed off. In his haste he took my hat instead of his own. I remember because we had a good laugh about it later on. It might even be that he remembered that event just before his death, and as he had no heir, thought to himself: ‘Well, as I helped bring the boy into the world, I’ll leave him my fortune!’ Madame Roland, nestled in an armchair, appeared to be lost in memories. As if thinking aloud, she murmured: ‘Oh, he was a good friend who was very devoted and extremely loyal; a rare breed these days.’ Jean stood up. ‘I’m going for a short walk,’ he said. His father was surprised and wanted him to stay because they had things to discuss, plans to make, and decisions to take. But the young man insisted on the pretext that he had an appointment. There would be plenty of time to agree on details before they received the legacy anyway. So he went out, wanting to be alone to think things over. Pierre said he was going out too and followed his brother a few minutes later. As soon as he was alone with his wife, Roland clasped her in his arms, kissed her ten times on each cheek, and, in response to her oftmade reproach, said: ‘You see, my dear, there wouldn’t have been any point in my staying any longer in Paris, working myself into the ground for the children instead of coming here to recover my health, as we’ve been blessed with this godsend.’ ‘It may be a godsend for Jean’, she said, ‘but what about Pierre?’ ‘Pierre! Why, he’s a doctor, he’ll make plenty of money... and I’m sure his brother would be glad to help him out a bit.’

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‘No, he would never accept anything. Anyway, it’s Jean’s inheritance, and his alone. So Pierre really is at a disadvantage.’ Roland seemed puzzled: ‘So we’ll leave him a little bit more in our will then.’ ‘No. That wouldn’t be fair either.’ ‘To hell with it all!’ he shouted. ‘What do you want me to do, then? You always look on the dark side of things. You have to go and spoil all my pleasures, don’t you. Well, I’m going to bed. Goodnight. Either way, it’s a stroke of luck, damn good luck!’ And off he went, delighted in spite of everything, and without so much as a word of regret for the friend who had been so generous in death. Madame Roland returned to her daydreams in the light of the smoking lamp.

CHAPTER 2 Once outside, Pierre headed towards the Rue de Paris, the main street of Le Havre, a brightly lit, busy, and noisy thoroughfare. The fresh sea-air caressed his face and he walked along slowly, his walking stick tucked under his arm and his hands behind his back. He felt uneasy, downcast, and miserable, as one often feels on receiving disturbing news. His thoughts weren’t troubled by anything particular and, to start with, he couldn’t find a reason for this heavy-heartedness and numbness of body. Something hurt him somewhere, but he couldn’t say where. Somewhere inside him he felt a niggling pain, one of those almost imperceptible bruises that cannot be located, yet which bother, tire, depress, and irritate you, like a sort of unidentifiable seed of unhappiness. When he reached the Place du Théâtre,* he was drawn by the lights of the Café Tortoni* and he slowly made his way towards its illuminated front. But, just as he was about to go in, it dawned on him that he was bound to find friends and acquaintances there, people he would be forced to talk to, and he was suddenly filled with a loathing for banal chit-chat over cups of coffee and liqueurs. So he retraced his steps and went back along the main street which led to the harbour. He wondered where to go, trying to think of a place he would like and which would suit his present mood. He couldn’t think of anywhere, as he needed company, and yet didn’t want to meet anyone. He hesitated once again on reaching the main quay and then turned in the direction of the jetty. He had opted for solitude. He brushed against a bench on the breakwater and he sat down, tired already and sick of his walk before even finishing it. He asked himself what had got into him that evening, and he started to go over in his mind what might have caused his bad mood, just as you question a patient to find out why he’s got a temperature. He had both an excitable and cautious side to him. He would fly off the handle and would then rationalize, approve of, or reprimand himself for his outbursts. But ultimately his first instincts outweighed the others and heart always triumphed over mind. So he tried to discover what was gnawing at him, this need for

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movement but desire for nothing, this urge to meet someone simply to be at odds with them, and this disgust for the people he might meet and for what they might say to him. And then he asked himself: ‘Could it be Jean’s inheritance?’ Yes, it might just be that. When the lawyer announced the news, he had felt his heart beat a little faster. Of course you can’t always control your feelings, and you experience some emotions which are spontaneous and persistent, against which you struggle in vain. He started to think deeply about this physiological problem of an impression produced by some event on instinctive man and provoking within him a flow of ideas and painful or enjoyable sensations which conflict with those desired, called upon, considered good and sound by thinking man who, by cultivating his intelligence, reached a higher level. He tried to imagine how it would feel to be a son inheriting a large fortune, giving him the long-awaited opportunity to sample many of life’s pleasures previously denied by a penny-pinching father nevertheless both loved and mourned. He stood up and started walking towards the end of the jetty again. He felt better, pleased to have understood, to have caught himself out, and to have revealed the other self which is to be found in each of us. ‘So, I was jealous of Jean,’ he thought. ‘That’s really unworthy of me! I’m sure of it now, because the first thought that came to me was his marriage to Madame Rosémilly. And yet I’m not even in love with that shrewd little goose born to put off anyone with good sense and judgement. It’s just pure jealousy then, the essence of jealousy itself which exists simply because it exists! I’d better watch out for that!’ He came to the signal post indicating the depth of the water in the harbour, and he lit a match to read the posted names of the ships just off Le Havre and due in on the next tide. Steamships were expected from Brazil, La Plata,* Chile, and Japan, plus two Danish brigs, a Norwegian schooner,* and a Turkish steamer, which surprised Pierre as if he had read ‘a Swiss steamer’; and he pictured in his mind, like some weird dream, the image of a great ship swarming with men in turbans climbing the rigging in baggy trousers. ‘How stupid of me,’ he thought. ‘After all the Turks are a seafaring nation.’ A few paces further on he stopped to gaze at the harbour. To the right, above Sainte-Adresse, the two electric beacons* on Cap de la

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Hève, like two monstrous twin Cyclopes, projected their long and powerful beams over the sea. The two parallel rays, like the gigantic tails of two comets, descended from two neighbouring towers in a straight and boundless slope from the highest point on the coastline and disappeared into the horizon. On the two jetties, two other lights, the children of these giants, lit up the entrance to the harbour; and in the distance, across the Seine, still more could be seen, many more, steady or flashing, bursts of brightness followed by darkness, opening and closing like eyes, the eyes of the ports, yellow, red, green, surveying the dark sea covered with ships, the living eyes of the welcoming land which announce with no more than the unvarying and regular blinking of their mechanical eyelids: ‘Here I am. I’m Trouville, I’m Honfleur, I’m the Pont-Audemer river.’* And dominating all the others, so high up that from a distance it could be taken for a planet, Étouville’s lighthouse,* searching up into the sky, illuminated the way to Rouen through the sandbanks of the mouth of the great river. Then here and there on the surface of the deep water of the bottomless sea, darker even than the sky, what seemed like stars could be seen. They flickered in the evening mist, tiny, near or far away, white, green, and red too. Almost all of them were stationary, but some seemed to be running along; these were the lights of the anchored vessels waiting for the next tide, or of ships on the move looking for a place to moor. At that very moment the moon rose behind the town like a huge, divine beacon alight in the heavens to guide the unending fleet of real stars. Pierre murmured almost audibly: ‘Look at that! And we get all worked up about paltry sums of money!’ Near to him, in the wide and dark open channel between the jetties, a shadow, a great ghostly shadow, suddenly glided past. Leaning over the low granite wall, he saw a fishing boat returning, uninterrupted by the sound of voices, waves, or oars, gently carried along by its tall brown sail stretched to the full by the sea breeze. He thought to himself: ‘How peaceful life might be if only one could live aboard such a boat!’ Then, walking on a little further, he noticed a man sitting at the very end of the pier. A dreamer, a lover, a thinker, someone happy or sad? He

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approached, curious to see the face of this loner, and recognized his own brother. ‘Oh, it’s you, Jean!’ ‘Pierre!... What brings you here?’ ‘Well, I just came out for a breath of air. And what about you?’ Jean started to laugh: ‘I needed some fresh air too.’ And Pierre sat down beside his brother. ‘Isn’t it incredibly beautiful here?’ ‘Yes, it is.’ By the tone of his voice he could tell that Jean hadn’t looked around him. He went on: ‘Whenever I come here, I always have a mad desire to get away, to sail off with all these ships, north or south. Just think, those tiny lights over there have come from all corners of the globe, countries with huge flowers and beautiful, fairskinned or copper-coloured girls, the lands of hummingbirds, elephants, roaming lions, black kings, from countries which only exist for us in fairy tales now that we no longer believe in the White Cat* or Sleeping Beauty.* Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be able to visit one of these places? The trouble is you need the money to do it, lots of it...’ He stopped suddenly, realizing that his brother had this money now, and that, free of all financial worries, spared the need to go to work, with nothing to stand in his way, happy and carefree, he could set off to wherever he pleased, to the blonde Swedes or to the dark-skinned girls of Havana. Then a thought crossed his mind, one of those involuntary thoughts which he experienced frequently and which occurred so suddenly that he could neither foresee them, nor check or alter them, and which came, it seemed, from another independent and violent self: ‘But no, he’s too daft, he’ll go and marry that little Rosémilly woman!’ He stood up: ‘I’ll leave you to dream about your future. I need to go on walking.’ He shook his brother’s hand, and went on in a friendly tone: ‘Well, little brother, so now you’re rich! I’m glad I ran into you alone this evening to tell you how pleased I am for you, to congratulate you and to tell you how much you mean to me.’ Jean, who was naturally gentle and loving, was deeply moved and stammered: ‘Thanks... thanks. That’s good of you, Pierre, thanks.’

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And Pierre left, resuming his slow pace, his walking stick under his arm and his hands behind his back. Back in the town he again wondered what to do, annoyed at this interrupted walk and at having been denied the pleasure of the sea by his brother’s presence. He had a flash of inspiration––‘I’ll go and have a liqueur with old Marowsko’*––and he headed back up toward the Ingouville district. He had met old Marowsko in the Paris hospitals. He was an elderly Pole, a political refugee, so the story went, who had had some terrible experiences in his country and had, having sat more exams, come to France to pursue his career as a pharmacist. No one knew anything about his past life; and so legends had spread among the housemen, medical students, and later among the neighbours. His reputation of being a formidable conspirator, a nihilist, a regicide, a patriot prepared to do anything who had miraculously escaped death, had captured Pierre Roland’s vivid and wild imagination, and he had become friends with the old boy, but without ever having obtained from him the slightest admission about his past life. It was even thanks to the young doctor that he had come to set up business in Le Havre, counting on the many clients that the newly established doctor would send him. In the meantime he lived like a pauper in his modest chemist’s shop, selling remedies to the middle and working classes in his neighbourhood. Pierre often went to chat with him for an hour after dinner because he loved the calm features and sporadic conversation of Marowsko, whose long silences struck him as profound. A single gaslight burned above the phial-laden counter. Those in the window had not been lit in order to save money. Sitting in a chair behind the counter, his legs stretched out and crossed in front of him and sleeping with his chin on his chest, was an elderly bald-headed man whose beaked nose jutted out of his bare forehead, making him look like a melancholy parrot. He awoke at the sound of the bell, jumped up, and, recognizing the doctor, came towards him with outstretched hands. His black frock coat, which was far too big for his thin puny frame, was streaked with acid and syrup stains and looked like an ancient cassock. He spoke with a heavy Polish accent which made his reedy

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voice sound almost childish, with the lisps and intonations of an infant learning to speak. Pierre sat down and Marowsko asked: ‘So what’s new, my dear doctor?’ ‘Nothing. Everything’s the same as usual.’ ‘You don’t seem very cheerful this evening.’ ‘I’m not often cheerful.’ ‘Well, we’ll have to shake you out of it then. Would you like a liqueur?’ ‘I’d love one.’ ‘Then I’ll get you to taste a new concoction. I’ve been trying for two months to extract something from redcurrants which until now have only been used to make cordial, and I’ve done it! I’ve done it! A fine liqueur, very fine indeed.’ Delighted, he walked over to a cupboard, opened it, and selected a bottle which he then brought over. His movements and actions were always disjointed, never complete. He never fully extended his arm or opened his legs wide, he never made a definitive or decisive movement. His ideas seemed to resemble his actions; he gestured towards them, promised to act on them, outlined them, suggested them, but never stated them fully. His main interest in life, however, was the preparation of syrups and liqueurs. ‘You can make a fortune with a good cordial or liqueur,’ he would often say. He had created hundreds of sugary concoctions without succeeding in marketing a single one of them. Pierre used to say that Marowsko reminded him of Marat.* Two small glasses were brought from the back shop to the work bench, then the two men examined the colour of the liquid by raising it up to the light. ‘A lovely ruby!’ declared Pierre. ‘Isn’t it just!’ The old Pole’s parrot face shone with delight. The doctor tasted, savoured, deliberated, tasted once more, deliberated once again, and gave his verdict: ‘Very, very good, and quite a new flavour. A real find, my friend!’ ‘Oh really? I’m so pleased.’ Marowsko then asked his advice on finding a name for the new

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liqueur. He had thought about calling it ‘Essence of Redcurrant’, or ‘Redcurrant Liqueur’, or ‘Currento’, or ‘Currantette’. Pierre didn’t approve of any of these names. The old boy came up with an idea: ‘What you said earlier is very good: “Lovely Ruby”.’ The doctor questioned the value of this name too, even though he had devised it himself, and he simply advised ‘Currantina’, which Marowsko declared admirable. They fell silent and sat there under the gaslight for a few moments without saying a word. Finally Pierre, almost in spite of himself, said: ‘Something quite strange happened to us this evening. One of my father’s friends has died and left his fortune to my brother.’ The chemist appeared not to understand at first, but then, having thought it over, said that he hoped the doctor would inherit half. When the whole matter had been explained to him, he seemed surprised and angry, and to express his discontent at seeing his young friend excluded, he repeated several times: ‘That won’t look good.’ Pierre, whose irritation was returning, wanted to know what Marowsko meant by this phrase. Why wouldn’t it look good? How could his brother’s inheriting the fortune of a family friend possibly have a negative effect? But the old man warily refused to elaborate further. ‘In this kind of case, both brothers should inherit equally. I’m telling you this won’t look good.’ Exasperated, the doctor left and returned to the parental home where he went to bed. For some time he could hear Jean pacing softly up and down in the neighbouring bedroom; then he fell asleep after drinking two glasses of water.

CHAPTER 3 The doctor awoke the next day fully resolved to make his fortune. He had already taken this decision several times without ever actually following it through. At the start of each of his attempts at a new career, the hope of getting rich quickly had sustained his efforts and confidence until the first obstacle, the first setback which diverted him off on a new track. From the comfort of his warm bed, he began to plan. How many doctors had become millionaires in a short space of time? It only required an ounce of know-how; this he had found out during the course of his studies where he had been able to assess the most famous of professors and had found them to be fools. He was certainly as good as them, if not better. If he could somehow win over the rich and elegant Le Havre clientele, he could easily earn a hundred thousand francs a year. And he calculated the guaranteed profit more precisely. In the mornings he would do his rounds, visiting his patients. Taking only a modest average of ten a day at twenty francs per call, he would make a minimum of 72,000 francs a year, even 75,000 because the figure of ten patients was lower than it would certainly be. In the afternoons he would see another average of ten patients in his practice at ten francs a head, making 36,000. That could be 120,000, rounded up. Long-standing patients and friends, for whom he would charge ten francs for a house call and five for an appointment, would probably slightly lower this figure, but this would be offset by consultations with other doctors and by all the other usual little perks of the profession. The easiest way to do it would be by a bit of clever advertising, a few short articles in Le Figaro* indicating that the Parisian scientific establishment had its eye on him and was interested in some of the astounding cures for which the young and unassuming doctor from Le Havre was responsible. And he would be richer than his brother, richer and more satisfied as he would owe this wealth to his own endeavours. He would be generous to his ageing parents who would be rightly proud of his fame. He wouldn’t marry, not wishing to be tied down by a single, tiresome woman, but would take mistresses from among his prettiest patients.

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He felt so sure of success that he leaped out of bed as if to seize it right away, and he dressed to go into town to find himself a suitable apartment. As he roamed around the streets, he thought how shaky are the causes determining our actions. For the past three weeks he could have, in fact should have, taken this decision which no doubt had been suddenly generated in him as a result of his brother’s inheritance. He only stopped at the doors displaying a sign announcing either a beautiful flat or a luxury apartment to let, dismissing contemptuously notices without any adjectives. Then he viewed them haughtily, measuring the height of the ceilings, sketching the place in his notebook, showing passageways and door widths, making it clear that he was a doctor and had many callers. The staircase must be wide and well looked after, and he had to be no higher than the first floor. Having taken down seven or eight addresses and scribbled hundreds of notes, he returned for lunch a quarter of an hour late. From the hall he could hear the clatter of plates. So they had started without him. Why? They never ate punctually at home. He felt put out and hurt as he was rather touchy. As soon as he came in, Roland said to him: ‘Hurry up then, Pierre, for heaven’s sake! You know that we have to be at the lawyer’s at two. Today’s not the day for dawdling.’ The doctor sat down without replying, after kissing his mother and shaking hands with his father and brother, and took the cutlet saved for him from the dish in the centre of the table. It was cold and dried up. It must have been the worst one. He thought they might have left it in the oven until he came in, and not have lost their heads to the point of completely forgetting their other son, the elder son at that. The conversation was picked up from the point where it had been interrupted by his arrival. ‘If I were you,’ said Madame Roland to Jean, ‘I would set myself up at once with no expense spared so as to catch the public eye, I would be seen in society, ride a horse, and choose one or two interesting cases to defend to get a reputation in the courts. I would like to be a sort of amateur barrister much in demand. Thanks to God you’re free from financial worries, and, at the end of the day, if you take up a profession it’s only so that you don’t let your studies go to waste and because a man should never just do nothing.’

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Old Roland, peeling a pear, declared: ‘Good Lord, in your shoes I’d buy a lovely boat, a cutter like our pilots’, and I’d sail as far as Senegal* in it.’ It was Pierre’s turn to give his advice. What it came down to was that it wasn’t wealth which determined a man’s moral value or intellectual worth. In the mediocre it only brought about degeneration, whereas, conversely, it became a powerful lever placed in the hands of the strong. And yet there weren’t too many of these. If Jean really was a superior sort of man, he could show it now that he was free from want, but he would need to work a hundred times harder than he would have done under other circumstances. It was not a question of simply pleading for or against some widow or orphan and pocketing so much for each case lost or won, but of becoming an eminent lawyer, a leading light of the profession. And to conclude, he added: ‘If I had money, I wouldn’t half dissect some bodies!’ Old Roland shrugged his shoulders: ‘Fiddlesticks! The wisest thing in life is to take it easy. We’re not beasts of burden, we’re men. If you’re born poor, you have to work, and if that’s the way it is, so be it, you work; but when you have an income, good God! you’d be a fool to work yourself into the ground.’ Pierre replied haughtily: ‘There you and I differ! Personally the only things I respect in this world are knowledge and intelligence, everything else is contemptible.’ Madame Roland, who always tried to soften the endless clashes between father and son, changed the subject and talked about a murder which had been committed at Bolbec-Nointot* the week before. Immediately everybody’s mind was thus occupied by the circumstances surrounding the murder and enthralled by the interesting horror, by the seductive mystery of crimes which, however banal, shameful, and revolting, exercise a strange and common fascination over human curiosity. From time to time, however, Roland pulled out his watch: ‘Well, we ought to set off soon.’ Pierre scoffed: ‘It’s not even one o’clock. Really, it wasn’t worth making me eat a cold cutlet.’ ‘Are you coming to the lawyer’s?’ asked his mother. He replied curtly: ‘Me? No, what would be the point? My presence would be unnecessary.’

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Jean remained silent as if it didn’t concern him. When they had spoken about the murder at Bolbec, he had, as a lawyer, put forward a few ideas and developed some opinions on crime and criminals. Now he was silent again, but the sparkle in his eye, the healthy glow in his cheeks, and even his glossy beard seemed to proclaim his happiness. Once the family had left, Pierre, alone again, resumed his earlier search for an apartment to rent. After two or three hours of traipsing up and down stairs, he finally found an attractive place in the Boulevard François I; a large mezzanine, with two entrances on different streets, two reception rooms, a glassed-in lobby in which patients waiting to be seen could wander about surrounded by flowers, and a wonderful circular dining room overlooking the sea. As he was about to sign the rent agreement, he was stopped by the figure of 3,000 francs as the first quarter had to be paid in advance, and he hadn’t got a penny to his name. The modest capital saved by his father yielded barely 8,000 francs a year, and Pierre reproached himself for having often caused his parents financial worries by hesitating so long in his choice of career, his false starts, and continually going back to begin his studies all over again. So he left, promising to confirm within two days, and he thought about asking his brother for this first quarter, or even the first six months, as soon as Jean came into his inheritance. ‘It would only be a loan for a few months,’ he thought. ‘I may even be able to pay him back before the end of the year. It’s quite straightforward, and anyway he would be pleased to do it for me.’ As it was not yet four and he had nothing, absolutely nothing, to do, he went and sat in the park and stayed on a bench there for a long while, his mind empty, staring at the ground, overwhelmed by a weariness developing into anguish. He had, however, spent every day like this since returning home, without ever suffering so cruelly from the emptiness of life and his own inactivity. How had he managed to fill the time between waking and sleeping? He had sauntered along the jetty at the change of tide, wandered around the streets, hung about in cafés, at Marowsko’s, everywhere. And now suddenly, this lifestyle, which until now had been tolerable, seemed unbearable, unacceptable. If he had had some money he would have taken a carriage and gone for a long drive in the country, alongside farm ditches shaded by hedges and elm trees.

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But he had to count the cost of a beer or even a stamp, and couldn’t allow himself such treats. He suddenly thought how difficult it is, once you’re over thirty, to be reduced to blushingly asking your mother for the odd louis; and, scraping the ground with the end of his walking stick, he murmured: ‘Damn it! If only I had money!’ And although the thought of his brother’s inheritance made its way through his skin once more like a wasp-sting, he impatiently brushed it aside, not wanting to slip down the slope of jealousy. Some children were playing around him in the sandy pathways. They had long fair hair, and, looking very serious and concentrating, were building up little piles of sand only to crush them again with their feet. Pierre was having one of those gloomy days when you look into every corner of your soul and shake out the creases. ‘Our labours are like the work of those kids,’ he thought. Then he wondered if the best thing in life would be to have two or three of these useless little beings and to watch them grow up with indulgent curiosity. He was touched by the desire to marry. You don’t feel so lost when you’re no longer alone. At least you feel someone’s presence close by in times of trouble and uncertainty; to be able to talk intimately with a woman is itself a balm to suffering. He began to think about women. He didn’t have much experience of women, his affairs in the Latin Quarter* only ever lasting a couple of weeks or so, broken off once that month’s money had run out, and picked up again or changed the following month. And yet there must be loving, gentle, and consoling creatures somewhere. Hadn’t his own mother brought reason and charm into his father’s home? How he would love to meet a woman, a real woman! He got up suddenly, having decided to pay a visit to Madame Rosémilly. He sat down again just as quickly. No! She wasn’t the kind of woman he liked! Why not? Because she had too much dull common sense, and anyway, didn’t she seem to prefer Jean? Without wanting to admit it openly to himself, this preference had a lot to do with his low regard for the widow’s intelligence because, whilst he loved his brother, he couldn’t help but think of him as rather ordinary and of himself as being superior.

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On the other hand he wasn’t going to stay there until nightfall and, as on the previous evening, he asked himself anxiously: ‘What am I going to do?’ But now, deep within him, he felt a need for affection, to be enveloped and consoled. Consoled for what? He couldn’t have said, but it was one of those moments of weakness and weariness where the presence of a woman, her caress, the touch of a hand, the rustling of a dress, a tender look from brown or blue eyes seem to us an urgent imperative of the heart. He remembered a little blond barmaid who had taken him back to her place one night and whom he’d seen from time to time since. He stood up once again, to go and have a drink with this girl. What would he say to her? What would she say to him? Nothing, most probably. What did it matter? He would hold her hand for a few seconds! She seemed to fancy him, so why not see her more often then? He found her dozing on a chair in the almost empty bar. Three customers were smoking pipes, leaning their elbows on the oak tables. The cashier was reading a novel, whilst the landlord in his shirtsleeves was fast asleep on the bench. As soon as she spotted him, the girl jumped up and came towards him. ‘Hello, how are you?’ ‘Not bad, and you?’ ‘Oh, I’m fine. Haven’t seen much of you lately!’ ‘I know, I haven’t had much time to myself. You know I’m a doctor now.’ ‘Really? You never told me. If I’d known I would have come to you last week when I was ill. What are you having?’ ‘A beer, and you?’ ‘I’ll have the same, seeing as you’re paying.’ And she went on in this familiar tone, as if his buying her this drink had been tacit permission. Then, sitting facing each other, they chatted. Now and again she took his hand in hers with the easy intimacy of a woman for sale, and looking at him alluringly she said: ‘Why don’t you come here more often? I’ve got a soft spot for you, my darling.’ But already he was getting sick of her and finding her stupid, common, and reeking of the working classes. Women, he said to

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himself, should appear to us in dreams or surrounded by a halo of luxury to romanticize their vulgarity. ‘You went past the other morning with a nice-looking fair man with a full beard. Was it your brother?’ she asked him. ‘Yes, it was.’ ‘He’s a really handsome man.’ ‘Do you think so?’ ‘Oh yes, and he looks like a bloke who enjoys life.’ What strange urge suddenly drove him to tell this barmaid all about Jean’s inheritance? Why should this subject, pushed away when he was alone, repelled by his fear of the unease it stirred up in him, come to his lips at that very moment? And why was he now letting it all pour out to somebody yet again as if he needed to empty the embittered contents of his heart? Crossing his legs, he said: ‘My brother’s an extraordinarily lucky man, he’s just inherited an income of twenty thousand francs.’ Her greedy blue eyes opened wide: ‘Oh? And who left it to him? Was it his grandmother or an aunt?’ ‘No, an old friend of my parents.’ ‘Just a friend? I can’t believe it! And he didn’t leave you anything?’ ‘No. I hardly knew him.’ Having thought it over for a moment, she said with a strange smile: ‘Well, that brother of yours is very lucky to have friends like that! It’s not really surprising that he looks so unlike you!’ He felt like hitting her without knowing why exactly, and, tight-lipped, he asked her: ‘What do you mean by that?’ She affected an air of mindless innocence. ‘Oh, nothing. I just meant he’s much luckier than you.’ He threw some small change on the table and left. But now he kept repeating what she had said to him: ‘It’s not really surprising that he looks so unlike you!’ What had she thought of and what was she suggesting by these words? There had definitely been something malicious, spiteful, and evil in them. Yes, that girl must have thought that Jean was Maréchal’s son. The rush of emotion he felt at the thought of this suspicion cast on his mother was so violent that he stopped and looked around for somewhere to sit down.

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There was another café opposite, so he went in, sat on a chair, and ordered a beer when the waiter came over to him. His heart was beating fast and shivers were running over his skin. Marowsko’s words from the day before now came to him: ‘That won’t look good at all.’ Had the same thought occurred to him, the same suspicion as in the mind of that little slut? Leaning over his beer he watched the white froth bubble and dissolve, and he asked himself: ‘Could anybody possibly believe that?’ The reasons why this odious doubt was germinating in people’s minds came to him now in clear, self-evident, and infuriating succession. Nothing could be more straightforward or more natural than an elderly bachelor with no relatives leaving his fortune to his friend’s two children, but that he should leave the entire amount to just one of them would certainly astonish people and give them cause to whisper and snigger. Why had he failed to see it before? Why hadn’t his father felt it and why hadn’t his mother guessed it? No, they had been so happy about this unexpected windfall that the idea hadn’t occurred to them. And anyway, how could these decent people even have suspected such a shameful thing. But everybody else, the neighbours, the shopkeepers, tradesmen, and everyone who knew them, wouldn’t they repeat this awful idea, have a good laugh about it, revel in it, mock his father and despise his mother for it? The barmaid’s observation that Jean was fair and he was dark, that they were so different in features, manner, build, and aptitude, would now strike every eye and mind. When people referred to one of Roland’s sons they would say: ‘Which one, the real one or the fake?’ He got up, determined to go and tell his brother, to forewarn him of this terrible danger threatening their mother’s reputation. But what could Jean do? The simplest thing would obviously be to refuse to accept the legacy and let it go to the poor instead, and to tell friends and others in the know that the will contained unacceptable clauses and conditions which would have made Jean a trustee rather than an heir. As he returned home, he decided he ought to see his brother alone and not raise such a subject in front of his parents. From the doorway he heard the sound of loud voices and laughter

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in the parlour, and, as he went in, he heard Madame Rosémilly and Captain Beausire who had been brought back by his father and made to stay for dinner to celebrate the good news. Vermouth and absinthe had been ordered to give them an appetite, and this had put them all in fine spirits. Captain Beausire, a short man, rotund from having rolled across so many seas, whose ideas even seemed to be round like pebbles on the shore, and who had a constant guttural laugh, thought everything in life was wonderful, there for the taking. He was clinking glasses with old Roland whilst Jean was handing the two ladies another full glass each. Madame Rosémilly declined, whereupon the captain, who had known her late husband, exclaimed: ‘Oh, go on, Madame. Bis repetita placent,* as we locals say, which means: “Two vermouths never did anybody any harm.” Look at me, since I gave up sailing I have a couple or so every day before dinner to get things rolling, I add a bit of a pitch to that after coffee which sets me off on the high seas for the evening. I never ever go as far as a tempest though, never! I’m too afraid of being holed below the water-line.’ Roland, whose mania for the sea was flattered by the old seafarer, was laughing heartily, his face already red and his eyes puffy with the alcohol. He had a huge shopkeeper’s belly, and nothing but a belly, the kind into which the rest of the body seems to disappear, one of those flabby bellies typical of men who sit all day and have no thighs, chest, arms, or neck left, the seat of their chair having settled their entire mass into one area. On the other hand Beausire, although short and fat, looked solid as an egg and hard as a bullet. Madame Roland had not finished her first glass and, pink with pleasure and eyes shining, she was gazing at her son Jean. He was now bursting with happiness. The whole thing was signed and sealed; he had an income of twenty thousand francs. Through his laughter, his deeper tones, the way he looked at people, his more candid manner, his increased confidence, you could sense the self-assurance that money brings. Dinner was announced, and as old Roland went to offer his arm to escort Madame Rosémilly, his wife exclaimed: ‘No, no, Father, today everything is for Jean.’ The table was brimming with unusual delicacies: in front of Jean,

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in his father’s place at the head of the table, there rose, like a dome adorned with flags, a huge display of ribbons, a truly ceremonial bouquet, flanked by four fruit bowls, the first of which contained a pyramid of magnificent peaches, the second a monumental cake filled with whipped cream and decorated with icing-sugar bells, like a sponge-cake cathedral. In the third were slices of pineapple drowned in a clear syrup, and in the fourth, unheard-of luxury, black grapes from southern climes. ‘Heavens!’ said Pierre as he sat down, ‘we are celebrating the accession of Jean the Rich.’ After the soup, Madeira was served, and already everybody was talking at once. Beausire was telling them about a dinner he had had as a guest of a black general in Santo Domingo.* Old Roland listened whilst trying to slip in details of another dinner given by one of his friends at Meudon after which every guest had needed a fortnight to recover. Madame Rosémilly, Jean, and his mother were planning a day out and lunch at Saint-Jouin,* and already imagining what a splendid time they would have; and Pierre wished he had eaten out alone in some cheap restaurant on the sea-front and avoided all this noise, laughter, and festivity which was getting on his nerves. He thought about how he was going to go about telling his brother his fears and getting him to give up the inheritance he had already accepted, which he was celebrating and already carried away with. It would certainly be difficult for him, but he must do it without hesitation; their mother’s reputation was at stake. The arrival of an enormous sea-bass set Roland off on fishing stories again. Beausire told some amazing tales about Gabon,* Sainte-Marie in Madagascar,* and especially about the coasts of China and Japan where the fish look as funny as the inhabitants. Then he went on to describe these fish, their huge, golden eyes, their blue or red bellies, their strange fan-like fins, their crescent-shaped tails, and mimicked them in such an entertaining way that all the guests laughed till they cried as they listened to him. Only Pierre seemed incredulous and he murmured: ‘It’s true what they say about the Normans being the Gascons* of the north.’ After the fish came a vol-au-vent, then roast chicken, salad, green beans, and a lark terrine from Pithiviers.* Madame Rosémilly’s maid was helping with the serving, and the merriment heightened with every glass of wine. When the first of the champagne corks flew off,

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an exhilarated Roland imitated the sound of it popping, then declared: ‘I much prefer that to hearing gun shots.’ Pierre, becoming more and more exasperated, replied mockingly: ‘And yet that’s probably more dangerous for you.’ Roland, on the point of taking a sip, put his glass back on the table and asked: ‘Why do you say that?’ For a long time he had been complaining about his health, having headaches, dizzy spells, a general and inexplicable feeling of being unwell. The doctor went on: ‘Because a bullet from a pistol may well miss you, whereas a glass of wine will definitely go straight to the stomach.’ ‘And?’ ‘And then it burns right through the gut, upsets the nervous system, slows down the circulation, and brings on the apoplexy which all men of your constitution are prone to.’ The former jeweller’s growing drunkenness seemed to evaporate into thin air, and he stared at his son anxiously as he tried to determine whether or not he was joking. But Beausire exclaimed: ‘Oh, these damned doctors are all the same: don’t eat, don’t drink, don’t make love, and no fooling around. It’s all supposed to be bad for your health. Well, I’ve done it all, my dear Sir, in every corner of the globe, wherever I could, as much as I could, and I’m none the worse for it!’ Pierre replied sourly: ‘First, Captain, you are much stronger than my father, and secondly, people who live as recklessly as you always say the same until the day when... and they never come back the next day to admit to the prudent doctor: “Yes, doctor, you were right.” When I see my father doing the worst and most harmful things to himself, it’s only natural that I should warn him. I wouldn’t be much of a son if I acted otherwise.’ Distressed, Madame Roland intervened: ‘What is it with you, Pierre? It won’t hurt him just this once. Think what an occasion this is for him, for all of us. You’ll spoil it all for him and upset the lot of us. You’re being very mean.’ He shrugged his shoulders and muttered: ‘Let him do what he likes, he’s been warned.’ But old Roland had stopped drinking. He looked at his glassful of clear, sparkling wine whose light, intoxicating soul was floating away in a rush of little bubbles which rose rapidly from the bottom and

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vanished on the surface. He looked at it with all the suspicion of a fox who comes across a dead chicken and suspects a trap. Hesitantly he asked: ‘Do you think it will be really bad for me?’ Pierre was remorseful and felt ashamed of himself for making the others suffer because of his bad mood: ‘No, go ahead this once, you can have a drink, but don’t get carried away and don’t make a habit of it.’ Old Roland picked up his glass, still unsure whether or not to place it to his lips. He looked at it sadly with a mixture of craving and fear. He then smelled it, tasted it, took little sips and savoured them, his heart full of anguish, weakness, and greed, then regret once he had drained the last drop. Pierre suddenly caught Madame Rosémilly staring at him, her eyes limpid and blue, knowing and hard. He could feel, read, and guess the unmistakable and angry thought behind the gaze of this little woman with her straightforward and honest ways, for her eyes seemed to say: ‘You’re jealous and that’s shameful.’ He lowered his head and continued eating. He wasn’t hungry and he found everything tasted foul. He was tormented by an urge to get away, a desire not to be in the company of these people, or hear them laughing, joking, and chatting any longer. Meanwhile his father, who was starting once again to come under the influence of the heady wine, had already forgotten his son’s advice and was casting sidelong, loving glances at an almost full bottle of champagne by his plate. He didn’t dare touch it for fear of another lecture, and was wondering which trick, which ingenuity to employ to get his hands on it without arousing fresh comment from Pierre. A ruse came to him, the simplest of all; he picked up the bottle nonchalantly and, holding it at the bottom, stretched his arm across the table, first filling the doctor’s glass and then all the others, and when he arrived at his own he began to talk very loudly, and if he did pour something into it, you would certainly have sworn that he had done so inadvertently. In fact, nobody took any notice. Pierre, without realizing it, was drinking a great deal. He was wound up and on edge, and kept unconsciously sipping from the crystal flute with its bubbles rising up through the clear, sparkling liquid. He was pouring it slowly into his mouth so as to feel the sweet

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prickling sensation as it fizzed on his tongue. Gradually a feeling of warmth coursed through his body. It started in his stomach, which seemed to be the source of heat, it reached his chest, crept through his limbs, and spread throughout his flesh like a warm, heartening wave bringing happiness with it. He felt much better, not so impatient and perturbed, and his resolve to speak to his brother that very evening weakened, not because it had occurred to him to give up the idea altogether, but so as not to interrupt so soon the feeling of well-being he was experiencing. Beausire stood up to propose a toast. After bowing to all present, he said: ‘Most honourable ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here to celebrate a happy event which has just befallen one of our friends. It used to be said that Lady Luck was blind; I believe that she was just short-sighted or a tease, but that she has just bought herself a pair of quality marine binoculars which enabled her to spot in the port of Le Havre the son of our good friend Roland, captain of the Perle.’ There were cries of ‘bravo!’, together with hearty applause. Roland senior stood up to reply. He coughed, for his throat needed clearing and his tongue felt somewhat heavy, and then stammered out: ‘Thank you, Captain, thank you on behalf of myself and my son. I’ll never forget how you’ve acted in these circumstances. Let’s drink to your own hopes.’ He was choked with tears, and he sat down again, finding nothing else to say. Jean was laughing as he took the floor in his turn: ‘I am the one who should thank all the devoted friends, the excellent friends’ (he glanced at Madame Rosémilly), ‘who are showing me touching proof of their affection here today. But words alone are not enough to express my gratitude, I will prove it tomorrow, at every point in my life, always, for our friendship is not one which will fade.’ His mother, deeply moved, murmured: ‘Well said, my child.’ But Beausire cried: ‘Come on, Madame Rosémilly, say a few words on behalf of the fairer sex.’ She raised her glass and said in a gentle voice with just a touch of sadness: ‘I drink to the blessed memory of Monsieur Maréchal.’ There were a few moments of calm and fitting contemplation, as follows a prayer, and then Beausire, who was always ready with a compliment, remarked: ‘Only women can be so thoughtful.’

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Then, turning to Roland senior: ‘What was this Maréchal really like? Were you on very intimate terms with him?’ The old boy, emotional as a result of the alcohol, began to cry and spluttered out: ‘A brother... you know... you’d never find another like him... we were never apart... he ate with us every evening... he treated us to trips to the theatre... I can only say that... that... that. A friend... a real one... a real... wasn’t he, Louise?’ His wife replied simply: ‘Yes, he was a faithful friend.’ Pierre looked at his father and mother, but as the conversation had moved on, he started to drink again. He hardly remembered anything about the end of the evening. They had had coffee, a few liqueurs, and had laughed and joked. He had gone to bed around midnight in a confused state and with a headache. And he had slept like a log until nine the following morning.

CHAPTER 4 Perhaps this slumber, bathed in champagne and chartreuse, had soothed and calmed him, for he awoke in a better-disposed mood. As he dressed, he assessed, weighed, and summed up how he had felt the previous evening, trying to identify clearly and thoroughly the real, secret, and personal causes as well as the external ones. It could be that the barmaid had thought the worst, with her filthy prostitute’s mind, on hearing that only one of the Roland sons was to inherit from an unknown man; and don’t creatures like this always have such utterly groundless suspicions about all decent women? Weren’t they always to be heard abusing, slandering, and casting aspersions on the reputation of any woman they sense is beyond reproach? Every time anyone mentions in front of them the name of somebody blameless they become angry, as if they were the ones being insulted, exclaiming: ‘I know all about these married women, I do; a right lot they are! They’ve got more lovers than we have, but they hide them because they’re hypocrites. Oh yes, what a bunch!’ On any other occasion he would certainly never have understood, let alone supposed possible, any such insinuations against his poor mother who was so good, so simple, so respectable. But his soul was tormented by this seed of jealousy fermenting inside him. His overexcited mind, on the lookout, as it were, in spite of himself, for anything that might hurt his brother, might even have credited that barmaid with awful ideas that she had never even had. It could be that his imagination alone, beyond his control and will-power, set boldly free, full of guile, had gone off adventurously into the infinite universe of ideas, from which it sometimes returned with unmentionable, shameful ones which it hid away deep inside him, in the innermost reaches of his soul, like stolen goods; it could be that this imagination alone had created, invented this horrible doubt. Almost certainly his own heart withheld its secrets from him, and his wounded heart must have found a way of using this appalling uncertainty to deprive his brother of the inheritance he coveted. He suspected himself now, and questioned the mysteries of his mind just as the devoutly religious examine their consciences.

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It was clear that Madame Rosémilly, even with her limited intelligence, had the tact, intuition, and subtle instinct of women. And yet this idea had not entered her head, for she had been completely sincere in drinking to Maréchal’s blessed memory. She would never have done that if she’d had the slightest suspicion. Now he was convinced; his involuntary resentment of the fortune that had fallen upon his brother, and undoubtedly his quasi-religious love for his mother, had made his scruples more acute, scruples which were pious and admirable, but exaggerated. Having reached this conclusion, he felt happy, as if some good deed had been done, and he made up his mind to be charming to everybody, starting with his father whose odd habits, inane statements, commonplace opinions, and all-too-glaring mediocrity constantly got on his nerves. He did not arrive late for lunch and entertained the whole family with his wit and good mood. His mother was delighted and said: ‘My little Pierre, you don’t know how amusing and witty you can be when you want to be.’ He carried on talking, finding comic turns of phrase, making them laugh at ingenious portraits of their friends. Beausire was a good target, and Madame Rosémilly to a lesser degree, although more discreetly and not unkindly. And, as he looked at his brother, he thought: ‘But stand up for her at least, you fool. You may well be rich, but I can always outshine you when it suits me.’ Over coffee he said to his father: ‘Are you using the Perle today?’ ‘No, son.’ ‘Can I take her out with Jean-Bart?’ ‘Yes of course, for as long as you like.’ He bought a good cigar from the first tobacconist’s he came to, and went down to the harbour with a spring in his step. He looked at the clear, bright, pale blue sky refreshed and cleansed by the sea breeze. Papagris the sailor, alias Jean-Bart, was dozing in the bottom of the boat which he had to keep ready to sail any day when they hadn’t gone out fishing in the morning. ‘Just the two of us, boss,’ shouted Pierre. He climbed down the iron ladder from the quay and jumped into the craft. ‘What’s the wind doing?’

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‘It’s still blowing upstream, M’sieur Pierre. There’s a good breeze out there.’ ‘Well then, old boy, let’s be off.’ They hoisted the foresail, raised the anchor, and the boat, set free, began to glide slowly towards the jetty over the calm water of the harbour. The slight gust of wind from the streets caught the top of the sail so gently that it could hardly be felt, and the Perle seemed to be animated with a life of her own, the life of ships, carried along by a mysterious force hidden within her. Pierre had taken the tiller, and, drawing on his cigar, legs stretched out on the bench, eyes half closed against the dazzling rays of sunlight, he watched the large struts of the breakwater’s tarred timbers as they passed close by. As they came out into the open sea and reached the shelter of the tip of the northern jetty, the breeze, much fresher now, brushed across the doctor’s face and hands like a cool caress, entered his lungs which opened in a long sigh to drink it in, and filled the brown sail, swelling it out, tilting the Perle and quickening her pace. Jean-Bart suddenly hauled up the jib, its wind-filled triangle resembling a wing, then reached the stern in two strides to untie the jigger from its mast. The hull of the boat now keeled sharply over and the boat raced along at full speed, the gentle but clear sound of bubbling water running against its side. The bow opened up the sea like the blade of a runaway plough, and the uplifted wave, churned up and foaming white, curled back round and fell again like the heavy, brown earth of a tilled field. With every wave––they were choppy and close together––the Perle shuddered from the jib to the rudder which shook beneath Pierre’s hand, and when the wind blew stronger for a few moments, the waves skimmed the sides as if they were about to invade the boat. A coal carrier from Liverpool lay at anchor awaiting the tide. They circled it stern-side and then had a look at the other ships lined up in harbour, and finally moved further out to watch the coastline unfold. For three hours Pierre, feeling peaceful and contented, drifted around on the rippling water guiding this wooden and canvas object like a swift, docile winged beast, its every movement responding to his desire, obeying the pressure of his fingers. He was dreaming, as you do on horseback or on the deck of a ship,

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thinking about his future, which would be bright, and about the pleasure of a life which made best use of his intelligence. The very next day he would ask his brother to lend him 1,500 francs for three months so he could move into that lovely apartment in the Boulevard François I. Suddenly the sailor said to him: ‘Fog’s coming, M’sieur Pierre. Best get back.’ He looked up and saw to the north a low and wispy grey shadow filling the sky and shrouding the sea, rushing towards them like a cloud that had fallen from the heavens. He changed tack and made for the jetty with the wind behind them, closely followed by the fastgaining fog. When it caught up with the Perle, enveloping her in its invisible blanket, a cold shiver ran through Pierre’s limbs, and a smell of smoke and mildew, that strange smell of sea fogs, made him close his mouth to avoid tasting this cloud of damp and icy air. By the time the boat was back in its usual moorings, the whole town was already blanketed by this insubstantial vapour, not actually falling but drenching everything like rain as it flowed over houses and streets like a river. Pierre hurried home, his hands and feet frozen, and threw himself onto his bed to sleep until dinner time. As he entered the dining room, his mother was saying to Jean: ‘The gallery will be lovely. We’ll put flowers there. You’ll see. I’ll make sure I care for them and replace them. When you entertain it will look magical.’ ‘What are you talking about?’ asked the doctor. ‘About a wonderful apartment I’ve just rented for your brother. It’s a real find; a mezzanine facing onto two streets. It has two reception rooms, a glassed-in gallery, and a small circular dining room, perfectly stylish for a bachelor.’ Pierre turned pale and anger gripped his heart. ‘And where exactly is it?’ he asked. ‘Boulevard François I.’ He was sure now and sat down so enraged that he felt like shouting: ‘This is really too much! Isn’t there anything that’s not for him?’ His mother, beaming with joy, still went on talking: ‘And just imagine, I managed to get it for 2,800 francs. They wanted 3,000, but I got 200 off by taking out a lease for three, six, or nine years. It will suit your brother down to the ground. All a lawyer needs is an

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elegant home to become successful. That attracts the client, seduces and keeps him loyal, inspires respect and makes him realize that the judgements of a man living in such style come at a price.’ She paused for a few moments, then went on: ‘We’ll have to find something similar for you, more modest, of course, as you’ve no money, but pleasant enough. Believe me, it would be very useful to you.’ Pierre replied scornfully: ‘Oh! hard work and science will be my way to the top.’ His mother was insistent: ‘Yes, but a nice home would be very useful all the same, I assure you.’ About halfway through the meal he suddenly asked: ‘How did you get to know this Maréchal?’ His father looked up and tried to remember. ‘Let me see, I’m not quite sure. It’s so long ago. Oh yes, I know. Your mother got to know him in the shop, that’s right, isn’t it, Louise? He came in to order something, and then he came back often. We first knew him as a client before he became a friend.’ Pierre, who was eating some beans and stabbing them one by one with the prong of his fork as if he were running them through, continued: ‘So when did this friendship begin?’ Roland thought again but couldn’t remember anything more and so appealed to his wife’s memory: ‘Let’s see, what year was it, Louise? You can’t have forgotten, knowing how good your memory is. Let me think, it was in... er... in ’55 or ’56? Try and think back, you should know better than me.’ She did think for a while and then said calmly but firmly: ‘It was ’58, dear. Pierre was three then. I’m sure I’m right because that was the year when the child had scarlet fever, and Maréchal, whom we hardly knew at that time, was a great help to us.’ Roland exclaimed: ‘That’s right, that’s right, he was marvellous! As your mother was worn out and I was busy in the shop, he used to go to the chemist’s to collect your medicine. He really was a nice chap. And when you recovered, you can’t imagine how happy he was and how he made a fuss of you. From that moment on we became the best of friends.’ A sudden, raging thought went into Pierre’s soul like a bullet piercing through flesh: ‘If he knew me first and was so devoted to me, if he loved and cuddled me so much because I’m responsible for

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his great friendship with my parents, why has he left his entire fortune to my brother and nothing to me?’ He asked no more questions and sat there despondently, absorbed rather than thoughtful, harbouring a new and as yet vague anxiety, the hidden seed of a new disease. He went out soon afterward and began roaming around the streets again. They were veiled in fog which made the night heavy, murky, and nauseating. It was as if some faintly noxious vapour was blanketing the earth. He saw it passing over the street lamps, sometimes seeming to put them out. The paving stones were becoming as slippery as on an icy evening, and all the bad smells seemed to be emanating from the bellies of the houses, stenches from cellars, gutters, drains, and grubby kitchens, and mingling with the terrible reek of this drifting fog. Not wanting to stay outside in this cold, Pierre, shoulders hunched and hands thrust in pockets, made his way to Marowsko’s. Beneath the gas lamp that kept watch for him, the old pharmacist slept as usual. On recognizing Pierre, whom he adored with the love of a fawning dog, he shook off his drowsiness, went to find two glasses, and brought back the ‘Currantina’. ‘So!’ asked the doctor, ‘how’s the liqueur coming along?’ The Pole explained how four of the main cafés had agreed to launch it, and how the Phare de la Côte and the Sémaphore havrais* would advertise it in exchange for a few pharmaceutical products being made available for their staff. After a lengthy silence, Marowsko enquired if Jean was definitely in possession of his fortune, then asked one or two more vague questions on the same subject. His zealous devotion to Pierre was outraged by this favouritism. And Pierre believed he could read Marowsko’s thoughts, guessing from the way his eyes avoided his, understanding from the hesitant tone of his voice, reading the words which came to his lips, left unsaid because he was so prudent, timid, and wily. He was now convinced that the old man was thinking: ‘You shouldn’t have allowed him to accept this inheritance which will lead to rumours about your mother.’ Perhaps he even believed that Jean was Maréchal’s son. Of course he did! How could he not when the whole thing must seem so plausible, so likely, so obvious to him? But hadn’t he, Pierre, his mother’s own son, battled for three days with

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all his might and emotional inventiveness, to deceive reason, fighting against this terrible suspicion? And once again suddenly he was so possessed by the need to be alone, to think, to go over the whole thing, to face up to the facts, without scruples or weakness, as far as this possible but shocking thing was concerned, that he stood up without even finishing his glass of Currantina, shook hands with the astounded pharmacist and plunged back out into the foggy street. He kept saying to himself: ‘Why has this Maréchal left his entire fortune to Jean?’ It was no longer jealousy which drove him to find an answer, nor was it the rather despicable but natural envy he knew was hidden within him and which he had been struggling with for three days, but rather terror of something appalling, fear of believing that his brother Jean was the son of this man! No, he didn’t believe it, he couldn’t even ask himself this illegitimate question. Yet he had to rid himself once and for all of this suspicion, however slight and unlikely. He needed to be clear-sighted and absolutely sure in his heart, for his mother was all that he loved in this world. So all alone, wandering around in the dark, he was going to undertake a detailed analysis of his own memory and thought processes, out of which the undeniable truth would arise. Once that was over, he wouldn’t think about it ever again. He would go and sleep. He thought it through: ‘Let’s examine the facts first of all; then I’ll go over everything I know about him, how he behaved towards my brother and me, and then I’ll go into all the possible reasons which might be behind this favouritism... He was present at Jean’s birth?... Yes, but he knew me first. If he loved my mother silently and from afar, then he would have favoured me, as it’s thanks to me and my scarlet fever that he became such a friend of my parents. So, logically, he should have had more of a soft spot for me unless he felt drawn by a more instinctive preference for my brother as he watched him grow up.’ So he searched his memory, desperately concentrating his whole mind and intellectual power to reconstruct, to re-examine and get inside this man’s heart, this man who had been so near to him, but to whom he had meant so little, during all his years in Paris.

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But he felt that, as he walked, the gentle movement of his steps broke his concentration and disturbed his ideas, thus weakening their impact and obscuring his memory. In order to subject past and unknown events to a scrutiny which left nothing unturned, he needed to be motionless in some vast and empty place. So he decided to go and sit on the jetty as he had done the other night. As he reached the harbour he heard a mournful and sinister cry out to sea, like the bellowing of a bull, only longer and more powerful. It was the wail of a siren, the cry of ships lost in the fog. A shiver ran through his body and froze his heart, for this cry of distress had resounded in his soul and throughout every nerve, so much so that he felt he had uttered it himself. Another similar voice wailed in its turn a little further off, and then, close by, the harbour siren responded with a heartrending blare. Pierre strode along to the end of the jetty, no longer thinking of anything, content to enter this sombre, howling darkness. Once seated at the far end of the pier, he closed his eyes so as not to see the electric lamps, veiled in mist, which lit the way to the port at night, nor the red glow of the lighthouse on the south jetty, scarcely distinguishable in any case. Then, half turning, he leant his elbows on the granite and buried his face in his hands. His thoughts, although not spoken aloud, went on repeating ‘Maréchal... Maréchal’ as if to summon him up, recalling and awakening his ghost. And in the darkness behind closed eyelids, he suddenly saw him as he used to know him. He was a man in his sixties, sporting a pointed beard, with bushy eyebrows, white as well. He was neither tall nor short and looked very friendly, his soft grey eyes and unassuming ways making him seem kindly, natural, and gentle. He used to call Pierre and Jean ‘my dear children’, never appearing to favour one more than the other, and often had them over for dinner. With the persistence of a hound sniffing out a scent, Pierre started to go over every word, gesture, intonation, and expression of this man now departed from the world. He pieced him together bit by bit, seeing him in his flat in the Rue Tronchet* when he invited him and his brother over to eat. Two maids waited on him, both elderly, and had, long ago, it seemed, taken to calling them ‘Monsieur Pierre’ and ‘Monsieur Jean’.

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Maréchal would stretch out his hands to the young boys, offering either the right or the left to one or the other as they came in. ‘Hello, my dear children,’ he said, ‘any news of your parents? They never write to me,’ They used to chat in a relaxing, friendly manner about ordinary things. Nothing exceptional about this man’s mind, but he was sociable, charming, and refined. He had certainly been a good friend to them, one of those excellent friends you don’t think about much because they’re always there. Memories were now flooding back into Pierre’s mind. Having seen him looking worried on several occasions, and guessing that as a student he must have financial worries, Maréchal had often offered and lent him money, quite unasked, a few hundred francs perhaps, that had been forgotten by both sides and never repaid. This man had thus always loved him and been interested in him, as he was concerned about his needs. So... so why leave his entire fortune to Jean? No, he had never openly displayed more affection for the younger than the elder, or shown more interest or seemed less kindly to one rather than the other. So he must therefore have had a powerful, secret reason for giving everything, absolutely everything, to Jean and nothing to Pierre. The more he thought about and relived these past years, the more he found this distinction made between the two of them to be unlikely and incredible. And a sharp pain, an indescribable anguish filled him, sending his heart into a frantic flutter. Its valves seemed broken and the blood flowed freely through, tossing and turning it wildly. In a half whisper, the way people talk aloud in nightmares, he murmured: ‘I have to know. My God, I have to know.’ He dug deeper now, going back to the times when his parents lived in Paris. But faces escaped him, clouding his memories. Above all, he was trying desperately to remember whether Maréchal had had fair, brown, or dark hair? He couldn’t do so, as in his last memory of him, he saw only the face of an elderly man blotting out every other. He did recall that he was slimmer, had a soft voice, and often brought flowers, very often, for his father was always saying: ‘More flowers! My dear chap, you’re mad. All these roses will be your ruin.’ To which Maréchal would reply: ‘Never mind about that, it gives me pleasure.’

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And suddenly his mother’s tone, his mother who smiled and answered, ‘Thank you, my friend,’ came into his mind as clearly as if he had just heard it again. She must have pronounced these four words very often then for them to be so engraved on her son’s memory! So Maréchal, the rich gentleman and customer, used to bring flowers to the little lady behind the counter, the wife of the humble jeweller. Was he in love with her? How else would he have become friendly with these shopkeepers if he hadn’t loved the wife? He was an educated man with a fairly cultivated mind. How many times had he talked to Pierre about poets and poetry? He didn’t judge writers in terms of artistic criteria, but rather as an ordinary man with feelings. The doctor had often smiled at these outbursts of emotion which struck him as slightly puerile. Now he realized that this sentimental man could never have become friends with his father who was so pragmatic, so down to earth, and so unimaginative that the very word ‘poetry’ seemed absurd to him. So this Maréchal, young, rich, single, and in search of romance, had come into this shop one day by chance, perhaps having noticed the pretty woman behind the counter. He had bought something, had come back again, got chatting, becoming increasingly familiar with each visit, paying with frequent purchases for the right to pull up a chair in this household, to smile at the young wife and shake the husband’s hand. And then later on... later on... Oh my God... later?... He had loved and cuddled the first child, the jeweller’s son, until the birth of the second, and had then remained impenetrable until his death, whereupon, his coffin sealed, his flesh decomposed, his name wiped from the list of the living, his whole being gone forever and with nothing left to care for, nothing to fear or hide, he had left his entire fortune to the second child!... But why? This man was intelligent. He must have realized and foreseen that he could, in fact almost inevitably would, lead people to believe that this child was his own. So he was jeopardizing a woman’s reputation? Would he really have done so unless Jean was his son? Suddenly a clear and awful memory filled his head. Maréchal was fair, fair like Jean. He now remembered a small miniature portrait he had seen on the mantelpiece of their sitting room in Paris long ago, and which had now disappeared. Where could it be? Lost, or

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hidden? Oh, if he could only get hold it for a second! Maybe his mother had kept it in some secret drawer where keepsakes from a past love are locked away. The thought of this heightened his distress to the point where he groaned aloud, one of those short involuntary moans forced from the throat by acute pain. And suddenly, as if it had heard him, had understood, and was replying, the siren on the jetty boomed just next to him. The din made by this supernatural monster, more resounding than thunder, a wild and fearsome howl designed to dominate the roaring of the wind and waves, spread into the darkness and across the invisible sea, buried in fog. Then, through the mist, similar cries called out again in the night, some near, some far. And they were terrifying, these calls from the huge, blinded ships. And then silence once more. Pierre had opened his eyes and was looking around, surprised to find himself there, awakened from his nightmare. ‘I must be mad’, he thought, ‘to suspect my own mother.’ And a wave of love and tenderness, repentance, prayer, and grief swept over him. His own mother! Knowing her as he did, how could he have suspected her? Weren’t the very soul, the very lifestyle of this simple, chaste, and loyal woman clearer than water itself? When you had seen and known her, how could you not place her beyond suspicion? And yet he, her son, had doubted her! Oh, if only he could have taken her in his arms there and then, how he would have hugged and kissed her, and gone down on his knees to beg forgiveness! Could she have been unfaithful to his father?... His father! He was a good man, of course, honourable and trustworthy in business matters, but a man whose mind had never stretched beyond the horizons of his shop. How could this woman, who had been extremely pretty, he knew, and indeed still was, and blessed with a delicate, loving, and gentle soul, have come to accept a man so different from herself as her fiancé and husband? Why bother to find out? She had, as any girl does, married the young man with some money introduced to her by their families. They had then set themselves up in the Rue Montmartre,* and the young wife, presiding at the counter, excited about her new home, aroused by that subtle, sacred sense of mutual self-interest which replaces love and even affection in most Parisian couples running

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shops, had thrown herself into working, devoting her active and sharp mind to generating the fortune they hoped for from the business. And her life had gone on in that same way; uneventful, peaceful, honest, and without love!... Without love?... Was it possible for a woman never to love? Could a pretty, young woman living in Paris, reading books, applauding actresses swooning passionately on stage, could such a woman really go from adolescence to old age without her heart ever being so much as stirred? He would never believe it of any other woman––why should he believe it of his mother? Of course she could have fallen in love like any other woman! Why should she be any different just because she was his mother? She had been young, with all the poetic hankerings which stir in youthful hearts! Shut in the prison of the shop beside a boorish husband who only talked business, she had dreamed of moonlight, travel, kisses in the evening shadows. And then one day a man had come in, just as lovers do in books, and had spoken like them. She had loved this man. Why not? Because she was his mother! What of it! Wouldn’t you have to be blind and stupid to refuse to accept the evidence just because it concerned his own mother? Had she given herself to him?... Of course she had, because this man had never had another woman in his life; yes, of course, since he had remained faithful to her even when she was old and far away; of course she had, because he had left all that he owned to her son, to their son!... Pierre got up, quivering with such rage that he would have liked to kill someone! With his large hand open and outstretched, he wanted to strike out, to wound, to crush, to strangle! Who? Everybody, his father, his brother, the dead man, his mother! He rushed off to go home. What was he going to do? As he was passing the tower near the signal post, the strident cry of the siren went off in his face. The shock was so violent that he almost fell and went staggering backwards onto the granite parapet. He sat down there, his strength gone, shattered by this blast. The first steamship to reply seemed close and appeared at the harbour entrance as the tide was high. Pierre turned around and saw its red eye, dulled by the fog. Then, in the diffuse light of the harbour’s electric beams, a great dark shadow emerged between the two jetties. Behind him, the voice of

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the watchman, the hoarse voice of an old retired captain, shouted: ‘Ship’s name?’ And out of the fog came the equally husky reply from the pilot on the bridge: ‘Santa-Lucia.’ ‘Country?’ ‘Italy.’ ‘Port?’ ‘Naples.’ And before Pierre’s troubled eyes, he thought he saw the plume of fire above Vesuvius, while at the foot of the volcano fireflies flitted in and out of the orange groves of Sorrento or Castellamare!* How many times had he dreamed of these familiar names as though he knew their very landscapes. Oh, if only he could have left there and then, never mind where, never to return, never writing, never letting anyone know what had become of him! But no, he must go back, back to his father’s house, to sleep in his own bed. No, damn it! He wouldn’t go back, he would wait until daybreak. He liked the sound of the sirens. He stood up again and started to march up and down like an officer keeping watch on the deck. Another ship came in behind the first, looking huge and mysterious. It was an English ship back from the Indies. He watched several others coming in, emerging from the impenetrable shadows. Then, as the dampness of the fog was becoming unbearable, Pierre set off towards the town again. He was so cold that he stopped off at a sailors’ inn for some grog, and when he felt the burning sensation of the hot, spicy brandy hit his throat and palate, he felt a surge of new hope within. Could he possibly have been mistaken? He knew his uncontrollable mind so well by now! Had he almost certainly been mistaken? He had gathered evidence just as you would construct a case to condemn an innocent victim you are determined to prove guilty. He would feel differently after a good night’s sleep. So he went home to bed and, through sheer will-power, managed to doze off.

CHAPTER 5 But the doctor’s body barely managed an hour or two of oblivion as it fitfully tossed and turned in a troubled sleep. When he awoke in the darkness of his hot and stuffy room, he was aware, even before his mind sparked into life again, of that painful feeling of oppression, that uneasiness left over from some grief we have slept on. It seems as though the ordeal, the shock of which has merely dealt us a glancing blow the day before, has worked its way whilst we slept into our very flesh, bruising and debilitating like a fever. Suddenly the memory returned, and he sat up in bed. He then started, one by one, to go over all the arguments that had tormented him on the jetty as the sirens boomed. The more he thought, the less he doubted. He felt himself being led along by his logic, as though a strangulating hand were dragging him towards the unbearable certainty. He was hot and thirsty and his heart was pounding. He got up to open the window for some air, and once standing he could hear a faint noise through the wall. Jean was sound asleep and snoring gently. Yes, he was asleep! He hadn’t sensed a thing nor guessed any of this! A man who had known their mother had left him his entire fortune. He was accepting the money, finding it only right and natural. He was asleep, rich and contented, not knowing that his brother was choking with suffering and grief. Anger welled up in him against this carefree, happy snorer. Only the day before he would have knocked at his door, gone in, and sat near the bed, where he would have told his brother as he awoke in a sudden daze: ‘Jean, you mustn’t keep this legacy as it will immediately cast suspicion and dishonour on our mother.’ But today he couldn’t say it. He couldn’t tell Jean that he didn’t think he was their father’s son. For the moment he had to keep his shameful discovery buried within him, he had to hide this unearthed scandal from them all, and no one must find out, not even his brother––especially not his brother. At this moment he hardly gave a thought to trying to satisfy public opinion. He would willingly have let everybody accuse his mother if

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it meant that he, and he alone, knew she was innocent! How could he bear to live by her every day, knowing each time he looked at her that she had given birth to his brother as a result of a stranger’s embraces. And yet how calm and serene she was, how sure of herself she seemed! Could a woman like her, with such a pure soul and true heart, be swept away by passion without later displaying signs of remorse or of the memories troubling her conscience? Ah, remorse! remorse! How it must have tortured her in those earlier times, and then faded away as everything does. No doubt she had wept for her sins, and then almost forgotten what she had done. Don’t all women, without exception, possess the phenomenal gift of forgetfulness which enables them, after just a few years, scarcely to recognize the man to whom they once offered their lips and body? The kiss strikes like lightning, love passes over like a storm, life then resumes the tranquillity of the sky and returns to how it was before. Does anyone ever remember clouds? Pierre could not stay in his room any longer. This house, his father’s house, was crushing him. He felt the roof bearing down on his head and the walls closing in on him. As he was very thirsty, he lit a candle to go and drink a glass of water from the kitchen filter. He went down the two flights of stairs, and then, as he was going back up with the full carafe, sat down in his nightshirt on one of the steps where there was a draught and gulped down the water straight from the bottle, like an athlete out of breath. Once he had stopped moving around, the silence of the house oppressed him; one by one he began to make out the slightest of noises. First there was the clock in the dining room whose ticking seemed to become louder by the second. Then he heard some snoring again, the short, laboured, and harsh snoring of an old man, no doubt his father’s, and he recoiled at the thought, as if it had just occurred to him that these two men who were snoring under the same roof, father and son, were nothing to each other! There was no connection, not even the slightest link between them, and they had no idea! They spoke affectionately to one another, hugged each other, shared the same happy and emotional moments, as if the same blood coursed their veins. And yet two people born in the two furthest corners of the world could not be more foreign to one another than this father and son. They thought they loved each other because of a lie that had grown between them. This paternal and filial love was built on a lie, a lie

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impossible to reveal and which nobody but he, the real son, would ever know about. But what if he was mistaken? How could he find out? Oh, if only there was some resemblance, however slight, between his father and Jean, one of those uncanny likenesses which passes from forefather to great-grandchildren, demonstrating how a whole race can originate from a single embrace. It would only have required some small detail for him, a doctor, to see it––the jaw line, the curve of the nose, the gap between the eyes, the shape of the teeth or fall of the hair, less even, a gesture, a habit, a mannerism, some shared taste, some sign or other recognizable to the trained eye. He thought hard but could recall none, no, none whatsoever. But he hadn’t looked or observed properly, never having had reason to discover such imperceptible signs. He stood up to go back to his room and slowly started up the staircase, still pondering. As he passed his brother’s door, he stopped dead, his hand stretched out to open it. He had an urgent desire to see Jean there and then, to have a good look at him, surprise him in his sleep while his resting face and features were relaxed and all the tensions of life had disappeared from them. Then he would grasp the hidden secret of his face and, if any noticeable resemblance did exist, it would not escape him. But what if Jean woke up? What would he say? How would he explain this visit? He stood there, his fingers grasping the door-knob, looking for a reason, some pretext. He suddenly remembered that a week ago he had lent his brother a bottle of laudanum to numb a toothache. He could have been suffering himself tonight and have come to take it back. So he went in, but furtively, like a thief. Jean was in a deep, animal-like sleep, his mouth slightly open. His beard and fair hair made a golden stain on the white linen. He didn’t wake up but stopped snoring. Leaning over him, Pierre studied him keenly. No, this young man bore no resemblance to Roland, and for the second time the thought of the now-vanished little portrait of Maréchal came into his mind. He had to find it! Perhaps, when he saw it, he would be certain. His brother stirred, no doubt disturbed by his presence or the light of the candle through his eyelids. So the doctor tiptoed back

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towards the door which he closed quietly behind him, and then returned to his room, but not to bed. Daylight came all too slowly. The dining-room clock struck each hour one after the other in deep, solemn tones as if this small timepiece had swallowed a cathedral bell. The sound came up the empty staircase, through the walls and doors, and died away inside the rooms, falling on the unhearing ears of the sleepers. Pierre began pacing up and down, from his bed to the window. What was he going to do? He was too upset to spend that day with the family. He wanted to be alone again, at least until the next day anyway, to think, to calm down, and to gather the strength he would need to face everyday life again. In that case he would go to Trouville and watch the milling crowds on the beach. That would distract him, take his mind off things, give him time to get used to this horrible thing he had discovered. As soon as it was dawn, he washed and dressed. The fog had cleared and it was a fine day. As the boat for Trouville did not leave until nine, the doctor thought he would go in and kiss his mother before leaving. He waited for the time she usually got up, and then went down. His heart was beating so wildly as he touched her door that he had to pause to catch his breath. His hand lay limp and trembling on the door handle, almost incapable of the minimal effort needed to turn it to go in. He knocked. His mother’s voice answered: ‘Who is it?’ ‘It’s me, Pierre.’ ‘What do you want?’ ‘To say hello because I’m going off to Trouville for the day with friends.’ ‘It’s just that I’m still in bed.’ ‘All right, I won’t disturb you. I’ll give you a kiss when I get back this evening.’ He hoped he could get away without seeing her, without planting on her cheek the semblance of a kiss, the thought of which already turned his stomach. But she replied: ‘Wait a minute. I’ll open the door. Just wait until I’m back in bed.’ He heard the sound of her bare feet on the wooden floor, then the bolt being drawn back. She called out: ‘Come in.’

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He went in. She was sitting up in bed, whilst at her side Roland slept on, facing the wall and with a silk handkerchief tied around his head. Nothing short of shaking him violently enough to pull his arm out of its socket could wake him. On fishing days Papagris the sailor rang the bell at the agreed time and the maid went in to drag her master out of this invincible slumber. Pierre looked at his mother as he went towards her, and suddenly felt he had never seen her before. She held up her face and he kissed each cheek, then sat on a low chair. ‘Did you decide on this outing last night?’ she said. ‘Yes, last night.’ ‘Will you be back for dinner?’ ‘I don’t know yet. Anyway, don’t wait for me.’ He studied her with bewildered curiosity. This woman was his mother! This face, seen from childhood, from the moment his eyes could make anything out, this smile, this well-known, familiar voice, suddenly seemed new and different from what they had been to him until then. He now realized that in loving his mother, he had never looked at her. Yet it was definitely her, and every one of the smallest details of her face was known to him, but he was seeing them clearly for the first time. His anxious scrutiny as he searched this cherished face revealed it differently, showing him characteristics he had never discovered before. He stood up to go, then, suddenly giving in to the overwhelming desire to know that had been eating away at him since the day before: ‘By the way, I thought I remembered that in our sitting room in Paris there used to be a little portrait of Maréchal.’ She hesitated for a second or two, at least he thought she did, then said: ‘Yes, there was.’ ‘What became of it?’ Again she could have been quicker to reply: ‘That portrait... let me see... I’m not absolutely sure... Maybe it’s in my desk.’ ‘Would you mind finding it for me?’ ‘Yes, I’ll look. Why do you want it?’ ‘Oh, it’s not for me. I thought it would be only natural to give it to Jean, and that it would please him.’ ‘You’re quite right, that’s a lovely thought. I’ll look for it as soon as I’m up.’

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He went out. It was a clear day with not so much as a breeze. The people in the street seemed cheerful, tradesmen going about their business, employees on their way to their offices, young girls off to their shops. Many were humming, made happy by the bright sunshine. Passengers were already boarding the boat for Trouville. Pierre sat down on a wooden bench right at the back. He thought to himself: ‘Was she upset by my question about the portrait, or just surprised? Had she mislaid or hidden it? Did she or didn’t she know where it was? If she had hidden it, why?’ And his mind, always moving on the same track, from deduction to deduction, came to the following conclusion: the portrait, portrait of a friend, portrait of a lover, had been displayed in the sitting room until the day when the woman, the mother, was the first to realize, before anyone else, that the portrait resembled her son. She had probably been looking out for this likeness for a long time, then, having detected it, having watched it develop, and knowing that someone else might also notice it at any moment, she had removed the disturbing little painting and hidden it, not daring to destroy it. And Pierre now remembered clearly that this miniature had disappeared a long time ago, long before they had moved from Paris! It had vanished, he believed, when Jean’s beard was starting to grow and made him look like the fair young man smiling in the picture frame. The movement of the boat, as it set off, disturbed and dissipated his thoughts. So he stood up and looked at the sea. The little boat left the jetties behind, turned left, and made its way puffing, heaving, and juddering towards the distant coast that could be seen through the morning mist. Here and there the red sail of a heavy fishing smack, motionless on the calm sea, jutted out of the water like a huge red rock. And the Seine, flowing down from Rouen, appeared to be a wide arm of the sea separating two neighbouring territories. In less than an hour they reached Trouville, and as this was the hour for bathing, Pierre went to the beach. From a distance it could have been a long public garden full of brightly coloured flowers. All along the great golden sand dunes, from the jetty to the Roches Noires,* sunshades of every colour, hats of all shapes, outfits of all shades, grouped in front of beach huts,

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lined up along the water’s edge or dotted here and there, really did look like enormous bunches of flowers in a vast meadow. And the babble of voices near and far rippling in the mild air, the shouts, the squeals of children being dipped in the water, the distinct sound of women’s laughter made a continuous low drone which mixed with the imperceptible breeze as you breathed it in. Pierre walked amongst the crowds of people, more lost, more detached from them, more isolated, more sunk in his torturing thoughts than if he had been thrown from the deck of a ship a hundred leagues out to sea. He brushed past them, hearing bits of conversations without taking anything in, looking at, yet not seeing, men talking to women and women smiling back at men. But suddenly, as if waking up, he saw them all distinctly, and a hatred of them welled up inside him as they seemed so happy and contented. He went on passing through groups, circling around them, filled with fresh thoughts. All these multi-coloured dresses covering the sand like bouquets, these beautiful fabrics, these gaudy sunshades, the unnatural grace of corseted waists, all these ingenious inventions of fashion, from dainty shoe to extravagant hat, the seductive art of gesture, voice, and smile, in fact the coquetry being displayed on this beach suddenly struck him as an immense blossoming of female perversity. All these beautified women were out to please, seduce, and tempt someone. They had dressed themselves up for men, for all men except the husband they no longer needed to conquer. They had made themselves look beautiful for today’s lover and tomorrow’s, for the stranger they had met, noticed, and perhaps waited for. And these men, seated close to them, eyes gazing into each other’s, lips almost touching as they spoke, were expressing their desire, hunting them as they would some agile and elusive prey, even though it seemed within reach and so easy. So this vast beach was little more than a market for love where some sold themselves and others gave themselves, the former setting a price on their favours, the latter merely promising them. All these women thought only of one thing, offering and making desirable their bodies which had already been given, sold, or promised to other men. And he reflected that this was how it was the world over. His mother had simply done the same as the others! As all the others? No, there were exceptions, and many at that! On the whole,

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the ones he saw around him, rich, empty-headed, and looking for love, were elegant and fashionable women or even high-class courtesans, because you never saw, on the beaches trampled by those with the luxury of time on their hands, all those hard-working women locked away behind closed doors. The tide was on its way in gradually, chasing the front rows of bathers back towards the town. Groups could be seen suddenly getting up, taking their chairs with them, to escape the incoming yellow wave edged with a lacy border of foam. Mobile changing huts hitched up to horses were also retreating, and now, moving slowly along the wooden walkway of the promenade which ran along the length of the beach, there was a steady, dense procession of elegant people forming two opposing currents bumping into each other and mingling together. Pierre, on edge and exasperated by this jostling, made his escape through the town and stopped for a simple lunch at a cheap inn where the countryside began. When he had finished his coffee, he stretched out across two chairs in front of the doorway and, as he had hardly slept that night, drifted off in the shade of a lime tree. Having rested for a few hours, he shook himself awake, realizing that it was time to go back and catch the boat, and he set off, aching all over from the awkward way he had slept. Now he wanted to get back and find out whether his mother had found Maréchal’s portrait. Would she mention it first or would he have to ask about it again? Obviously, if she waited to be asked again, she had a secret reason for not showing it. But once he was back in his room, he was reluctant to go down for dinner. He felt wretched. His churning stomach still hadn’t had a chance to settle. However, he made up his mind and appeared in the dining room just as they were about to sit down. Their faces were beaming with happiness. ‘Well, then,’ said Roland, ‘how’s the shopping coming along? I don’t want to see any of it until the whole thing’s finished.’ His wife answered: ‘Oh yes, it’s all going well. It just takes time to think it over and make sure you get it absolutely right. The furniture’s keeping us busy at the moment.’ She had spent the day visiting upholstery and furniture shops with Jean. She wanted plush material, something quite extravagant and eye-catching. Her son, on the other hand, wanted something

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simple and sophisticated. So now, having seen every available option, they had been going over all the arguments one by one. She maintained that the client, the litigant, should be impressed, should be overwhelmed by the luxurious setting on entering the waiting room. But Jean, only interested in attracting the elegant and wealthy, wanted to win over a discerning clientele with his modest and reliable taste. And the discussion, which had been going on throughout the day, started up again over the soup. Roland had no opinion on the matter and kept on repeating: ‘I don’t want to hear anything about it. I’ll go and see it when it’s finished.’ Madame Roland turned to her elder son for his views: ‘Well, Pierre, what do you think?’ He was so worked up that he felt like swearing back at her, but instead replied drily, with a marked irritation in his voice: ‘Oh, I completely agree with Jean. When it comes to taste, I’m always for keeping it simple, just as I’m for honesty when it comes to character.’ His mother went on: ‘Don’t forget we live in a commercial town where good taste is hard to come by.’ Pierre answered: ‘What difference does that make? Is that any reason to copy the idiots? Just because my fellow-countrymen are stupid and dishonest, does that mean I have to follow suit? A woman won’t commit adultery simply because her neighbours all have lovers.’ Jean began to laugh: ‘The comparisons you make in your argument might have come straight out of a moralist’s book of maxims.’ Pierre didn’t reply. His mother and brother started talking about materials and armchairs again. He looked at them in the same way he had looked at his mother that morning, before leaving for Trouville. He observed them as a stranger would, and indeed suddenly felt that he was among a family of strangers. His father particularly astonished both his eye and mind. This great hulk of a man, inanely contented, was his father! No, Jean didn’t look a bit like him. His family! For the past two days some unknown, evil hand, the hand of a dead man, had torn away at and destroyed, one by one, every link that bound these four creatures together. It was all over, in ruins. He had no mother, for he couldn’t love her any more, not

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being able to worship her with that absolute, touching, and devoted respect which a son’s heart must have. He no longer had a brother as he was the son of a stranger. He only had a father, this great lump of a man that he just couldn’t bring himself to love. Suddenly he said: ‘Did you manage to find the portrait then, Mother?’ She opened her eyes is surprise: ‘What portrait?’ ‘Maréchal’s.’ ‘No... I mean yes... that is, I haven’t found it, but I think I know where it is.’ ‘What are you talking about?’ asked Roland. ‘A little picture of Maréchal that used to be in our sitting room in Paris. I thought Jean might like to have it.’ ‘Yes, of course, of course, I remember it well. I even saw it towards the end of last week. Your mother had taken it out of her desk while she was sorting out her papers. It was Thursday or Friday; don’t you remember, Louise? I was shaving when you took it out of a drawer and put it on the chair beside you with a pile of letters, half of which you burned. Now isn’t it funny that you should only have laid a hand on that miniature just two or three days before Jean’s inheritance! If I believed in omens, I’d say that that was one!’ Madame Roland replied calmly: ‘Yes, yes, I know where it is. I’ll go and get it later.’ So she had lied! She had lied that very morning to her son when he had asked what had become of that miniature: ‘I’m not absolutely sure. Maybe it’s in my desk.’ She had seen it, touched it, held it, looked at it a few days before, then hidden it away again in the drawer along with some letters, his letters. Pierre looked at his mother who had lied! He looked at her with all the exasperated anger of a son deceived, robbed of his sacred love, and with the jealousy of a man who has long remained blind and finally discovers a shameful infidelity. If he had been the woman’s husband he, her son, would have seized her by the wrists, shoulders, or hair and thrown her to the ground beaten, bruised, and crushed! And he couldn’t say, do, show, or reveal anything. He was her son and so had nothing to avenge, for he was not the one who had been deceived. But in fact he had been deceived in both his love and devoted

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respect for her. She owed it to him to be flawless, as all mothers owe it to their children. If the rage that burned inside him seemed to border on hatred, it was because he felt that her wrongdoing affected him even more than it did his father. Love between a man and a woman is a voluntary pact in which the one who gives in to weakness is only guilty of treachery, but once a woman has become a mother her duty increases because nature has entrusted her with the human race. So, if she succumbs, she is cowardly, unworthy, and dishonoured. ‘When all’s said and done,’ Roland remarked suddenly, stretching his legs out under the table as he did every evening whilst sipping his glass of blackcurrant liqueur, ‘there’s nothing wrong with leading a life of leisure when one has a comfortable income. I hope Jean will be treating us to some extra special dinners now. So what if I get the odd stomach ache afterwards?’ Then, turning to his wife: ‘Go and get that portrait then, my pet, as you’ve finished eating. I’d like to see it again too.’ She got up, took a candle, and went out. Then, after what seemed an age to Pierre, although she had been gone for less than three minutes, Madame Roland came back in smiling and holding an old-fashioned gilt frame by its hook. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘I found it almost straight away.’ The doctor put out his hand for it first. He took the miniature and held it at arm’s length to examine it from a distance. Fully aware that his mother was watching him, he slowly looked up at his brother to compare. Carried away by the force of his feelings, he almost said: ‘Doesn’t it look like Jean!’ Even though he didn’t dare utter these terrible words, he showed what he was thinking by the way he compared the living face with the painted one. They certainly had things in common––the same beard, the same forehead––but nothing distinct enough for it to be said conclusively: ‘That’s the father and that’s the son.’ It was more a family likeness, a similarity of expressions which blood-ties bring out. What Pierre found more conclusive than this facial resemblance was the way his mother had now got up, her back turned, and was pretending, all too slowly, to put away the sugar and blackcurrant liqueur in a cupboard. She realized that he knew or at least suspected! ‘Pass it to me, then,’ said Roland.

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Pierre handed him the miniature and his father pulled the candle nearer to see properly. Then his voice softened as he murmured: ‘Poor chap! To think that’s how he looked when we first knew him. How time marches on! He was a handsome man then really, and had such a nice way about him, didn’t he, Louise?’ As his wife made no reply, he went on: ‘And such an even temperament! I never saw him in a bad mood. Well, it’s over now, all that’s left of him is what he’s left to Jean. Anyway, we can vouch for the fact that he proved to be a good friend and faithful to the end. Even in death he hasn’t forgotten us.’ Jean in turn reached out to take the portrait. He studied it for a while, then said regretfully: ‘I don’t recognize him at all. I only remember him with white hair.’ And he gave the miniature back to his mother. She glanced at it, looked away again quickly, almost fearfully, and then said quite normally: ‘It’s yours now, Jeannot, as you’re his heir. We’ll take it to your new home.’ As they went into the sitting room, she placed the miniature on the mantelpiece by the clock, where it used to stand. Roland filled his pipe, Pierre and Jean lit cigarettes. Usually, when they smoked, one walked up and down the room while the other sat back in an armchair and crossed his legs. Their father always sat astride a chair and spat from a distance into the fireplace. Madame Roland would sit on a low seat by a little table with a lamp on it and embroider, knit, or mark linen. This particular evening she was starting on a tapestry for Jean’s bedroom. It was a difficult and intricate piece of work and the beginning demanded her full attention. Yet now and then she raised her eyes from counting stitches to glance furtively at the little painting of the dead man propped up against the clock. And the doctor, who was crossing the room in four or five strides, hands behind his back and cigarette between his lips, caught his mother’s look each time. It was as though they were spying on each other, as though a war had broken out between them, and Pierre’s heart was gripped by a painful and unbearable malaise. ‘How she must be suffering right now if she knows that I’ve guessed!’ he said to himself, feeling miserable and yet at the same time satisfied. And every time he went back to the fireplace he paused for a few seconds to contemplate

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Maréchal’s blond features to make it quite clear that he was tormented by some obsession. This little portrait, which fitted neatly into the palm of a hand, seemed to have become a fearsomely malicious living person who had suddenly come into their family and home. Suddenly the doorbell rang. Madame Roland, usually so calm, jumped and betrayed the shattered state of her nerves to the doctor. Then she said: ‘That must be Madame Rosémilly.’ And again she looked anxiously up at the mantelpiece. Pierre understood, or thought he understood her fear and anguish. Women are perceptive, have sharp minds, and are suspicious by nature. When this one came in and saw the unfamiliar portrait, she might instantly discover a likeness between this face and Jean’s. She would know and understand everything! He was afraid, suddenly and horribly afraid that this shame would be made public, and so, turning around as the door was opened, he took the little painting and slipped it under the clock without his father or brother noticing. As he met his mother’s eyes once again, he thought they looked different, worried and distraught. ‘Hello,’ said Madame Rosémilly, ‘I’ve come to have a cup of tea with you.’ But while they were fussing about her and enquiring after her health, Pierre disappeared through the open door. They were surprised when they noticed he had left. Jean, unhappy at the thought that the young widow might be offended, murmured: ‘How rude! Madame Roland replied: ‘Don’t hold it against him, he’s not himself today and on top of that his trip to Trouville has worn him out.’ ‘I don’t care,’ said Roland, ‘that’s no reason to wander off like a savage.’ Madame Rosémilly wanted to smooth things over and said: ‘No, that’s all right, he’s just slipped away quietly. That’s how it’s done in the best circles when you want to leave early.’ ‘Well, maybe that goes on in the best circles,’ said Jean ‘but not in one’s family, and for some time now, that’s how my brother has been behaving.’

CHAPTER 6 Nothing much happened in the Roland household for a week or two. Father went fishing, Jean settled into his apartment with his mother’s help, Pierre was very morose and now only appeared at mealtimes. One evening his father asked him: ‘Why on earth do you look so down in the dumps? And what’s more, it’s been going on a long time!’ To which the doctor replied: ‘It’s because I can feel the weight of the world on my shoulders.’ The poor man couldn’t make anything of this and said glumly: ‘It’s really beyond me. Ever since we were lucky enough to receive this legacy, everyone’s been miserable. It’s as if there’s been a terrible accident or we’re in mourning!’ ‘I am, in a way,’ said Pierre. ‘You are? Who for?’ ‘Oh, nobody you ever knew, but somebody I loved far too much.’ Roland imagined it was some girlfriend, some floozy his son had been seeing. ‘A woman, no doubt?’ ‘Yes, a woman.’ ‘She’s dead?’ ‘No, worse, lost.’ ‘Oh!’ Despite being surprised at this unexpected disclosure, blurted out in front of his wife, and at his son’s strange tone, he did not insist further, believing that such matters were nobody else’s business. Madame Roland appeared not to have heard; in fact she had turned pale and looked most unwell. Her husband, surprised to see her sit down as though collapsing into her chair and to hear her almost struggling to draw breath, had already said to her on more than one occasion: ‘Really, Louise, you look terrible. You must be wearing yourself out helping Jean to move in! For God’s sake rest a little. The lad’s in no rush now he’s well off.’ She shook her head without replying. This particular day she was so pale that Roland noticed it again.

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‘Look,’ he said, ‘this won’t do at all, my poor little thing, you must look after yourself.’ Then, turning to his son: ‘You must be able to see that your mother’s not well. Have you taken a look at her at all?’ ‘No, I hadn’t noticed anything wrong with her,’ replied Pierre. At which point Roland became angry: ‘But it’s staring you in the face, damn it! What’s the good of being a doctor if you can’t even tell when your own mother’s unwell? Just look at her, will you. You could kick the bucket and this doctor wouldn’t even notice!’ Madame Roland had started to gasp for breath and looked so white that her husband exclaimed: ‘She’s going to faint!’ ‘No... no... it’s nothing... I’m all right... it’ll pass.’ Pierre went over to her and stared at her: ‘Let’s see what’s wrong with you then.’ Quickly and almost inaudibly she repeated: ‘It’s nothing... honestly... nothing at all.’ Roland had gone off to look for some vinegar; he came back in and handed the bottle to his son. ‘Here... Why don’t you do something for her? Have you even felt her pulse?’ As Pierre leant over to take her pulse, she pulled her hand away so sharply that she knocked it against a chair. ‘Come on, then,’ he said coldly. ‘Let’s get you seen to, as you’re not well.’ So she held out her arm for him. Her skin was burning, her pulse throbbing wildly. He murmured: ‘It’s actually quite serious. You need something to calm you down. I’ll give you a prescription.’ As he was writing it out, hunched over his piece of paper, the faint sound of rapid sighs and short, stifled inward breaths made him suddenly turn around. She was crying, her head buried in her hands. Bewildered, Roland asked: ‘Louise, Louise, what is it? What on earth’s the matter?’ She did not reply, but seemed torn by some horribly deep sorrow. Her husband tried to take her hands away from her face, but she resisted, repeating: ‘No, no, no.’ He turned to his son. ‘What’s wrong with her? I’ve never seen her like this.’ ‘It’s nothing,’ said Pierre, ‘just a little attack of nerves.’ He seemed to feel a sense of relief in his own heart when he

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saw how tortured she was, her sense of pain somehow alleviating his own resentment and reducing his mother’s debt of shame. He contemplated her like a judge satisfied with his work. But suddenly she got up and made for the door so unexpectedly and with such speed that nobody could have stopped her, and rushed to her room where she locked herself in. Roland and the doctor were left facing each other. ‘Can you make any sense of all that?’ asked one. ‘Yes,’ replied the other, ‘she’s just a little overwrought, which is common at mother’s age. She’ll probably have a lot more of this sort of outburst.’ She did indeed have many more of them, almost every day, triggered it seemed by the slightest word from Pierre, as though he knew the secret of her strange new illness. He watched her face to detect moments of respite, and then, with a torturer’s ingenuity, revived the pain that had momentarily subsided with a single word. And yet he suffered as much as she did! He suffered terribly because he no longer loved and respected her and because he tortured her. When he had reopened the bleeding wound he had made in the heart of this woman, his mother, when he realized that she was utterly miserable and desperate, he went off on his own into town, so tormented by remorse, so overcome with pity, so distraught at having crushed her with his contempt––he, her own son!––that he felt like throwing himself into the sea to put an end to it all. Oh, how he would have loved to forgive her this minute! But he couldn’t, for he was incapable of forgetting. If only he could ease her suffering. But he couldn’t do that either as he was always suffering himself. He came home at mealtimes, with every intention of relenting; then, as soon as he saw her, saw how her once direct and honest eyes now looked fearfully and frantically away, he lashed out in spite of himself, unable to prevent the treacherous words which came to his lips. The vile secret that they alone shared goaded him on against her. It was a poison now running through his veins, making him want to snap like a rabid dog. Nothing held him back from tearing her apart now that Jean lived almost permanently at his new apartment and only returned to his family to eat and sleep each night. Jean often noticed Pierre’s bitter and violent outbursts which he

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put down to jealousy. He resolved to put him in his place and teach him a lesson one day because family life was becoming unbearable as a result of these continual scenes. But, as he lived away from home now, he had fewer of these upsets to endure, and his love of a quiet life persuaded him to be patient. Moreover, carried away by his good fortune, nowadays he scarcely stopped to think about anything that didn’t directly concern him. He would arrive home with his mind full of new little worries, concerned about the cut of a jacket, the shape of a felt hat, or the acceptable size of a visiting card. He would then go on and on about every detail of his home, the shelves in his bedroom cupboard for folded linen, coat pegs in the hall, electric alarms to prevent anybody getting into the place when he wasn’t there. It had been decided that to celebrate his moving in, they would all go on a picnic to Saint-Jouin and come back to his home for tea afterwards. Roland wanted to go by boat, but because of the distance and uncertainty of the time it would take this way in the event of a head wind, his idea was rejected and a carriage was hired for the excursion. They left around ten to arrive in time for lunch. The dusty main road unfurled through the Norman countryside which, with its undulating plains and tree-enclosed farms, looks like an endless park. In the carriage, pulled along at a gentle trot by two great horses, the Rolands, Madame Rosémilly, and Captain Beausire sat in silence, deafened by the noise of the wheels, their eyes shut against the clouds of dust. It was harvest time. Beside the dark green clover and bright green beetroot, the yellow corn lit up the landscape with a pale golden glow. It seemed to have absorbed all of the sunlight that had poured down on it. Harvesting was beginning here and there and, in the fields where scything had started, men could be seen swaying back and forth as they swung their enormous wing-shaped blades across the ground. After two hours, the carriage turned left down a lane, past a windmill, a melancholy grey ruin, still turning, a half crumbling and condemned last survivor of the old mills, then entered a pretty courtyard and came to a halt outside a charming house, a well-known country inn. The woman in charge, known as La Belle Alphonsine, came

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smiling to the door and held up her hands to the two ladies who were hesitating at the long jump down. Some other guests, Parisians from Étretat, were already having lunch beneath a canopy alongside a field shaded by apple trees, and the sound of voices, laughter, and the clatter of plates could be heard inside the house. They had to eat in a side room as all the main dining areas were full. Suddenly Roland noticed some shrimping nets propped against the wall. ‘Ah-ha,’ he exclaimed, ‘can you go shrimp fishing here?’ ‘Yes,’ replied Beausire, ‘in fact it’s the best place on the coast for it.’ ‘Is it now! What about doing a spot ourselves after lunch?’ It just so happened that it was low tide at three o’clock, and so it was decided that they would all spend the afternoon out on the rocks looking for shrimps. They ate lightly so as not to feel a sudden rush of dizziness when they stepped into the cold water. They also wished to save themselves for the lavish dinner which had been ordered for their return at six. Roland could hardly contain himself. He wanted to buy special equipment for the trip, nets similar to those used for catching butterflies in the fields. They are known as lanets and are small mesh pouches attached to a wooden ring at the end of long sticks. Alphonsine, her usual smiling self, lent them some. Then she helped the ladies to improvise suitable outfits so as not to get their dresses wet. She gave them skirts, thick woollen stockings and espadrilles. The men took off their socks and bought slip-on sandals and clogs from the local shoe shop. Then they set off, nets over shoulders and baskets on backs. Madame Rosémilly looked quite delightful in this attire, with an unexpected rustic and defiant charm. The skirt lent by Alphonsine, coquettishly turned up and held in place with a few stitches to allow her to run and jump fearlessly on the rocks, revealed her ankle and lower calf, the firm calf of a strong, agile, and slender woman. Her clothes were left loose to allow her to move freely, and to cover her head she had found a huge yellow straw gardening hat with an enormous brim pinned up on one side by a sprig of tamarisk, which gave her the look of an intrepid musketeer.

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Since coming into his money, Jean had asked himself every day whether or not he would marry her. Each time he saw her he felt sure he would make her his wife, then, as soon as he was alone, he thought that by waiting he would give himself time to think it over. She had less money now than he had, for she only had an income of around 12,000 francs, but this was in real estate, in farms and land in Le Havre near the docks, and that could prove to be worth a great deal later on. Their fortunes were therefore almost on a par, and he certainly found the young widow very attractive. As he watched her walking ahead of him that day, he thought: ‘I really ought to make up my mind. I know I won’t do better.’ They followed the slope of a small valley down from the village to the cliffs, where the drop to the sea from the cliff top edge was some eighty metres. Framed by green hillsides rolling away left and right, a large triangle, silvery-blue in the sun, appeared in the distance with a barely visible sail that looked like an insect out there. The brightly lit sky blended so closely with the water that it was hard to see where one ended and the other began. Against this bright horizon, the tightly corseted figures of the women, walking ahead of the three men, stood out in contrast. Jean’s eyes sparkled as he watched, from behind, the fleeing outline of Madame Rosémilly’s slender ankle, elegant leg, lithe waist, and large provocative hat. The sight of her running ahead kindled his desire and drove him to the kind of final decision taken suddenly by the hesitant and timid. The scent of the hills, gorse, clover, and grasses mingling in the warm air with the salty odour of the exposed rocks excited him further, causing a mildly intoxicating effect. Every step, every second, every glance in the direction of the young lady’s nimble silhouette led him to make up his mind a little bit more. He decided to hesitate no longer, to tell her that he loved her and that he wanted to marry her. The fishing trip would help him by making it easier for them to be alone. Added to that, it would be a beautiful setting, a wonderful place to talk of love, as they paddled in limpid pools and watched long-whiskered shrimps darting away beneath the seaweed. When they came to the bottom of the valley, on the very edge of the precipice, they noticed a small path at the cliff edge leading down the face of it, and beneath them, about halfway down between the sea and the foot of the long drop, an amazing jumble of huge rocks that

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had fallen and toppled onto one another in a sort of grassy, uneven stretch formed by past landslides, that ran southwards for as far as the eye could see. On this long strip of scrubland and grass, shaken, it would seem, by volcanic eruptions, the fallen rocks resembled the ruins of a great vanished city that had once looked out across the ocean, overlooked itself by the endless white backdrop of the cliffs. ‘Isn’t that beautiful!’ said Madame Rosémilly, stopping to look. Jean had caught up with her, and, overcome with emotion, held out his hand to help her down the narrow steps carved into the rocks. They went off ahead, while Beausire, tensing his short legs, offered a crooked arm to Madame Roland who had no head for heights. Roland and Pierre brought up the rear, and the doctor had to drag his father down, as he was so overcome by dizziness that he could only shuffle down step by step on his behind. The young couple, who were leading the way, were moving fast and unexpectedly came across a wooden bench providing a resting place about halfway down, beside which a trickle of clear water sprang from a small hole in the cliff-side. It spilled over into a pool the size of a washbasin that it had hollowed out itself, and then, falling in a cascade barely two feet high, ran across the path, at which point a carpet of watercress had grown, and disappeared into the brambles and grass, across the raised expanse of fallen rocks. ‘Oh, I’m so thirsty!’ exclaimed Madame Rosémilly. But how could she drink? She tried to catch the water by cupping her hand but it escaped through her fingers. Jean had an idea; placing a stone on the path, she knelt on it so as to drink from the spring directly with her mouth now at the same level. As she raised her head, covered with thousands of sparkling droplets all over her skin, hair, eyelashes and dress, Jean leaned towards her and murmured: ‘You’re so pretty!’ To which she replied, as if scolding a child: ‘Oh, hush now!’ These were the first remotely romantic words exchanged between them. ‘Come on,’ said Jean, in a fluster, ‘let’s get going before they catch us up.’ He could in fact now see the back of Captain Beausire quite nearby as he came down backwards holding Madame Roland’s hands to steady her, and further away, higher up, Roland was still sliding

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down firmly planted on his behind, dragging himself along with his feet and elbows at tortoise pace with Pierre in front watching his every move. The path became less steep and turned into a sort of sloping track winding downwards around the huge lumps of rock that had once fallen from the mountain. Madame Rosémilly and Jean began to run and soon reached the shingle. They crossed this to get to the rocks which stretched out, to form a long, flat surface covered with marine plant-life and shimmering with countless pools of water. The low tide was a long way out behind this plain of slimy seaweed, shiny green and black. Jean rolled his trousers up to calf-length and his shirt sleeves to his elbows so as not to worry about getting his clothes wet, then cried, ‘In we go!’ and boldly jumped into the first pool they came across. Although equally determined to go into the water in due course, the young lady was more cautious, stepping hesitantly around the little pool, slipping on the slimy seaweed. ‘Can you see anything?’ she said. ‘Yes, the reflection of your face in the water.’ ‘You won’t make much of a catch if that’s all you can see.’ To which he murmured tenderly: ‘Oh, that would my most preferred catch of all.’ She laughed: ‘Why don’t you try then, and you’ll see how it slips through your net.’ ‘And yet... if you wanted?’ ‘I want to see you catch these shrimps, and that’s all... for now.’ ‘You’re cruel! Let’s go further on, there’s nothing here.’ And he held out his hand to help her across the slippery rocks. She leaned on him timidly, and he suddenly felt overcome by a surge of love, a growing desire, and a ravenous hunger for her as if the virile seeds germinating within him had waited for that day to come to the surface. Soon they came across a much deeper crevice where long weeds, peculiarly coloured and swaying like wisps of pink and green hair, floated beneath the rippled surface of the water that flowed towards the distant sea along an invisible fissure. Madame Rosémilly cried out: ‘Over here! I can see a huge one, look, a huge one over there!’

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He saw it too, and resolutely stepped into the hole, although he got soaked to the waist. But the creature, waving its long whiskers, slowly retreated as the net came nearer. Jean forced it back against the seaweed, certain he would have it. As soon as it felt itself trapped, it darted swiftly forwards, up over the net, across the pool, and disappeared. The young lady, watching the chase with great excitement, could not help crying out: ‘Oh, clumsy!’ He was annoyed and dragged his net without thinking in a pool full of weeds. As he brought it back up to the surface, he saw three large transparent shrimps in it that he had caught without seeing their concealed hiding place. Triumphantly he held them up to Madame Rosémilly, who didn’t dare touch them because of the sharp, jagged points on their delicate heads. Finally she decided she would, and squeezing the tips of their whiskers between two fingers, she placed them one by one into her basket, along with some seaweed to keep them alive. Then, having found a shallower pool, she gingerly went in, drawing a sharp breath as her feet hit the icy water, and began hunting herself. She was skilful and artful at it, with a quickness of hand and that vital hunter’s instinct. Almost every time she brought out creatures caught unawares by her subtly slow technique. Jean wasn’t finding anything now, but was following her every move, brushing against her and leaning over her, feigning great despair at his own incompetence and a desire to learn from her. ‘Oh, show me how,’ he said, ‘please show me how!’ Seeing their faces side by side reflected in the mirror created in the clear water by the dark plants at the bottom, Jean smiled at the face next to his looking up at him from the depths and blew a kiss from his fingertips which appeared to land on it. ‘Oh, you are tiresome’, said the young woman, ‘you should never try to do two things at once, my dear friend.’ To which he replied: ‘I’m only doing one. I love you.’ She stood up and said very seriously: ‘Look, what’s come over you for the last ten minutes? Have you gone mad?’ ‘No, I haven’t gone mad. I love you and finally I’ve found the courage to tell you.’

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They were now both standing in the salty pool, up to their calves in water, hands dripping as they clasped their nets, and looking into each other’s eyes. She carried on in an amused tone of mock irritation: ‘How silly of you to tell me that now. Couldn’t you have waited until another day rather than spoil my fishing!’ He murmured: ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t keep it in any longer. I’ve been in love with you for a long time. I’m so infatuated by you that I’ve lost my head being with you today.’ All of a sudden she seemed to come to terms with the idea, resigning herself to talking business and giving up her fun. ‘Let’s sit down on this rock,’ she said, ‘so we can talk about this calmly.’ They climbed up the rock a little way and once they were sitting side by side, feet dangling and with the sun beating down on them, she went on: ‘My dear friend, you’re not a child any more and I’m not a young girl. We both know perfectly well what’s going on and we’re certainly capable of weighing up the consequences of our actions. As you’ve decided to declare your love for me today, I naturally assume you wish to marry me.’ He hadn’t expected such a matter-of-fact statement of the situation, and replied feebly: ‘Of course.’ ‘Have you spoken to your mother or father about it?’ ‘No, I wanted to see if you would accept first.’ She held out her wet hand and said, as he eagerly took her hand in his: ‘I would be happy to. I believe you to be good and true. But don’t forget that I wouldn’t want to upset your parents.’ ‘Oh, do you really think my mother hasn’t seen this coming, or that she would love you as much as she does if she didn’t want us ever to marry?’ ‘You’re right, I’m just a bit anxious.’ They fell silent. But Jean, on the contrary, was amazed at how composed and how rational she was being. He had expected her to flirt with him a little, a few ‘no’s’ that meant yes, a whole romantic comedy coquettishly played out throughout the fishing trip with lots of splashing around in the water! And here it was, all settled, he felt tied, married in just twenty words. There was nothing left for them to say to each other as it was all decided, and now they both felt slightly embarrassed at what had happened so quickly between

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them, even a bit overcome, not daring to say anything, nor daring to carry on fishing, unsure what to do next. The sound of Roland’s voice saved them: ‘This way, you young ones. Come and watch Beausire. The fellow’s emptying the whole sea!’ The captain was indeed making a remarkable catch. Soaked to the waist, he was going from pool to pool, judging the best places in the blink of an eye, and with a slow, sure movement, scooping his net into every single cavity hidden under the seaweed. The large, transparent creatures, all pale-grey, wriggled in his hand as he plucked them out in one swift motion to throw them into his basket. Surprised and delighted, Madame Rosémilly never left his side, copying him as best she could, almost forgetting her promise and Jean who followed her in a daze, and throwing herself wholeheartedly into the childish pleasure of gathering these prawns from beneath the floating reeds. Suddenly Roland cried out: ‘Oh look, Madame Roland’s caught up with us.’ At first she had stayed alone on the beach with Pierre, neither of them keen to scrabble about on the rocks or splash around in pools; yet they were reluctant to be left alone together. She was afraid of him, and her son was afraid both of her and himself, afraid of his uncontrollable cruelty. So they sat down next to each other on the shingle. Looking out at the vast, soft blue horizon flecked with silver, in the heat of the sun softened by the sea breeze, they were both thinking: ‘How wonderful it would have been here once!’ Madame Roland didn’t dare speak to Pierre, knowing he would reply harshly if she did; likewise, he didn’t dare speak to his mother as he knew that, despite himself, he would only do so callously. He poked and prodded the pebbles about with the end of his stick. Staring vacantly, she had picked up three or four little stones and was slowly and mechanically dropping them from one hand into the other. Her wandering gaze suddenly fell upon her son Jean who was fishing in the seaweed with Madame Rosémilly. She followed their movements closely, realizing vaguely, with a mother’s instinct, that they were not talking as they usually would. She watched them lean close to each other as they looked at their reflections in the water, and

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then stand facing each other as they considered their feelings for one another, climbing up to sit on the rocks to commit themselves to each other. Their silhouettes stood out clearly and seemingly alone on the horizon, taking on a kind of symbolic grandeur against this large expanse of sky, sea, and cliffs. Pierre was also watching them, and he suddenly let out a dry little laugh. Without turning to look at him, Madame Roland said: ‘What is it?’ Still smirking, he said: ‘I’m taking lessons. I’m learning how a man prepares himself to become a cuckold.’ She was visibly angered, disgusted, and shocked by his choice of words and infuriated by what she thought she understood by it. ‘Who are you talking about?’ ‘Jean, for heaven’s sake! It’s laughable to see them like that!’ Softly, and with a trembling voice, she murmured: ‘Oh, Pierre, you’re so cruel! That woman is as honourable as they come. Your brother couldn’t hope for a better wife.’ He laughed outright at this, a false and staccato laugh: ‘Ha, ha, ha! Honourable of course! All women are honourable... and all men are cuckolds. Ha, ha, ha!’ Without replying, she got up and hurried down the shingle slope and, at the risk of slipping or falling into a grass-covered pot-hole and breaking an arm or a leg, she almost broke into a run, rushing blindly ahead through pools towards her other son. Seeing her coming, Jean called out: ‘So you decided to brave it, Mother?’ Without replying, she grabbed hold of his arm as if to say: ‘Save me, protect me.’ He could see she was upset and, surprised, exclaimed: ‘You’re so pale! Whatever’s the matter?’ She managed to mumble: ‘I nearly fell over, I was scared coming down the rocks.’ So Jean led her, helped her along, explaining the fishing to get her interested in it. But as she hardly appeared to listen and as he was desperately in need of someone to confide in, he took her further along and whispered: ‘Guess what I’ve done?’ ‘I... I... I’ve no idea!’ ‘Guess.’

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‘I... I really don’t know!’ ‘Well, I’ve told Madame Rosémilly that I want to marry her.’ Her head buzzing, and feeling so distraught she could barely take anything in, Madame Roland said nothing. She repeated: ‘Marry her?’ ‘Yes. Do you think I’ve done the right thing? She is charming, isn’t she?’ ‘Yes... charming... you’ve done the right thing.’ ‘So you approve then?’ ‘Yes... I approve.’ ‘What a funny way you say that. It almost sounds as if... as if you’re not pleased.’ ‘But of course I am... I am pleased.’ ‘Really?’ ‘Yes, really.’ To prove it she took him in her arms and gave him great motherly kisses right on the lips. When she had wiped her tear-filled eyes, she noticed across the beach a body lying flat on its stomach on the beach like a corpse, its face in the shingle; it was Pierre, the other one, deep in thought and in despair. She then led her younger son further off, to the water’s edge, where they talked for a long time about this marriage on which he had set his heart. The incoming tide drove them back to rejoin the fishing party, and then they all made their way back up. They woke Pierre who was pretending to be asleep, and dinner was a long affair that evening, washed down with lots of wine.

CHAPTER 7 With the exception of Jean, all the men dozed in the carriage on the return journey. Beausire and Roland slumped every five minutes onto a neighbouring shoulder only to be shoved off again, whereupon they sat up, stopped snoring, mumbled ‘lovely day’, and fell back, almost immediately, to the other side. They were in such a deep sleep on reaching Le Havre that they found it difficult to shake themselves out of it, and Beausire even refused to come in for the tea waiting for them at Jean’s. He had to be dropped off on his own doorstep. The young lawyer, for the first time, was going to spend the night in his own home; and he was filled with a great and almost childlike joy at the prospect of showing his fiancée, that very evening, the apartment in which she would soon be living. The maid had left, Madame Roland having said that she would boil the water and serve the tea herself, for she didn’t like letting servants hang around alone for fear of fire. Apart from Jean and the workmen, nobody except her had been inside the flat yet, so that it would be a real surprise when they all saw how charming it was. In the hall Jean asked everyone to wait. He wanted to light the candles and lamps, and he left Madame Rosémilly, his father, and brother in the dark until he called out, ‘Come in!’, throwing back the huge double doors. The glassed-in lobby lit by a chandelier and some coloured lamps concealed in palms, rubber plants, and flowers looked at first glance like a stage-set. They were momentarily stunned. Roland, marvelling at the luxury of it all, murmured, ‘My word!’ and was seized with the desire to clap his hands as one would for the grand finale at the theatre. They went on to the first reception room which was small and hung with an old gold material that matched the upholstery. The large consulting room was done out simply in pale salmon pink, and looked impressive. Jean sat down in the chair at his desk piled high with books, and said in a solemn, if slightly affected, voice: ‘Yes, Madame, the letter

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of the law is unequivocal and, pending the aforementioned consent, allows me to state categorically that the affair we have discussed will be happily concluded within three months.’ He looked at Madame Rosémilly who began to smile as she looked at Madame Roland, and Madame Roland took her hand and squeezed it. Radiant, Jean pranced about like a schoolboy and cried out: ‘Doesn’t my voice carry well. This room would be perfect for pleading a case in.’ He began to declaim: ‘If humanity alone, if that feeling of natural kindness that comes of seeing any kind of suffering, were to be the motive for the acquittal that we seek from you, we would call upon your pity, gentlemen of the jury, upon your hearts as fathers and men; but the law is on our side and it will be the facts of law alone that will be put before you...’ Pierre looked around the apartment which might have been his, and was irritated by his brother’s antics, considering him to be really too foolish and fatuous. Madame Roland opened a door to her right. ‘This is the bedroom,’ she said. She had put all of a mother’s love into decorating this room. The drapes were of Rouen cretonne, imitating old Normandy cloth. A Louis XV* design––a shepherdess in a medallion framed by the joined beaks of two doves––gave the walls, curtains, bed, and chairs a delightfully romantic and rustic appearance. ‘Oh, it’s charming!’ said Madame Rosémilly, growing a little thoughtful as she entered the room. ‘Do you like it?’ asked Jean. ‘Very much.’ ‘If only you knew how happy that makes me.’ They looked at each other momentarily, their gaze tender and confident. However, she was slightly embarrassed and felt a little awkward in this bedroom which was to be her bridal chamber. She had noticed the size of the bed as she came in, a real double bed, chosen by Madame Roland who had no doubt foreseen and desired her son’s early marriage; and yet this motherly preparation pleased her, as if to tell her that the family had been getting ready for her arrival. Once back in the salon, Jean threw open the door on the left and

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they could see the circular dining room, which had three windows and was decorated with Japanese lanterns. Mother and son had put as much imagination into this room as they were capable of. With its bamboo furniture, oriental figures and vases, gold sequinned silks, transparent blinds of glass beads like drops of water, fans fixed to the wall to hold back curtains, with its screens, swords, masks, cranes made of real feathers, and all its knick-knacks in porcelain, wood, paper, ivory, mother-of-pearl, and bronze, this room had the pretentious and mannered appearance which unskilled hands and untrained eyes bestow upon objects requiring the utmost tact, taste, and artistic training. It was, however, the most admired room. Only Pierre voiced reservations with a somewhat bitter irony that hurt his brother’s feelings. On the table, fruit was piled in pyramids and cakes rose up monumentally. Nobody was very hungry; they picked at the fruit, and nibbled rather than ate the cakes. After an hour, Madame Rosémilly asked if they would mind if she went home. It was decided that Monsieur Roland would accompany her to her door, and would set off with her at once, whilst Madame Roland, in the absence of the maid, would cast a maternal eye over the apartment to ensure that her son had everything he needed. ‘Shall I come back for you? asked Roland. She hesitated, then replied: ‘No, my dear, Pierre will take me home.’ As soon as they had gone, she blew out the candles, put away the cakes, sugar, and liqueurs in a cupboard and gave the key back to Jean, then went into the bedroom, turned down the bed, checked that the carafe was filled with fresh water and the window properly closed. Pierre and Jean had stayed in the smaller room, the latter still offended by the criticism of his taste, the former increasingly irritated at seeing his brother in this apartment. The two sat smoking without saying a word. Suddenly Pierre stood up. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘the widow certainly looked all-in this evening. Excursions obviously aren’t for her.’ Jean felt himself gripped by one of those sudden and violent rages that come over good-natured people when stung to the core. The feeling was so strong that it almost took his breath away, and

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he stammered: ‘I forbid you ever to say “the widow” again when you talk about Madame Rosémilly.’ Pierre turned loftily towards him: ‘I do believe you’re giving me orders! Have you taken leave of your senses by any chance?’ Jean was also drawing himself up now: ‘No, I haven’t, but I’ve had enough of your attitude towards me.’ Pierre laughed: ‘Towards you? Are you and Madame Rosémilly now one and the same?’ ‘You should know that Madame Rosémilly’s going to be my wife.’ His brother laughed even harder: ‘A-ha, how nice! Now I see why I can’t call her “the widow” any more. But you’ve chosen a funny way of telling me about your marriage.’ ‘I forbid you to make jokes about it... do you understand? I forbid you.’ Jean came towards him, looking pale and his voice trembling with exasperation at the irony directed at the woman he loved and had chosen. But Pierre suddenly flew into a rage too. All the pent-up, impotent anger, the repressed resentment and revolt he had managed to master for some time, and his silent despair, went to his head, making it spin as if he were about to black out. ‘How dare you! How dare you! And I order you to shut up, do you hear me? I order you.’ Jean, surprised by this outburst and in that mental state we experience when overcome by rage, said nothing for a moment, searching for the thing, phrase, or word that would wound his brother to the heart. He started speaking again, making an effort to control himself so as to strike hard, slowing his words to make them more cutting. ‘For a long time I’ve known you’re jealous of me, ever since that day you started saying “the widow” once you realized how much it hurt me.’ Pierre gave another of his usual shrill and scornful laughs: ‘Ha-ha! Good lord! Jealous of you?... What, me?... me?... me? Of what, exactly?... of what, for heaven’s sake? Of your looks? Or of your brains?’ But Jean realized he had struck right at the heart of his brother’s wound. ‘That’s right, you’re jealous of me, and have been since we were

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children; and it drove you mad when you saw that this woman preferred me and didn’t want you.’ Pierre began to stutter, exasperated at this idea: ‘Me... me... jealous of you? Because of that silly female? That bird-brained little goose!...’ Jean, who saw he had hit home, went on: ‘What about the day you tried to row harder than me in the Perle? And everything you say in front of her to make yourself look good. You’re just bursting with jealousy! And when I came into money, you were furious and hated me for it, and you’ve shown it in every way possible, upsetting everyone, and not an hour goes by without you spitting out some poison that’s choking you.’ Pierre clenched his fists in anger, with an overwhelming desire to throw himself at his brother and grab him by the throat: ‘Shut up! And don’t even talk about the money.’ To which Jean shouted: ‘Look at you, you’re oozing jealousy from every pore. You can’t say a word to Father, Mother, or to me without it bursting out. You pretend to despise me because you’re jealous! You pick arguments with everyone because you’re jealous! And now that I’m rich, you can’t keep it in anymore, you’ve become spiteful, torturing Mother as if it’s her fault!...’ Pierre had backed away to the fireplace, mouth open and wideeyed, gripped by the kind of insane rage that drives a man to kill. He repeated more softly, but in gasps: ‘Shut up! Shut up right now!’ ‘No, I won’t! I’ve wanted to tell you exactly what I think of you for a long time. Now you’ve given me the chance; so watch it. I’m in love with a woman. You know that and yet you mock her in front of me, pushing me to the limits; so just watch it; I’ll smash in your poisonous fangs for you! I’ll make you respect me!’ ‘Me, respect you?’ ‘Yes, me!’ ‘Respect you... you who’ve dishonoured us all with your greed!’ ‘What did you say? Say it again... go on, say that again!’ ‘I’m saying that you don’t accept one man’s fortune when you’re supposed to be the son of another.’ Jean remained fixed to the spot, not comprehending, aghast at the insinuation he could see coming. ‘What? Say... say that again.’

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‘I’m only telling you what everyone else is whispering, what everyone else is gossiping about, that you’re the son of the man who has left you his money. Well, anyone with any decency wouldn’t accept the money that dishonours his mother.’ ‘Pierre... Pierre... Pierre... You don’t believe that?... You? Can it really be you saying such vile things?’ ‘Yes... I am... I am. Can’t you seen the grief that’s been killing me for the past month, that I spend sleepless nights and days hidden away like an animal, that I no longer know what I’m saying or doing, or what’s going to become of me, because of what I’m suffering, because I’m going crazy with shame and anguish? It was me that guessed it first and now I know it.’ ‘Pierre... keep your voice down... Mother is in the next room! Just think, she might hear us? Or perhaps she can...’ But he simply had to pour his heart out and tell him everything–– his suspicions, his reasoning, his struggles, his certainty, and the story of the portrait which had disappeared once again. He spoke in short, broken sentences, almost disjointedly, as if hallucinating. It was as if he had forgotten all about Jean and his mother in the next room. He went on as though nobody was there, because he had to talk, because he had suffered too much, compressed and covered his wound too much. Only the wound had festered and abscessed, and now the abscess had burst, splattering over everybody. He began to pace up and down as he almost always did; and, with staring eyes, gesticulating in a frenzy of despair, in sobbing fits of self-loathing, spoke as if confessing his own misery and that of his family, as if emptying his sorrow into the invisible, deaf winds that carried his words away. Distraught and suddenly almost convinced by the blind force of his brother, Jean was leaning back against the door behind which he guessed his mother had heard them. She couldn’t leave; it would mean going through the living room. She hadn’t come back through, which meant she hadn’t dared to. All of a sudden, Pierre stamped his foot, shouting: ‘What a swine I am to have said that!’ And he ran out, bare-headed, down the stairs. The sound of the front door slamming woke Jean from the deep torpor into which he had fallen. Several seconds had passed,

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seemingly longer than hours, and his soul had been numbed into a dull stupor. He was aware that he must start thinking and acting quickly, but he delayed, no longer even wanting to understand, know, or remember, out of fear, weakness, and cowardice. He was one of life’s stallers who always puts things off until tomorrow, and when he had to make an on-the-spot decision, he still instinctively tried to gain a few moments more. But the deep silence surrounding him now, following Pierre’s outburst, the sudden silence of the walls, the furniture, and the bright light from six candles and two lamps, filled him with such fear suddenly that he felt like running away too. He gathered his thoughts, shook himself out of it, and tried to think it through. Never had he come up against any difficult situation in his life. Some men let themselves be carried along like running water. He had been a diligent schoolboy so as not to be punished, and had passed his law exams without fuss because he led such an untroubled life. Everything in the world seemed quite natural and he hadn’t really bothered much about it. By nature, not being a complicated soul, he loved orderliness, moderation, and tranquillity, and now, faced with this catastrophe, he was like a man who has fallen into the water without ever having learned to swim. First he tried not to believe it. Perhaps his brother had lied out of hatred and jealousy? And yet how could he have been so vile as to say such a thing about their own mother if he hadn’t been out of his mind with despair? And still Jean could still hear, see, feel in every nerve and right into his very flesh some of Pierre’s words, his cries of anguish, intonations and gestures so painful that they were convincing, as irrefutable as certainty itself. He was still too crushed to move or find the will-power to do anything. He couldn’t bear the distress, yet he felt that behind the door was his mother who had heard everything and was waiting. What was she doing? There wasn’t so much as a movement, a shudder, a breath, or a sigh to betray the presence of a living soul behind that piece of wood. Had she run away? But how? If she had gone, she must have jumped out of the window and into the street! A flash of panic, sudden and all-consuming, made him force rather than open the door, and he rushed into the room.

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It looked empty. It was lit by a single candle standing on the chest. Jean ran to the window, which was shut and the shutters closed. He turned round, searching anxiously in the dark corners, and then saw that the curtains around the bed had been drawn. He rushed across and opened them. His mother was stretched out on his bed, her face buried in the pillow which she held clasped over her head so as to hear no more. At first he thought she had suffocated herself. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he turned her over, still clutching the pillow to hide her face and to bite into to stop herself from screaming. Touching this rigid body and tensed arms gave him a sense of the shock of her indescribable torture. The energy and strength she used to clench with her fingers and teeth this material stuffed with feathers, covering her mouth and ears so he could not see or speak to her, made him realize, from the start it gave him, the extent to which one can suffer. And his heart, his simple heart was torn with pity. He was no judge, not even a merciful judge, he was simply a man full of weakness and a loving son. He remembered nothing of what the other man had said, he neither reasoned nor argued, but just touched with both hands the inert body of his mother and, unable to pull the pillow away from her face, kissed her dress as he called out: ‘Mother, Mother, my dear Mother, look at me!’ She might have been dead had it not been for an almost imperceptible shudder that ran through her whole body like the vibration of a taut rope. He repeated: ‘Mother, Mother... listen to me. It’s not true. I know it can’t be true.’ She shook all over, had a fit of choking, and sobbed into the pillow. Then all her nerves relaxed, her tensed muscles softened, her fingers released their grip on the material; and he uncovered her face. She was ashen, totally white, and tears ran from beneath her closed eyelids. Placing an arm around her neck, he kissed her eyes slowly, with long, sad kisses, wet with her tears, and kept repeating: ‘Mother, my dear Mother, I know it’s not true. Don’t cry, I know it’s not! I know it’s not!’ She sat up, looked at him, and with one of those supreme acts of courage, the sort it might take to commit suicide, she said to him: ‘No, it’s true, my child.’ And, speechless, they sat there facing each other. For a few

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moments she had another choking fit, thrusting her chest out and throwing her head back in order to breathe, and then managed to control herself again before going on: ‘It’s true, my child. What’s the point in lying? It’s true. You wouldn’t believe me if I did lie.’ She had a deranged look about her. Gripped with fear, he fell on his knees beside the bed, murmuring: ‘Don’t say anything, Mother, don’t say another word!’ With determination and a terrifying energy, she stood up. ‘There’s nothing more to say to you anyway, my child. Goodbye!’ And she made for the door. He caught her in his arms, crying: ‘What are you doing, Mother? Where are you going?’ ‘I don’t know... how could I know?... there’s nothing else I can do... now that I’m all alone.’ She tried to struggle free. Holding her back, he could only repeat: ‘Mother... Mother... Mother...’ Still trying to break out of his embrace, she said: ‘No, no, I’m not your mother any more. I’m nothing to you or anybody else now, nothing at all! You’ve got no mother or father now, my poor child... goodbye!’ He suddenly realized that, if he let her go, he would never see her again, and lifting her up, he carried her over to an armchair, pushed her into it, and knelt before her, using his arms as a barrier. ‘You’re not leaving here, Mother. I love you, and I’m keeping you here. I’m keeping you here forever, you’re mine.’ ‘No, no, my poor boy, it’s not possible. Tonight you’ll weep, and tomorrow you’ll throw me out. You won’t be able to forgive me either.’ He replied with such a surge of genuine love, ‘What! Me? Me?... How little you know me!’ that she gave a cry, took his head in her hands, pulled him violently towards her by his hair and kissed him madly all over his face. Then she sat still, her cheek against her son’s, feeling the warmth of his skin through his beard, and whispered in his ear: ‘No, my little Jean. You won’t forgive me tomorrow. You think you will, but you’re wrong. You’ve forgiven me tonight, and your forgiveness has saved my life, but you mustn’t ever see me again.’ Hugging her, he kept repeating: ‘Don’t say that, Mother!’ ‘Yes, my little one, I must go. I don’t know where, or how I’ll do it,

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or how I’ll explain it, but I must go. I would never dare look at you or kiss you ever again, can’t you see that?’ Then it was his turn to whisper in her ear: ‘Darling Mother, you will stay here because I want you to. Because I need you. And you’re going to promise to do as I say, right now.’ ‘No, my child.’ ‘Oh, Mother, you must, you understand. You must.’ ‘No, my child, I can’t. It would condemn us all to hell. I’ve known for a month what that torture’s like. You’re understanding now, but once that’s passed and you start looking at me like Pierre does, when you remember what I’ve told you!... Oh!... my little Jean, just think... think I’m your mother!...’ ‘I don’t want you to leave me, Mother. I’ve got nobody but you.’ ‘But just think, my son. From now on we won’t be able to look at each other without blushing, without my feeling that I’m dying of shame, and without your eyes forcing mine to look away.’ ‘That’s not true, Mother.’ ‘Yes, yes, yes, it’s true! Oh, believe me, I’ve seen what your poor brother’s gone through from day one. Every time I think I can hear him in the house now, my heart starts pounding until it almost explodes; every time I hear his voice, I feel as if I’m about to pass out. And then I still had you! But now I’ve lost you too. Oh, my darling little Jean, do you really think I could live between the two of you?’ ‘Yes, Mother. I’ll love you so much, you’ll put it out of your mind forever.’ ‘Oh! as if that were possible!’ ‘Yes, it is possible.’ ‘How do you think I could live between you and your brother without thinking about it? Won’t you be thinking about it?’ ‘I swear I won’t!’ ‘But you will, every minute of the day.’ ‘No, I won’t, I swear. Look, if you leave here, I’ll join up and get myself killed.’ She reeled at this childish threat and hugged Jean fiercely, kissing him lovingly. He went on: ‘I love you more than you know; much, much more. Please be sensible. Try staying here for a week. Will you promise me just one week? Surely you can’t say no to that?’ She placed her two hands on Jean’s shoulders and, holding him at arm’s length, said: ‘My child... let’s try to be calm and not get too

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emotional about this. Let me talk to you first. If ever I heard from your lips what I have been hearing from your brother’s for the past month, if ever I saw in your eyes what I see in his, if ever I guessed from a word or a look that you detested me as much as he does... one hour later, do you understand, just one hour later and I would be gone forever.’ ‘Mother, I swear to you...’ ‘Let me finish... For a month now, I’ve suffered as much as any creature could bear. From the moment I realized that your brother, my other son, suspected me and was getting nearer to the truth with every second, my life has been one long agony impossible to describe.’ Her voice was so sorrowful that her suffering was infectious and Jean’s eyes filled with tears. He tried to embrace her, but she pushed him away. ‘Don’t touch me... just listen... there’s more I have to tell you so that you understand... but you’ll never understand... that is... if I were to stay... I’d have to... No, I couldn’t!’ ‘Tell me, Mother, tell me.’ ‘All right then. At least I won’t have misled you... You want me to stay with you, don’t you? To do that, for us to go on seeing each other, talking and bumping into one another in the house all day, because I can no longer open a door without being scared of finding your brother behind it, for that to happen, you don’t have to forgive me––nothing hurts as much as forgiveness––but you mustn’t resent me for what I’ve done... You must be strong enough, and different enough from everybody else, to be able to say that you are not Roland’s son, without being embarrassed or despising me for it!... I’ve suffered enough... too much. I can’t stand any more. And I don’t just mean since yesterday, this goes back a long way... But you’ll never understand that! For us to live side by side and hug each other, my little Jean, you must be able to accept that even if I was your father’s mistress, I was his wife still more, his real wife, that I feel no shame in my heart and have no regrets, that I continue to love him, even though he’s dead, and will always love him, that I have never loved anyone but him, that he has been my whole life, all my joy, all my hope and consolation, everything, absolutely everything to me and for so long! Listen to me, my little love, as God is my witness, my whole existence would have been worthless if I hadn’t met him,

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worthless; no tenderness or affection, not one of those moments that make us so sorry to be growing old, nothing! I owe him everything! I have had nobody but him in the world, and then you two, your brother and you. Without the two of you it would be empty, black and empty as the night. I would never have loved anything, known anything, desired anything. I wouldn’t even have wept, for I have wept, Jean. Oh, yes, I have wept, since we came here. I gave myself to him willingly, body and soul, forever, and for more than ten years I was his wife as he was my husband in the eyes of God who had made us for each other. And then I realized his love was waning. He was always kind and considerate, but I no longer meant as much to him as I had done. It was over! Oh, how I wept!... Life can be so miserable and deceptive!... Nothing lasts... And then we came here and I never saw him again, he never came... He promised to in every one of his letters!... I was always waiting for him!... I never saw him again!... And now he’s dead! But he still cared for us because he has thought of you. I will love him to my dying day, I’ll never give him up, and I love you because you are his son, and I could never be ashamed of him in front of you! Do you understand? I couldn’t! If you want me to stay, you must accept that you are his son and we must talk about him from time to time, and you must love him a little, and we must think about him when we look at each other. If you don’t want that, or can’t do that, then goodbye, my child, it is impossible for us to stay together now! I’ll do whatever you decide.’ Jean replied softly: ‘Stay, Mother.’ She clasped him in her arms and began crying again; then, her cheek against his, she went on: ‘Yes, but what about Pierre? What will we do about him?’ Jean murmured: ‘We’ll find a way. You can’t go on living with him.’ The very thought of her elder son set her on edge with dread. ‘No, I just can’t, I can’t!’ Throwing herself at Jean’s chest, she cried out in distress: ‘Save me from him, my child, save me! Do something, anything, I don’t know... but find a way... save me!’ ‘Yes, Mother, I’ll think of something.’ ‘Right away... you have to. Right away... don’t leave me! I’m so scared of him... so scared!’ ‘I’ll think of something, I promise.’

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‘Oh, yes, but please hurry! You don’t understand what it does to me every time I see him.’ She whispered in his ear: ‘Keep me here, in your house.’ He hesitated, thought it over, and realized with his practical common sense, the danger of such a plan. But he needed to reason with her and argue at length to overcome her hysterical terror with rational arguments. ‘Just tonight,’ she said, ‘just one night. Tomorrow you can lead Roland to believe that I wasn’t well.’ ‘That wouldn’t work, now that Pierre’s already gone back. Look, be brave. I’ll sort it all out tomorrow, I promise. I’ll be at the house by nine o’clock. Here, put your hat on. I’ll take you home.’ ‘Whatever you want,’ she said with childlike acquiescence, timidly and gratefully. She tried to get up, but the shock had been too great and she couldn’t yet stand. He made her drink some sugared water, sniff some smelling-salts, and rubbed vinegar into her temples. She offered no resistance, exhausted and relieved like a woman who has just given birth. Eventually she was able to walk and took his arm. It was three in the morning by the time they passed the Town Hall. Outside the front door of the family home, he hugged her and said: ‘Goodbye, Mother, be strong.’ Furtively she went up the silent staircase and into her room, undressed quickly, and slid into bed beside the snoring Roland, feeling once again the familiar excitement of past adulteries. Alone in the house, Pierre wasn’t sleeping and had heard her return.

CHAPTER 8 Back in his apartment, Jean collapsed onto a sofa, for the pain and worries that had made his brother want to run off like a hunted animal had had a different effect on his own lethargic nature, and had drained all the strength from his arms and legs. He felt so limp, physically and mentally, that he was unable to move at all or get to his bed, and was left feeling crushed and desolate. It wasn’t, as in Pierre’s case, an assault on the purity of his filial love and the protective dignity underlying pride, but rather that he was overwhelmed by this twist of fate now threatening his most treasured plans. Once he felt calm again and clarity had been restored to the churned water of his thoughts, he took stock of the situation in the light of what had been revealed to him. If he had learned the secret of his birth in any other way, he would certainly have been outraged and would have felt utterly miserable; but coming after the scene with his brother, this violent and brutal accusation which had shaken him to the core, his mother’s heartrendingly moving confession left him without energy to revolt. The shock to his feelings had been powerful enough to sweep away, on an irresistible wave of emotion, the prejudices or piety induced by innate moral values. In any case he wasn’t the kind of man who struggles for long. He hated conflict, especially wrestling with himself; so he resigned himself, and then, with his instinctive need for, and innate love of, tranquillity and a quiet life, instantly dreaded the storm about to break, which would envelop him too. He sensed that it was inevitable and, to put it out of his mind, he resolved to make superhuman efforts to be energetic and take action. The matter had to be settled immediately, without delaying another day, for at times he too felt an imperious need for instant solutions, which is all the weak are capable of, given their inability to sustain an effort of will. Moreover, his lawyer’s mind, used to untangling and examining the complications and intimate dimensions of families in strife, could already foresee the immediate consequences of his brother’s state of mind. He couldn’t help but envisage the ramifications from an almost professional perspective, as if he were settling the future relationships between clients after a moral crisis of catastrophic proportions. Continued contact with

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Pierre was clearly going to be out of the question. He could easily avoid him by staying away from the family home, but it was also unthinkable that his mother should continue to live under the same roof as her elder son. He lay still on the cushions, thinking it over for a long time, dreaming up and rejecting various alternatives without coming up with anything satisfactory. Then an idea struck him: would a decent man keep the money he had been given? At first he answered ‘No’, and decided to give it all to the poor. It was hard, but that was life. He would sell his furniture and work like anybody else, as everyone has to when starting out. This manly and painful resolution revived his courage, and he got up and went and leant his forehead against the window pane. He’d been poor before, he could be again. It wouldn’t kill him, after all. He stared at the burning gas lamp opposite him, across the street. A woman out late, walking along the pavement, suddenly made him think of Madame Rosémilly, and he felt the sharp stab of emotion provoked in us by a terrible thought. All the sickening consequences of his decision came to him at once. He would have to give up the notion of marrying this woman, give up happiness, give up everything. But could he do so now that he had proposed to her? She had accepted, knowing he was rich. She would still accept him, even if he were impoverished, but did he have the right to ask that of her, forcing this sacrifice on her? Wouldn’t it be better to keep the money, as if it were in trust, to be paid back later to the poor? And his mind, in which egoism wore a mask of virtue, became a battle-ground of self-interest in all its disguises. Initial qualms gave way to ingenious reasoning, then returned, then disappeared again. He went and sat down again, searching for some deciding factor or definitive pretext to put an end to his hesitations and overcome his integrity. He had already asked himself the same question over and over again: ‘As I’m this man’s son and knowingly accept the fact, isn’t it only natural that I should also accept his legacy?’ But this argument couldn’t silence the ‘no’ whispered by his innermost conscience. Suddenly he thought: ‘As I’m not the son of the man I thought was my father, I can’t accept anything else from him, neither in his

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lifetime, nor after his death. It wouldn’t be decent or fair. It would be stealing from my brother.’ This new way of looking at it having made him feel better and eased his mind, he went back to the window. ‘Yes,’ he told himself, ‘I must give up my share of the family inheritance so that it all goes to Pierre, as I’m not his father’s son. That’s only fair. In which case, isn’t it only fair that I keep the money my own father left me?’ Having acknowledged that he couldn’t benefit from Roland’s money and having decided to give it up altogether, he consented to keep Maréchal’s money and resigned himself to it, for, if he decided to refuse both, he would be reduced to begging on the streets. Once he had dealt with this delicate matter, he returned to the issue of Pierre’s presence in the family. How could he be got out of the way? Just as he was giving up hope of finding a practical solution, the siren of a liner entering the harbour seemed to send out the answer by giving him an idea. He then stretched out on his bed fully clothed and dreamed until daybreak. Around nine o’clock he went out to check that his plan was feasible. After making a few enquiries and calls, he went round to his parents’ house. His mother was shut away in her room waiting for him. ‘If you hadn’t come, I would never have dared to go downstairs.’ Just then Roland could be heard bellowing up the stairs: ‘Aren’t we having any food today, for God’s sake?’ Nobody answered, so he yelled: ‘Joséphine, what the hell are you up to?’ The maid’s voice could be heard from the depths of the basement: ‘’Ere, sir. What d’you want?’ ‘Where’s Madame Roland?’ ‘Madame’s upstairs with M’sieur Jean!’ He shouted up to the floor above: ‘Louise!’ Madame Roland opened the door and replied: ‘Yes, my dear?’ ‘Aren’t we having anything to eat, for God’s sake?’ ‘We’re just on our way down, my dear.’ She came down, followed by Jean. Seeing him there, Roland exclaimed: ‘What! you’re here too? Sick of your new home already?’

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‘No, Father, I wanted to talk to Mother about something this morning.’ Jean stepped forward, his hand outstretched, and when he felt the old man’s paternal handshake clasp his fingers, he was gripped by a strange and unexpected feeling, the feeling of separation and farewells with no hope of return. Madame Roland asked: ‘Is Pierre here yet?’ Her husband gave a shrug. ‘No, but never mind, he’s always late. We’ll start without him.’ She turned to Jean; ‘You should go and get him, dear; you know how hurt he gets when we don’t wait for him.’ ‘Yes, I’m on my way, Mother.’ With that, he left. He went up the stairs with the feverish determination of a timid man facing a fight. When he knocked on the door, Pierre answered: ‘Come in.’ So he did. His brother was hunched over his desk, writing. ‘Good morning,’ said Jean. Pierre stood up. ‘Good morning.’ And they shook hands as if nothing had happened. ‘Aren’t you coming down for breakfast?’ ‘Well, it’s just... I’ve got a lot to do.’ The elder son’s voice faltered, and his anxious glance asked his sibling what he was going to do. ‘They’re waiting for you.’ ‘Oh, is... is Mother downstairs?’ ‘Yes, in fact she was the one who sent me up for you.’ ‘Oh, in that case I’ll come down.’ Reaching the dining-room door, he hesitated to be the first to go in, but then pushed it open with a jerk and saw his father and mother sitting opposite each other at the table. He went over to her first, without raising his eyes or saying a word, and leaned over for her to kiss him on the forehead as he had been doing for some time instead of kissing her on both cheeks as he used to. He sensed that her lips came near but did not make contact with his skin, and he straightened up, his heart pounding at this pretence of a kiss.

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He wondered: ‘What did they say to each other after I left?’ Jean affectionately kept calling her ‘Mother’ and ‘dear Mama’, fussing around her, serving her food and something to drink. So Pierre realized that they had shed their tears together, but couldn’t guess what they were thinking. Did Jean think his mother was guilty, or that his brother was a wretch?’ And he was plagued once again by the reproaches he had heaped on himself for having uttered the horrible thing, which now tightened his throat and sealed his mouth, preventing him from eating and speaking. Now he was possessed by an unbearable urge to escape, to get out of this house which was no longer his home, away from these people to whom he remained attached only by invisible links. He would have liked to leave there and then, it didn’t matter where, knowing it was all over and that he couldn’t be near them any more, that he would always be torturing them without meaning to, simply by being there, and that in turn they would make him suffer endless, intolerable torments. Jean was talking, discussing something with Roland. Pierre wasn’t listening and didn’t hear what was being said. But he thought he sensed intent in his brother’s voice and paid attention to the meaning of his words. Jean was saying: ‘Apparently she’s going to be the finest ship in their fleet. They say about 6,500 tonnes. She’s going to make her maiden voyage next month.’ Roland was astonished: ‘That soon! I didn’t think she’d be ready to put to sea until summer.’ ‘Well, she will. They’ve speeded up work like mad to make sure the first crossing takes place before the autumn. I went past the Company* offices today and went in for a chat with one of the Directors.’ ‘Oh, which one?’ ‘Monsieur Marchand, the close friend of the Chairman of the Board.’ ‘Really, do you know him?’ ‘Yes, anyway I had a little favour to ask him.’ ‘So you’ll be able to arrange for me to visit every inch of the Lorraine* when she comes into harbour, will you?’ ‘Of course, that shouldn’t be a problem!’

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Jean appeared to hesitate, choosing the right words, trying to find some elusive transition. He went on: ‘It’s actually not a bad lifestyle on board these big transatlantic liners. You spend over half the month ashore in New York or Le Havre, two splendid cities, and the rest at sea with charming people. You can even make nice new friends amongst the passengers, and useful ones at that, especially for later on. Just think, with savings on the coal, the captain can make up to 25,000 thousand francs a year, if not more...’ ‘Good Lord!’ uttered Roland, and then gave a whistle displaying a profound respect for both the amount and the captain. Jean continued: ‘The purser can earn up to 10,000 and the doctor gets 5,000 basic with accommodation, food, light, heat, and service, etc., all paid for. That’s the equivalent of 10,000 at least, which is pretty good.’ Pierre raised his head, caught Jean’s eye, and understood. Hesitating briefly, he asked: ‘Are they difficult to get, these positions as doctor on board?’ ‘Yes and no. It all depends on circumstances and who you know.’ There was a long silence, then the doctor said: ‘The Lorraine sails next month, doesn’t she?’ ‘Yes, on the seventh.’ They were both silent. Pierre was thinking. It would certainly be one way out if he could set sail as ship’s doctor on this liner. Later on, who knows? He might only do it for a bit. In the meantime he would earn his living without having to ask his family for anything. A couple of days ago he had been forced to sell his watch now that he couldn’t ask his mother for money! Other than that, he had no means of support, no bread to eat other than the bread in his uninhabitable home, no other bed to sleep in under any other roof. Hesitating slightly, he ventured: ‘I’d gladly sail with her if I could.’ And Jean asked: ‘Why couldn’t you?’ ‘Because I don’t know anyone in the Transatlantic Company.’ Roland looked stunned: ‘What about all your grand plans?’ Pierre mumbled: ‘There are times when you have to know when to sacrifice everything and give up your precious dreams. Anyway, it would just be a start, a way of saving up a few thousand francs to set myself up later.’

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His father was immediately convinced: ‘That’s true. In two years you could put six or seven thousand aside, which would go a long way if managed properly. What do you think, Louise?’ She replied quietly, almost inaudibly: ‘I think Pierre is right.’ Roland shouted: ‘Then I’m going to have a word with Monsieur Poulin! I know him very well. He’s a judge at the Commercial Tribunal and is in charge of the Company’s affairs. There’s also Monsieur Lenient, the shipowner, who’s very in with one of the vice presidents.’ Jean asked his brother: ‘Do you want me to sound out Monsieur Marchand today?’ ‘Yes, that’d be good.’ Pierre went on, having thought about it for a few moments: ‘In fact, perhaps the best thing to do would be to write to the professors who thought highly of me at the Medical School.* They often pack off second-rate students on those boats. A few enthusiastic letters from professors like Mas-Roussel, Rémusot, Flache, and Borriquel* would settle things far more quickly than any dubious recommendation. It would be enough to get your friend Monsieur Marchand to present these letters to the Board.’ Jean approved wholeheartedly: ‘That’s an excellent idea, excellent!’ He was smiling, much reassured, almost happy and sure it would work, being incapable of remaining upset for long. ‘You must write off to them today,’ he said. ‘In a minute, in fact, now! I’m off. I won’t have coffee today, I’m too wound up.’ He got up and left. Jean turned to his mother: ‘What are you doing now, Mama?’ ‘Nothing... I don’t know.’ ‘Would you like to come with me to Madame Rosémilly’s?’ ‘Err... yes... yes I would.’ ‘You know I absolutely have to go today.’ ‘Yes... yes... that’s right.’ ‘Why do you have to go?’ asked Roland, as usual not understanding what was being said in his hearing. ‘Because I promised I would.’ ‘Ah, I see. That’s different then.’ He began filling his pipe, while mother and son went upstairs to get their hats.

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When they were outside, Jean asked: ‘Would you like to take my arm, Mother.’ He never usually offered, used as they were to walking side by side. She accepted and leaned on him. They didn’t speak for a while, then he said: ‘You see, Pierre’s perfectly happy to go.’ She murmured: ‘Poor boy!’ ‘What do you mean, poor boy? He won’t be at all unhappy on the Lorraine.’ ‘No... I know, but I’m thinking of lots of things.’ She remained thoughtful for a long while, staring at the ground, walking in step with her son, then, in that strange tone that people sometimes use to bring up a thought they have long been turning over in secret: ‘Life is cruel! If you manage to find just one bit of happiness in it, you’re blamed for giving in to it and you pay dearly for it later on.’ He said very gently: ‘Don’t talk about that any more, Mother.’ ‘How can I not? I think about it all the time.’ ‘You’ll forget.’ She fell silent again, then with deep regret: ‘Ah, how happy I could have been if I’d married another man!’ Now everything was Roland’s fault, as she threw all the responsibility of her own misconduct and unhappiness onto his ugliness, his stupidity, his clumsiness, his slow-witted mind, and his common appearance. It was because of that, the vulgarity of this man, that she had betrayed him, driven one son to despair, and made to the other the most painful confession of any mother’s bleeding heart. She mumbled: ‘It’s so awful for a young girl to marry a husband like mine!’ To which Jean made no reply. He was thinking about the man whose son he had believed himself to be until now and the fact that perhaps what he had sensed about his father’s mediocrity, his brother’s constant irony, other people’s contemptuous indifference, even down to the maid’s scorn for Roland, had prepared him mentally for his mother’s terrible confession. It made less difference that he was the son of another man; if, after the great emotional shock of the day before, he hadn’t experienced the repercussions of disgust, indignation, and anger so feared by Madame Roland, it was because subconsciously he had suffered for a long time from believing himself to be the son of this well-meaning oaf.

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They had now reached Madame Rosémilly’s house. She lived on the Sainte-Adresse road, on the second floor of a large building that she owned. From her windows, she had a view right across the harbour of Le Havre. When she saw Madame Roland coming in first, instead of holding out her hands as usual, she threw open her arms and hugged her, guessing the reason for her coming. The drawing-room furniture, in embossed velvet, was always covered with loose covers. On the walls, decorated with floral wallpaper, were four engravings bought by her first husband, the captain. They depicted sentimental maritime scenes. The first was of a fisherman’s wife waving a handkerchief from the shore as the sail of the boat carrying her husband away disappeared over the horizon. In the second, the same woman, on her knees on the same shore, was wringing her hands, looking out into the distance, beneath a lightning-filled sky, on a sea of implausible waves, at her husband’s boat about to founder. The two other etchings showed analogous scenes set in a higher social class. A fair young woman leans dreamily over the rail of a large liner as it sets sail. She gazes at the already distant shoreline, her eyes moist with tears and full of regret. Who has she left behind? The same young woman, seated near an open window overlooking the ocean, has fainted in her chair. A letter has fallen from her knees to the floor. He is dead! How tragic! Visitors were generally moved and captivated by the banal poignancy of these unambiguous, poetic subjects. Their meanings were instantly understood, requiring neither mental effort nor prolonged scrutiny by the spectator, who simply felt sorry for the women, despite being unsure of the exact nature of the sadness of the more distinguished of the two. This element of doubt, however, encouraged reverie. She must have lost her fiancé! On entering the room, one’s eye was inexorably drawn to these four pictures and held by a kind of fascination. It left them, only to be drawn back again and again, endlessly contemplating the four different expressions of the two women, so similar that they could have been sisters. Above all, from this clear-cut drawing, beautifully finished and meticulously

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designed, as elegant as a fashion print, and from its gleaming frames, there emanated a decorum and sense of order complemented by the furniture itself. The chairs were always arranged in the same manner, some against the wall, others around a coffee table. The immaculate white curtains hung in such straight and even intervals that you felt like ruffling them a little, and never so much as a speck of dust dulled the glass dome covering the Empire clock, the kneeling Atlas inside bearing aloft a globe which looked like a melon ripening indoors. The two women moved their chairs slightly from their usual position as they sat down. ‘You haven’t been out today?’ asked Madame Roland. ‘No. I confess I’m little tired.’ And she recalled, as if to thank Jean and his mother, all the pleasure she had had from the outing and the fishing. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘this morning I ate my shrimps. They were delicious. We could do it again one day if you liked...’ The young man interrupted her: ‘Before doing it again, how about completing the first?’ ‘What do you mean? I thought we had.’ ‘Oh, Madame, I made a catch in the rocks at Saint-Jouin that I also want to take home!’ She played innocent, yet knowing: ‘Oh, really. So what did you find?’ ‘A wife! And Mother and I have come here to check that she hasn’t changed her mind this morning.’ She gave a smile: ‘No, Monsieur, I never change my mind.’ He was now the one to hold out an open hand into which she placed hers with a keen and determined movement, and he asked her: ‘So, as soon as possible, don’t you think?’ ‘Whenever you choose.’ ‘In six weeks’ time?’ ‘I don’t mind. What does my future mother-in-law think?’ Madame Roland replied with a melancholy little smile: ‘Oh, I don’t think anything. I’m just thankful that you’ve accepted Jean, because I know you’ll make him very happy.’ ‘I’ll do what I can, Mother.’ Rather touched for the first time, Madame Rosémilly stood up and took Madame Roland into her arms, kissing her for a long time

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like a child; and, with this new kind of embrace, a powerful emotion made the poor woman’s sick heart swell. She couldn’t have explained the feeling she was experiencing. It was bitter and sweet at the same time. She had lost a son, a grown-up son, and had gained a daughter, a grown-up daughter, in his place. Sitting face to face in their chairs again, they held hands and stayed that way, looking smilingly at one another, while Jean seemed to be almost forgotten. They then talked about all sorts of things that needed to be thought through prior to the wedding, and when everything had been decided and settled, Madame Rosémilly seemed suddenly to remember a detail and asked: ‘You have consulted Monsieur Roland, haven’t you?’ The same flush spread over the cheeks of both mother and son. It was the mother who replied: ‘Oh no, there’s no point!’ She hesitated, feeling an explanation was called for, and continued: ‘We do everything without telling him. We just let him know what we’ve decided.’ Madame Rosémilly was not in the least surprised and smiled, finding that quite normal, as the old boy hardly counted. When Madame Roland found herself back outside with her son, she said: ‘Shall we go to your place? I feel I need a rest.’ She felt homeless, with nowhere to go, terrified of her own home. They went to Jean’s. As soon as she knew that the door was closed behind her, she gave a deep sigh, as if the lock guaranteed her safety; but then, instead of resting as she had said she would, she began opening cupboards, checking piles of linen, the numbers of handkerchiefs and socks. She changed the way they had been arranged, trying to find an order more harmonious to her housekeeper’s eye; and when she had organized everything to her liking, lined up towels, underpants, and shirts on their own shelves, divided the linen into three main groups, clothing, household, and for the table, she stood back to admire her work and said: ‘Jean, come and see how nice it looks!’ He went over to admire, to give her pleasure. Suddenly, just as he had sat down again, she tiptoed over to his armchair from behind, and throwing her right arm around his neck, kissed him as she placed on the mantelpiece a small object wrapped in white paper that she had been holding in her other hand.

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‘What is it?’ he asked. As she made no reply, he understood, recognizing the shape of the frame. ‘Give it to me!’ he said. But she pretended not to hear, and returned to her cupboards. He got up, quickly picked up this distressing relic, crossed the apartment, and double-locked it in his desk drawer. Then she wiped a tear from the corner of each eye with her fingertips and said with a slightly quavering voice: ‘Now I’ll go and see how well your new maid looks after her kitchen. As she’s out for now, I can have a good look for myself.’

CHAPTER 9 Glowing letters of recommendation from Professors Mas-Roussel, Rémusot, Flache, and Borriquel for their student Doctor Pierre Roland were submitted by Monsieur Marchand to the Board of the Transatlantic Company, supported by Monsieur Poulin, Commercial Court judge, Monsieur Lenient, the big shipowner, and Monsieur Marival, Deputy Mayor of Le Havre and a close friend of Captain Beausire. It so happened that a doctor had not yet been appointed for the Lorraine, and Pierre was fortunate enough to be nominated within a few days. The letter confirming his appointment was handed to him one morning by Joséphine, the maid, as he was finishing getting dressed. His first reaction was that of a man who has been condemned to death and has just heard that his sentence has been commuted; immediately he felt his suffering relieved a little by the thought of leaving and a calm life, always gently rocked by the rolling waves, forever drifting, forever gliding along. He was now living like a silent and reserved stranger in his father’s home. Ever since the evening he had blurted out to his brother the shameful secret he had discovered, he felt that he had severed the last ties with his family. He was tortured by remorse for having told Jean this thing. He condemned himself as odious, unclean, and wicked, and yet he felt relieved to have spoken. He never looked his mother or his brother in the eye any more. To avoid each other, their eyes had developed an amazing mobility with all the cunning of enemies fearful of meeting each other head on. He was always asking himself: ‘What can she have told Jean? Did she admit or deny it? What does my brother believe? What does he think of her, and what does he think of me?’ He couldn’t work it out and it infuriated him. He hardly even spoke to them anymore, except in front of Roland, to avoid such questions. When he received the letter confirming his appointment, he showed it to his family that same day. His father, who had a strong tendency to be thrilled about everything, clapped his hands. Jean reacted in a more serious tone, but deep down was filled with joy:

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‘Many congratulations, I know there was a good deal of competition. The letters from your professors obviously stood you in good stead.’ And his mother looked down and mumbled: ‘I’m very pleased for you that you were successful.’ After lunch he went to the Company’s offices to find out all sorts of things, and he asked the name of the doctor on the Picardie, which was to set sail the following day, so that he could find out from him at first hand all the details of his new life, and what he could expect to come up against. As Doctor Pirette was on board, he went to see him and was invited into a small cabin by a young man with a fair beard who looked like his brother. They chatted for quite a while. In the reverberating depths of the enormous ship you could hear the huge and never ending commotion of the thud of cargo piling up in the hold mingled with the sounds of footsteps, voices, machines loading crates, whistling foremen, and jangling chains as they dragged along or were wound onto winches by the raucous gasps of the steam engine which made the whole body of the great ship vibrate slightly. But once Pierre had left his colleague and found himself back in the street, a new wave of sadness came over him, engulfing him like one of those fogs that sweeps across the sea from the ends of the earth, carrying in its transient density something mysterious and impure, like the pestilential breath of far-off, evil lands. Even in his worst time of suffering he had never felt himself plunged so deep within a foul pit of misery. The final cord had been snapped; he had nothing left to hold on to. Even while tearing out of his heart the roots of all his affections, he hadn’t experienced the kind of distress, akin to that of an abandoned dog, which had suddenly overcome him. It was no longer a torturing moral pain, but the panic of an animal with no shelter, the physical anguish of a wandering, homeless creature, battered by the rain, wind, storms, and all the brutal forces of the world. By setting foot on this liner and entering this tiny cabin pitched by the waves, his flesh, that of a man used to sleeping calmly in an unmoving bed, had rebelled against the insecurity of all the days to come. Until now, his body had felt protected by the solid wall sunk into the earth that supported it, and by the certainty of resting in the same place, under a roof that

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withstood the wind. But now, everything that is enjoyably braved in the warmth of a sheltered home would become dangerous and an endless source of suffering. No ground beneath his feet any more, but the rolling sea, roaring and engulfing. No space around him in which to walk or run or aimlessly wander, but a few metres of boards on which to walk like a convict surrounded by other prisoners. No more trees, gardens, roads, or houses, nothing but water and clouds. And he would forever feel this ship moving beneath him. On stormy days he would have to hold on to partitions, cling on to doors, hang on to the sides of his narrow bunk so as not to fall to the floor. On calmer days he would listen to the throbbing vibration of the propeller and would feel the ship carrying him away, in a continuous, regular, and exasperating motion. And he found himself condemned to this life of a wandering convict simply because his mother had surrendered to the caresses of some man. He walked straight ahead, unsteadily now, under the weight of the hopeless misery of those about to leave their homelands for good. He no longer felt in his heart that lofty scorn, that disdainful hatred of strangers passing by, but a sad desire to talk to them, to tell them that he was leaving France, to be listened to and consoled. Deep down he felt a shameful need, like a poor man about to hold out a begging hand, a timid but strong need to feel that someone would be sorry to see him go. He thought of Marowsko. Only the old Pole loved him enough to feel genuinely upset; and the doctor decided to go and see him there and then. As he entered the shop, the pharmacist, busy crushing powders in a marble mortar, gave a slight start and stopped what he was doing. ‘How come we don’t see you any more?’ he asked. The young man explained that he had had lots of things to do, without saying exactly what, and asked, as he sat down: ‘So, how’s business?’ Business wasn’t going well at all. Competition was dreadful, patients scarce and poor in this working-class district. You could only sell cheap medicines and doctors never prescribed the rare and complex remedies which could be marked up five hundred per cent. The old boy concluded: ‘If this goes on for another three months, I’ll

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have to close down. If it wasn’t for your custom, my dear doctor, I’d have already been out shining shoes.’ Pierre felt a pang of anguish and decided to deal the blow at once, as there was no avoiding it: ‘I, er, won’t be much help to you any more. I’m leaving Le Havre at the beginning of next month.’ Marowsko was so taken aback, he removed his glasses: ‘You... You’re... What do you mean?’ ‘I mean that I’m going away, my poor friend.’ The old man was dumbfounded, seeing his last hope crumbling, and he suddenly turned on the man he had followed here, had loved, and in whom he had had so much confidence, and who was now abandoning him. He stammered: ‘So now you’re betraying me as well?’ Pierre felt so sorry for him, he wanted to hug him: ‘I’m not betraying you. I haven’t managed to settle here and I’m leaving to become a ship’s doctor on a transatlantic liner.’ ‘Oh, Monsieur Pierre! You promised me faithfully that you would help me to live!’ ‘What can I do? I need to live too. I haven’t a penny to my name.’ Marowsko kept repeating: ‘It’s not right, what you’re doing isn’t right. There’s nothing left for me but to die of starvation. At my age, it’s all over. It’s not right. You’re abandoning an old man who came here to be with you. It’s not right.’ Pierre tried to explain, protest, give his reasons, to prove that he couldn’t have done otherwise. The Pole refused to listen, disgusted by this desertion, and finally he said: ‘You’re all the same, you French, you never keep your promises.’* Pierre stood up, hurt now in turn, and in a somewhat haughty tone retorted: ‘You’re being unfair, Monsieur Marowsko. You have to have very strong reasons to make the decisions I’ve had to make, and you should understand that. Goodbye. I hope I’ll find you more reasonable next time.’ With that, he left. ‘Well, then,’ he thought, ‘so in fact no one will really miss me.’ He went through a mental list of everyone he knew or had known and, amongst all these faces running through his memory, came back to that of the barmaid in the café who had made him suspect his mother.

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He hesitated, still bearing an instinctive grudge against her, then suddenly made his mind up to go, thinking: ‘She was right, after all.’ And he looked around, to find his way to the right street. As it happened, the café was full of people and smoke as well. Customers of all classes, for it was a public holiday, were calling out, laughing and shouting. Even the owner was serving, rushing from table to table, collecting empty glasses and bringing them back brimming with froth. When Pierre had found a place near the bar, he waited, hoping the barmaid would see him and recognize him. But she went back and forth in front of him without so much as a glance, tripping daintily along, her hips swaying nicely beneath the layers of her skirt. In the end he banged a coin down on the table. She ran over. ‘What can I get you, Monsieur?’ She didn’t look at him, engrossed as she was in calculating the value of the orders she had taken. ‘Is this how you treat all your friends, then?’ he said. She looked him full in the face and said hurriedly: ‘Oh, it’s you. How are you? I’ve got no time today. A half for you, is it?’ ‘Yes, a half.’ When she brought it over, he continued: ‘I’ve come to say goodbye. I’m going away.’ She answered indifferently: ‘Oh, really? Where to?’ ‘To America.’ ‘They say it’s a beautiful country.’ And that was it. It was hardly the day to have a chat. There were far too many people in the café! And Pierre headed for the sea. As he reached the jetty, he saw the Perle returning with his father and Captain Beausire. Papagris the sailor was rowing; and the two men sitting in the stern were smoking pipes, looking blissfully content. Watching them go past, the doctor thought to himself: ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit.’* And he sat down on one of the benches on the breakwater in order to fall into an animal-like sleep. When he returned home that evening, his mother said to him, without daring to look up at him: ‘You’ll need quite a few things to take away with you, and I’m at a bit of a loss. I ordered your underwear earlier on and I went to see the tailor for the rest of your

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clothes, but do you need anything else, maybe things I don’t know about?’ He started to say, ‘No, nothing else.’ But then he thought he should at least accept the means to buy himself some decent clothes, and replied quite calmly: ‘I’m not sure yet. I’ll check with the Company.’ He enquired and returned with a list of indispensable items. When he gave it to his mother, she looked at him for the first time in a long while, wearing the humble, gentle, sad, and imploring expression of a poor beaten mutt begging for mercy. On 1 October the Lorraine arrived at the port of Le Havre from Saint-Nazaire,* ready to set off again for New York on the 7th, and Pierre Roland had to move into the little floating cabin which, from now on, would be the confines of his life. As he was going out the next morning, he met his mother who was waiting for him on the stairs, and almost inaudibly she whispered: ‘Wouldn’t you like me to help you settle in on board?’ ‘No, thank you, it’s all done.’ Quietly she said: ‘I would so like to see your little room.’ ‘There’s no point. It’s very ugly and very small.’ He continued downstairs, leaving her crushed and leaning ashen-faced against the wall. Roland, who had been on a tour of the Lorraine that day, talked of nothing else all throughout dinner but this magnificent ship and was surprised that his wife showed no interest in seeing it at all, given that their son was about to set sail on her. Pierre was hardly at home during the following days. He was touchy, irritable, hard, and his cruel tongue seemed to lash out at everyone. But the day before his departure he appeared to change suddenly and softened noticeably. As he kissed his parents goodbye before going to sleep on board for the first time, he said: ‘You will come to see me off tomorrow, won’t you?’ ‘Goodness me, of course we will! Won’t we, Louise?’ exclaimed Roland. ‘Of course we will,’ she almost whispered. Pierre went on: ‘We leave at eleven on the dot. You need to be there by nine-thirty at the latest.’ ‘Oh, I know!’ exclaimed his father. ‘When we leave you, we can quickly run over and jump in the Perle and wait for you the other side of the jetty to see you off again. Can’t we, Louise?’

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‘Yes, of course.’ Roland continued: ‘That way you won’t confuse us with the rest of the crowd who gather on the pier when the transatlantic liners set sail. You’d never recognize your own family in all that lot. Is that all right with you?’ ‘Yes, that’s fine. We’ll leave it like that, then.’ An hour later he was stretched out on his little sailor’s bunk, as long and narrow as a coffin. He stayed there for some time with his eyes open, going over everything that had happened to him in his life, and especially in his soul, during the last two months. Through having suffered and made others suffer, his aggressive and vengeful distress had lost its momentum like a tumbling wave. He barely had the courage left to hold a grudge against anybody about anything, and he let his feelings of revolt drift with the current, like his whole existence. He felt so weary of struggling, weary of hitting out at people, weary of hatred, weary of everything, that he couldn’t go on any longer and tried to lull his heart into oblivion, as one falls asleep. He could vaguely hear the unfamiliar sounds of the ship around him, faint, barely perceptible in this calm night in port; and of his wound, so raw up until then, all he was left with was the tingling of a healing scar. He had slept soundly when he was awakened by sailors moving about. It was daylight and the boat-train, timed to catch the tide, was arriving at the quayside bringing passengers from Paris. He wandered about the ship amongst all these busy, preoccupied people, looking for their cabins, calling each other, asking questions, and finding some sort of answer in all the commotion of a voyage about to begin. Having greeted the captain and shaken hands with his colleague, the purser, he went into the lounge where a few English passengers were already dozing in corners. The huge room, with its white marble walls and gold beading, multiplied indefinitely in its mirrors the perspective of long tables flanked by two endless lines of revolving chairs in crimson velvet. It was, in fact, the vast, floating, cosmopolitan hall in which the wealthy of every continent would dine together. Its luxurious opulence was that of grand hotels, theatres, and public places, the imposing, banal sumptuousness that pleases the eyes of millionaires. The doctor was about to go into the part of the ship reserved for second-class passengers when he remembered that they had taken a large herd of emigrants on board

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the previous night, and he went down into the steerage. As he went in, he was hit by a nauseous smell of poor and unclean humanity, a stench of bare flesh more sickening than that of the pelt or wool of animals. Then, in a sort of dark, low tunnel, like those found in mines, Pierre saw hundreds of men, women, and children stretched out on shelves one above the other or in teeming piles all over the floor. He was unable to make out their faces, but dimly saw this sordid, ragged crowd, this crowd of wretches defeated by life, exhausted, crushed, setting out with emaciated wives and sickly children for an unknown country where they hoped, perhaps, not to die of hunger. And, thinking about their past toil of labours lost, the useless efforts, the relentless struggle started again each day in vain, the energy expended by this ragged lot, who were about to begin again somewhere or other this existence of grinding poverty, the doctor felt like shouting at them: ‘Why don’t you just throw yourselves into the water and take your women and children with you?’ His heart was so gripped with pity that he couldn’t bear to look at them and went away. His father, mother, brother, and Madame Rosémilly were already waiting for him in his cabin. ‘You’re early!’ he said. ‘Yes,’ replied Madame Roland in a shaky voice, ‘we wanted to be able to spend some time with you.’ He looked at her. She was all in black, as if in mourning, and he suddenly realized that her hair, still grey just a month ago, was now turning completely white. It was difficult to seat the four people in his tiny home, and he had to jump up on his bunk. The door was still open, and through it they could see hordes of people passing by like a holiday crowd in the street, as all the passengers’ friends and a whole army of curious onlookers had invaded the huge liner. They were walking up and down corridors, in the lounges, all over, and heads even poked into the cabin as voices outside whispered: ‘That’s the doctor’s quarters.’ Pierre pushed the door to, but as soon as he felt shut in with his family he wanted to reopen it, as the bustle of the ship had covered up their embarrassed silence. At last Madame Rosémilly made the effort to say something: ‘You don’t get much air through these little windows.’

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‘That’s a porthole,’ replied Pierre. He showed her the thickness of the glass which made it shockresistant to the most violent batterings, then explained at length how it locked. Roland then asked a question: ‘Have you even got your own pharmacy here?’ The doctor opened a cupboard and showed them a collection of phials labelled in Latin on squares of white paper. He took one out to list the properties of its contents, then a second, then a third, and gave an in-depth lecture on therapies which they seemed to be listening to avidly. Roland kept shaking his head and saying: ‘Now isn’t that interesting!’ There was a gentle knock on the door. ‘Come in!’ called Pierre. Captain Beausire appeared. Shaking hands with everyone, he said: ‘I came a bit later because I didn’t want to be in the way of any tearful farewells.’ He had to sit on the bed as well. And again there was silence. But suddenly the captain cocked an ear. Through the wall he could hear orders being given, and he announced: ‘We’d better get going if we want to take the Perle out to see you again as you leave the port and bid you farewell on the open sea.’ Roland senior very much wanted it, no doubt to impress the passengers on the Lorraine, and he jumped up eagerly: ‘Well, goodbye then, my boy.’ He kissed Pierre on his side-whiskers, then opened the door. Madame Roland did not move but remained there with downcast eyes, her face ashen. Her husband touched her arm: ‘Come along, let’s go, there’s not a minute to lose.’ She stood up, walked towards her son, and offered him first one waxen cheek and then the other, which he kissed without a word. Then he shook hands with Madame Rosémilly and his brother, and asked him: ‘When’s the wedding?’ ‘It’s not decided yet. We’ll try and time it with one of your trips.’ Finally they all left the cabin and went up to the deck which was packed with visitors, porters, and sailors.

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Steam rumbled in the immense belly of the ship which seemed to be trembling with impatience. ‘Goodbye,’ said Roland, still in a hurry. ‘Goodbye,’ replied Pierre, who was standing by one of the little wooden gangways connecting the Lorraine with the quayside. He shook hands with everyone again and his family moved off. ‘Come on, come on, into the cab!’ A cab was waiting to take them to the outer harbour where Papagris had the Perle all ready to set out to sea. There wasn’t a breath of air, it was one of those dry, calm autumn days, when the smooth surface of the sea looked as cold and hard as steel. Jean grabbed an oar, the sailor hauled on the other, and they started to row. Out on the breakwater and jetties, even on the granite parapets, a vast, milling, and noisy crowd was waiting for the Lorraine. The Perle passed between these two human waves and was soon beyond the mole. Captain Beausire, sitting between the two women, held the tiller and was saying: ‘You’ll see, we’ll be right in her path, just out there!’ And the two rowers pulled with all their strength to get as far out as possible. Suddenly Roland exclaimed: ‘There she is! I can see her masts and the two funnels. She’s coming out of the dock.’ ‘Heave-ho, my lads!’ cried Beausire. Madame Roland took her handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her eyes. Standing clinging to the mast, Roland announced: ‘She’s just turning round in the outer harbour... She’s stopped... She’s moving again... She’s just been hitched up to her tug... She’s moving... bravo!... She’s between the two jetties... Listen to the crowd cheering... Bravo! The Neptune’s towing her... I can see her bows now... There she is! There she is!... Christ, what a ship!... Christ, would you look at that!’ Madame Rosémilly and Beausire turned round, the two men stopped rowing; Madame Roland was the only one not to move. The huge liner, pulled by a powerful tug that looked like a caterpillar in front of her, was emerging slowly and majestically from the harbour. The people of Le Havre assembled on the jetties, the beach, at windows, carried away by a sudden burst of patriotism, began to

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shout, ‘Long live the Lorraine!’, acclaiming and applauding this magnificent departure, like a great maritime city giving birth and offering her most beautiful daughter to the sea. But, as soon as she had cleared the narrow passage between the two granite walls, feeling herself free at last, she shook off her tug and set off all alone, like an enormous monster heading across the ocean. ‘Here she comes!... Here she comes!’ Roland was still shouting. ‘She’s coming straight for us!’ Overjoyed, Beausire kept saying: ‘What did I tell you, eh? I know her course, don’t I?’ Jean said quietly to his mother: ‘Look, Mother, she’s coming.’ Madame Roland uncovered her tear-blurred eyes. The Lorraine was approaching at full speed now that she had left the port, helped on her way by the fine, calm weather. Beausire pointed the spy-glass towards her and announced: ‘Look, Monsieur Pierre is at the stern, on his own, you can see him clearly. Look!’ Rising like a mountain and fast as a train, the ship was now passing, almost touching the Perle. And Madame Roland, distraught, out of her mind, stretched her arms out towards it, and saw her son, her son Pierre, wearing his braided cap, throwing farewell kisses to her with both arms. But then he was going, speeding away, disappearing, already a tiny figure, vanishing like an imperceptible dot on the gigantic vessel. She tried to pick him out still, but no longer could. Jean had taken her hand: ‘Did you see?’ he said. ‘Yes, I saw. Isn’t he good?’ And they turned back towards the town. ‘My word, she travels fast!’ declared Roland with enthusiastic conviction. Indeed, the liner was becoming smaller by the second, as if melting into the ocean. Madame Roland turned towards it and watched it go over the horizon towards an unknown country, at the other end of the world. Aboard that boat, which nothing could halt, that boat that would soon be out of her sight, was her son, her poor son. And it seemed to her that half of her heart was going with him, that her life was over, and it seemed too as though she would never see her child again. ‘Why are you crying?’ asked her husband. ‘He’ll be back in less than a month.’

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She stammered out: ‘I don’t know. I’m crying because I don’t feel well.’ Once ashore, Beausire left them straight away to go and have lunch with a friend. Jean walked on ahead with Madame Rosémilly, and Roland said to his wife: ‘He’s a good-looking boy, our Jean, isn’t he?’ ‘He is.’ And, too upset to think about what she was saying, she added: ‘I’m so glad he’s marrying Madame Rosémilly.’ The old boy was astounded: ‘What? He’s going to marry Madame Rosémilly?’ ‘Yes, of course. It was today we were going to ask you what your views on the matter were.’ ‘Well, well! So how long has this been planned?’ ‘Oh, not long. Just a couple of days. Jean wanted to be sure she would accept him before consulting you.’ Roland rubbed his hands. ‘Very good, very good. Perfect! It has my wholehearted approval.’ As they were about to leave the quay and head along the Boulevard François I, his wife turned back again to take one last look at the open sea, but she could see nothing but a wisp of grey smoke, so distant, so faint that it looked like a light mist.

EXPLANATORY NOTES 3 same critics: barely disguised reference to the leading critic of the day, Ferdinand Brunetière (1849–1906), who had made precisely such a remark about both Bel-Ami (1885) and Mont-Oriol (1887). after Manon Lescaut . . . Sapho, etc.: i.e. Prévost’s Manon Lescaut (1731), Bernardin de Saint-Pierre’s Paul et Virginie (1787), Cervantes’s Don Quixote (1605), Choderlos de Laclos’s Les Liaisons dangereuses (1782), Goethe’s Werther (1774) and Elective Affinities (1809), Richardson’s Clarissa Harlowe (1747–8), Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s Émile (1762), Voltaire’s Candide (1759), Alfred de Vigny’s Cinq-Mars (1826), FrançoisRené de Chateaubriand’s René (1805), Alexandre Dumas père’s Les Trois Mousquetaires (1844), George Sand’s Mauprat (1837), Balzac’s Le Père Goriot (1834) and La Cousine Bette (1846), Prosper Mérimée’s Colomba (1840), Stendhal’s Le Rouge et le noir (1831), Théophile Gautier’s Mademoiselle de Maupin (1835), Victor Hugo’s Notre-Dame de Paris (1831), Flaubert’s Salammbô (1862) and Madame Bovary (1857), Benjamin Constant’s Adolphe (1816), Octave Feuillet’s M. de Camors (1867), Zola’s L’Assommoir (1877), and Alphonse Daudet’s Sapho (1884). 4 Monte-Cristo: i.e. Dumas père’s Le Comte de Monte Cristo (1841–5). Zola’s Germinal: published in 1885. Victor Hugo as much as M. Zola: representing here opposing Romantic and Naturalist aesthetics, the former most famously articulated in the Préface de ‘Cromwell’ (1827), the latter in Le Roman expérimental (1880). 7 verisimilitude: cited from Boileau’s Art poétique (1674), III, v. 48, famous poetic statement of the criteria governing each literary genre in the period of French Classicism. 8 ‘faits divers’: section of miscellaneous news items in French newspapers. 9 objective novel: see Introduction, p. xvi. The artist who paints our portrait: Maupassant notoriously refused to have his portrait painted; this may be a reference to the only one in existence, by Henri Gervex (1852–1929), painted the year before, in 1886. 10 Symbolists today: i.e. writers such as Stéphane Mallarmé (1842–98), Jules Laforgue (1860–86), Villiers de l’Isle-Adam (1838–89), and Jean Moréas (1856–1910), whose Symbolist manifesto had been published in Le Figaro on 18 September 1886. This may also be a more topical reference to Les Demoiselles Goubert (1887) by Moréas and Paul Adam (1862–1920), transferring to the novel aesthetic priorities usually associated with Symbolist poetry. 11 Louis Bouilhet: Bouilhet (1822–69) had been a friend of Maupassant’s since his schooldays in Rouen; he was a fine dramatist and poet in his

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own right, much admired by Flaubert himself. On Maupassant and Flaubert, see Introduction, p. xvi. Chateaubriand: in fact, a misquotation; the aphorism is ascribed to Buffon (1707–88), as Maupassant’s readers were quick to point out, leading him the next day to ask the editor of Le Gaulois to publish a correction on his behalf. elsewhere: notably in the preface Maupassant wrote to an 1884 edition of Flaubert’s letters to George Sand (1804–76). line by Boileau: Art poétique, I, v. 133 (cf. note to p. 7). artistic style: in the original French, l’écriture artiste immediately designated a style associated with Edmond de Goncourt (1822–96), characterized by verbal dexterity to the point of virtuoso literary effects. Goncourt was widely assumed to be behind the Manifeste des cinq; see Introduction, p. xvii. simplicity, which does not: i.e. is an abstraction. La Guillette: the name of the villa Maupassant had had constructed at Étretat in 1883, and where he spent the summers for most of the rest of his life. Jean-Bart: famous corsair and naval captain (1650–1702), who distinguished himself in the wars of Louis XIV, the French king between 1643 and 1715. the Normandie: one of the (real) 67 steamships of the Compagnie Générale Transatlantique. the Prince Albert’s catching us up: one of the Cunard liners plying between Le Havre and Southampton or Liverpool; significantly chosen by Maupassant because of its name commemorating Queen Victoria’s deceased husband, Prince Albert (d. 1861). Trouville: very fashionable resort since the 1830s, also much frequented by writers and artists (and forever associated with the paintings of Eugène-Louis Boudin (1824–98) ). the Caen river: i.e. the Orme. bay of Calvados: i.e. between Deauville and Port-en-Bessin, the Calvados itself being the area of Lower Normandy around Caen. Quillebœuf: small port on the Seine (20 km due west of Honfleur), famous at the time for its pilots. Le Tréport, Dieppe, and so on: the geographical sequence here should have ended with Le Tréport, some 25 km north-east of Dieppe. Rue de Paris: the finest street in Le Havre since the eighteenth century, now fronted by arcades. the Place de la Bourse: the local name for the Place Carnot, the Stock Exchange having been built there in 1784. Roland is standing on what is now the Quai George-V.

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Explanatory Notes

25 the Rue Belle-Normande: Maupassant’s invention, identifiable as the Rue de Normandie, since renamed the Rue Maréchal-Foch. 26 American uncles: allusion to the fairy tale, subscribed to in Europe at one time, that every relative who emigrated to America soon became a millionaire. 33 the Place du Théâtre: now the Place Gambetta. Café Tortoni: located at nos. 1–5 Place du Théâtre and as famous in Le Havre as its namesake in Paris, on the Boulevard des Italiens; established in 1868, it was a favourite meeting-place for local businessmen for whom it catered at relatively modest prices (dinner at 4 fr., including wine). 34 La Plata: in Argentina. schooner: the original French term here, a ‘goélette’, specifically designates a fast twin-masted ship. electric beacons: the first in France, in fact, to be electrified. 35 the Pont-Audemer river: i.e. the Risle. Étouville’s lighthouse: it has been pointed out that there is no such place as Étouville, and assumed that Maupassant meant Fatouville, a beacon on the other side of the Seine from Le Havre, high on a hill between the mouth of the Risle and Honfleur. 36 the White Cat: fairy tale by the local (born near Honfleur) Mme d’Aulnoy (1650–1705), in which a young prince meets a beautiful white cat which is, of course, a princess in disguise; by magical means, he enables her to assume her natural form and marries her. Sleeping Beauty: by Charles Perrault (1628–1703). 37 old Marowsko: reputedly based on a Polish chemist at Bezons (in the Seine-et-Oise) frequented by Maupassant. Many Poles had fled to France after unsuccessful rebellions, the latest in 1863, against Russian, Prussian, and Austrian domination and partition of Poland at the end of the eighteenth century. 38 Marat: Jean-Paul Marat (1743–93), one of the leaders of the French Revolution during the Reign of the Terror (1793–4). He had been a physician at court until 1786, his political enemies subsequently exploiting this to accuse him of being a purveyor of quack medicines. 40 Le Figaro: right-wing daily, founded in 1854, with a considerable (for its time) circulation of over 100,000. 42 Senegal: at that time a French colony on the west coast of Africa. Bolbec-Nointot: the railway stop some 4 km outside Bolbec, itself 24 km west of Le Havre. 44 Latin Quarter: i.e. while he was a student in Paris, the École de Médecine being situated in this area straddling the fifth and sixth arrondissements. 48 Bis repetita placent: literally, ‘things repeated twice are pleasant’; a distortion of Horace’s Haec decies repetita placebit (Ars poetica 365).

Explanatory Notes

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49 Santo Domingo: the old name for what is now Haiti, in the West Indies. Saint-Jouin: seaside hamlet some 18 km outside Le Havre and famous at the time for its Auberge de Paris. Gabon: part of French Equatorial Africa. Sainte-Marie in Madagascar: reference either to Cape Sainte-Marie at its southern tip or the tiny island of the same name just off its north-east coast, a French colony long before France annexed Madagascar itself in 1896. Gascons: the inhabitants of Gascony (in south-west France) being proverbially loquacious and boastful. Pithiviers: town north-east of Orléans. 59 the Phare de la Côte and the Sémaphore havrais: invented titles, variants on real newspapers like Le Phare du Havre and Le Sémaphore de Marseille. See Introduction, p. xx. 61 Rue Tronchet: in the prosperous eighth arrondissement, directly behind the church of the Madeleine. 64 Rue Montmartre: the narrow and busy street leading north-west up from the central markets of Les Halles. 66 Sorrento or Castellamare: on the bay of Naples. 72 the Roches Noires: section of the beach at Trouville on which the boardwalk is situated, famous for its hotel of the same name immortalized in Monet’s L’Hôtel des Roches-Noires à Trouville (1870). 94 Louis XV: king of France, 1722–44. 110 Company: i.e. the Compagnie Générale Transatlantique (cf. note to p. 20). the ‘Lorraine’: see Introduction, p. xxxix. 112 Medical School: i.e. the École de Médecine (cf. note to p. 44). Mas-Roussel, Rémusot, Flache, and Borriquel: invented names, but also an authorial in-joke, the first two of these having been given to doctors in his previous novel, Mont-Oriol (1887). 121 you French, you never keep your promises: as far back as 1830, the Poles seeking to liberate themselves from Russia had looked in vain to France for help; Napoleon III had promised assistance to the Polish rebellion of 1863 (cf. note to p. 37). 122 Blessed are the poor in spirit: Matthew 5: 3; i.e. the simple-minded. ‘Blessed are those who are satisfied with life,’ Maupassant wrote in an article of 1884, ‘those who enjoy themselves, those who are content.’ 123 Saint-Nazaire: major French port on the Atlantic coast, at the mouth of the Loire.