Claudine Married Page 2

  ‘You know everything, my darling little girl, and you’re still not frightened?’

  I almost shouted:

  ‘No! . . .’

  Yet, all the same, I was and I clung desperately round his neck. With one hand, he was already trying to unhook my blouse. I sprang to my feet.

  ‘No! All by myself!’

  Why? I have no idea why. A last vestige of the impulsive Claudine? Completely naked, I would have gone straight to his arms, but I didn’t want him to undress me.

  With clumsy haste, I undid my clothes and scattered them everywhere, kicking my shoes in the air, picking up my petticoat between two of my toes, and flinging away my corsets, all without one glance at Renaud sitting there in front of me. I had nothing on now but my little chemise and I said: ‘There!’ with bold defiance as, with my usual gesture, I rubbed the imprint the stays had left round my waist.

  Renaud did not move. He merely thrust his head forward, gripped both arms of his chair and stared at me. The heroic Claudine, panic-stricken by that stare, fled in terror and flung herself on the bed – on the bed that was still fully made.

  He came and lay on it with me. He held me close, so tense that I could almost hear his muscles quivering. Fully dressed, he embraced me and held me down on it – heavens, whatever was he waiting for to get undressed himself? – and his mouth and his hands forced me to stay there, without his body touching me, from my shuddering revolt to my wild consent, to the shameful moan of voluptuous pleasure I would have liked to hold back out of pride. Only after that did he fling off his clothes, as I had done mine, and laugh mercilessly to annoy an angry and humiliated Claudine. But he demanded nothing, only freedom to give me all the caresses I needed to send me to sleep, in the small hours, still lying on the fully made bed.

  I was grateful to him later on – very grateful indeed – for such active self-denial, for such stoical and frustrated patience. I made up to him for it, when, tamed and curious, I would avidly watch his eyes glaze as he tensely watched mine glaze too. Moreover, for a long time, I retained – and, to tell the truth, I still retain – a slight terror of . . . how can I put it? I think ‘marital duty’ is the usual term. This potent Renaud made me think, by analogy, of that great gawk Anaïs, who had a mania for cramming her large hands into gloves too tight for them. Apart from that, everything is perfect; everything is even a little too perfect. It is pleasant to begin in complete ignorance and then to learn so many reasons for giving nervous laughs and nervous cries, for uttering little muffled groans, with our toes curled up with tension.

  The only caress I have never been able to grant my husband is to use the familiar tu. I always use the formal vous, on every possible occasion, even when I am imploring him, even when I am consenting, even when the exquisite torture of suspense forces me to speak in jerks, in a voice that is not my own. But isn’t this calling him vous a special, unique caress from this Claudine who is rather uncivilized and apt to be lavish with tu?

  He is handsome, I swear he is! His dark, smooth skin glides over mine. Where his great arms join his shoulders, there is a feminine, cushioned roundness where I lay my head, night and morning, for a long while.

  And his hair, the colour of a grebe’s plumage, his slender knees, his slow-breathing chest, marked with two dark brown specks, the whole of that tall body where I have made so many exciting discoveries! I often tell him, sincerely: ‘I do think you’re marvellous to look at!’ He holds me very tight and says: ‘Claudine, Claudine, I’m old!’ And his eyes darken with such poignant regret that I stare at him, uncomprehending.

  ‘Ah! Claudine, if I’d known you ten years ago!’

  ‘You’d have known the inside of a law-court if you had! Besides, you were only a young man then, a horrid, filthy brute of a young man who made women cry, while I . . .’

  ‘You wouldn’t have known Luce.’

  ‘Do you imagine I miss her?’

  ‘At this very moment, no . . . don’t shut your eyes, I implore you, I forbid you to . . . That look in them belongs to me . . .’

  ‘So does my whole self!’

  My whole self? No. That is the flaw.

  I have evaded this certainty as long as I could. I hoped so ardently that Renaud’s will would curb mine, that his tenacity would eventually overcome my fits of rebellion; in short, that his character would match the expression of his eyes, accustomed to command and to fascinate. Renaud’s will, Renaud’s tenacity! He is suppler than a flame, just as burning, just as flickering; he envelops me without dominating me. Alas! Are you to remain your own mistress for ever, Claudine?

  All the same, he knows how to subjugate my slim, golden body, this skin that clings to my muscles and refuses to obey the pressure of hands, this little girl’s head with the hair cut like a little boy’s . . . Why do they have to lie, his dominating eyes, his stubborn nose and his attractive, clean-shaven chin that he displays as coquettishly as a woman?

  I am gentle with him, and I make myself small; I bend my neck meekly under his kisses; I demand nothing and I avoid any kind of argument in the virtuous fear of seeing him give in to me at once and smiling a too-facile yes with his good-natured mouth. He has no authority except when he is making love.

  I realize that, at least, is something.

  I told him about Luce, every single detail, almost in the hope of seeing him frown and get angry and ply me with furious questions . . . Oh dear no, not at all! On the contrary, even. He plied me with questions, yes, but not furious ones. And I cut short my answers because my mind was harking back to his son, Marcel (it irritated me to remember how that boy used to harass me with questions), but certainly not out of defiance. For, if I have not found my master, I have found my friend and ally.

  All this hotch-potch of feelings would get short-shrift from Papa. Contemptuous of the psychological mix-ups of a daughter who quibbled and dissected and pretended to be a complex person, his answer would be: ‘The bloody little fool’s got a bee in her bonnet and nothing will stop it buzzing!’

  My admirable father! Since my marriage, I haven’t thought enough about him, or about Fanchette. But, for months, Renaud has loved me too much, taken me about too much, made me too drunk with landscapes, too dazed with movement and new skies and unknown towns . . . Little knowing his Claudine, he has often smiled in amazement at seeing me more impressed by a landscape than a picture, more excited by a tree than by a museum, or by a river than a jewel. He had a great deal to teach me and I have learnt a great deal.

  Sexual pleasure appeared to me like some overwhelming, almost sombre marvel. When Renaud, seeing me suddenly still and serious, would question me anxiously, I turned red and answered, without looking at him: ‘I can’t tell you . . .’ And I would be forced to explain myself without words to that redoubtable questioner who battens on looking at me, who watches every nuance of shame on my face and finds exquisite pleasure in heightening it.

  It would seem that for him – and I feel this is what separates us – sexual pleasure is made up of desire, perversity, lively curiosity, and deliberate licentiousness. To him pleasure is something gay and lenient and facile, whereas it shatters me and plunges me into a mysterious despair that I seek and also fear. When Renaud is already smiling as he lies panting beside me, no longer holding me in his arms, I am still hiding my terrified eyes and my ecstatic mouth in my hands, however much he tries to stop me. It is only a little while after that I go and huddle up against his reassuring shoulder and complain to my friend of the too-delicious pain my lover has caused me.

  Sometimes, I try to persuade myself that perhaps love is still too new for me, whereas, for Renaud, it has lost its bitterness. I doubt if this is true. We shall never think the same about love, apart from the great affection that drew us together and still binds us.

  In a restaurant, the other night, he smiled at a slim, dark woman who was dining alone and whose beautiful made-up eyes responded willingly.

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘Who? The lady? N
o, darling. But she’s got a very pretty figure, don’t you think?’

  ‘Is that the only reason why you’re looking at her?’

  ‘Of course, my precious child. That doesn’t shock you, I trust?’

  ‘No, not a bit. Only . . . I don’t like her smiling at you.’

  ‘Oh, Claudine!’ he pleaded, putting his swarthy face close to me. ‘Do let me go on believing that people can still look at your old husband without repulsion; he so much needs to have a little self-confidence!’ He added, tossing his fine, light hair, ‘The day when women stop looking at me at all, there’ll be nothing for me but to . . .’

  ‘But whatever does it matter about other women? Because I shall always love you.’

  ‘Hush, Claudine,’ he cut in deftly. ‘Heaven preserve me from seeing you become a unique monstrosity!’

  There you are! Talking of me, he says women; do I say men when I’m talking of him? Oh, I know the answer. The habit of living in the public eye and having constant illicit love-affairs affects a man, subjects him to humiliating worries unknown to little brides of nineteen.

  I could not resist saying spitefully:

  ‘No wonder Marcel’s like a flirtatious girl who can’t live without admiration. He’s obviously inherited your temperament.’

  ‘Oh, Claudine! Don’t you like my defects?’ he asked a little sadly. ‘Certainly, I can’t see where else he got them from . . . At least, you must admit that I exploit my charms for less perverse reasons than he does!’

  How quickly he switched back to light-hearted frivolity! I believe that, had he answered me sharply, knitting those beautiful eyebrows, like the velvet lining of a ripe chestnutburr, ‘That’s enough, Claudine. Marcel doesn’t come into this,’ I should have begun to feel a great joy and a little of that timid respect that I want to feel for Renaud and cannot.

  Rightly or wrongly, I need to respect, to be a little afraid of the man I love. I was a stranger to fear for as long as I was a stranger to love and I should have liked both to have come together.

  My memories of the past fifteen months mill about in my head like specks of dust in a dark room barred by one shaft of sunshine. One after the other they pass into the beam, glitter there for a second while I smile or pout at them, then go back into the shadow.

  When I returned to France, three months ago, I wanted to see Montigny again. But this deserves what Luce calls commencing at the beginning.

  Eighteen months ago, Mélie hastened to announce loudly and triumphantly to Montigny that I was getting married ‘to ever such a fine man, a bit on the old side, but still good and lusty’.

  Papa dispatched a few printed announcements at random, one of them to Darjeau the carpenter ‘because he made a devilish good job of the packing-cases for my books’. And I myself sent two, with the addresses inscribed in my best handwriting, to Mademoiselle Sergent and to her disgusting little Aimée. This earned me a somewhat unexpected letter.

  ‘My dear child,’ wrote back Mademoiselle Sergent, ‘I am sincerely happy’ (keep a straight face, Claudine!) ‘about this marriage of affection’ (her language goes beyond the bounds of decency) ‘which will be a sure safeguard against a slightly dangerous independence. Do not forget that the School eagerly awaits a visit from you, should you return, as I hope, to see a part of the country that so many memories must have endeared to your heart.’

  This final irony was blunted by the universal kindliness I felt for everything and everyone just then. All that persisted in my mind was amused surprise and the desire to see Montigny again – oh, woods that had enchanted me! – with sadder, more sophisticated eyes.

  And, as we were returning from Germany via Switzerland last September, I begged Renaud to agree to break our journey and spend twenty-four hours with me in the very heart of Fresnois, at Montigny’s mediocre inn, Lange’s, in the Place de l’Horloge.

  He consented at once, as he always consents.

  To re-live those days, I have only to close my eyes for a minute.

  Two

  In the slow train that pottered irresolutely through that green, undulating countryside, I thrilled at the well-known names of the deserted little stations. Good heavens! After Blégeau and Saint-Farcy, it would be Montigny and I should see the ruined tower . . . I was so excited that my calves prickled with nerves: I stood up in the compartment, clutching the cloth arm-straps with both hands. Renaud, who was watching me, with his travelling-cap pulled down over his eyes, came and joined me at the window.

  ‘Darling bird, are you flustered at getting so near your old nest? . . . Claudine, do answer . . . I’m jealous . . . I don’t like seeing you so tensely silent except in my arms.’

  I reassured him with a smile, and once again I scanned the forest-fleeced back of the hills as they fled whirling past.

  ‘Ah!’

  With my outstretched finger, I pointed to the tower, its crumbling red-brown stone draped with ivy, and to the village that cascades below it and looks as if it were pouring out of it. The sight of it gave me such a fierce, sweet pain that I leant on Renaud’s shoulder . . .

  Broken summit of the tower, mass of round-headed trees, how could I ever have left you? And must I feast my eyes on you only to go away and leave you again?

  I threw my arms round my husband’s neck; it was to him I must look now for my strength and my motive for living. It was for him to enchant me, to hold me fast; that was what I hoped, that was what I wanted.

  The gate-keeper’s little pink house at the level-crossing whisked by, then the goods station – I recognized the foreman! – and we jumped out on the platform. Renaud had already put the suitcase and my handbag into the one and only omnibus while I was still standing rooted to the spot, silently registering the humps and the holes and the landmarks of the beloved shrunken horizon. There, right above us, was the Fredonnes wood that joins up with the Vallées one . . . that yellow, sandy serpent is the path to Vrimes, how narrow it was! And it would no longer take me over to see the girl who made her First Communion with me, my delicious Claire. Oh! They had cut down the Corbeaux wood without my permission! Now you could see its rough skin, all bare . . . Joy, joy, to see Quail Mountain again, blue and misty: on sunny days it was clothed in a rainbow haze but you can see it close and clear when it’s going to rain. It is full of fossil shells and purple thistles and harsh, sapless flowers and haunted by little butterflies with pearly blue wings, tortoise-shells speckled with orange half-moons like orchids, and heavy Camberwell beauties in dark, gilded velvet . . .

  ‘Claudine! Don’t you think sooner or later we’ll have to face climbing into this bone-shaking contraption?’ asked Renaud, who was laughing at my blissful stupor.

  I got into the bus with him. Nothing had changed; old Racalin was drunk, as in the old days. Immutably drunk, he sent his creaking vehicle lurching from one ditch to another with authoritative self-assurance.

  I scrutinized every hedge, every turning, ready to protest if they had touched my country. I said nothing, not another word, till we reached the first tumbledown cottages at the bottom of the steep slope, and then I exclaimed:

  ‘But the cats won’t be able to sleep in Bardin’s hay-loft any more. There’s a new door!’

  “’Pon my soul, you’re right,’ agreed Renaud, impressed. ‘That brute of a Bardin’s had a new door put in!’ My previous dumbness burst into a spate of gay, idiotic chatter.

  ‘Renaud, Renaud, look quick, we’re going to go right past the gate of the castle! It’s deserted; we’ll see the tower in a minute: Oh, there’s old Madame Sainte-Albe on her doorstep! I’m sure she saw me; she’ll go and tell the whole street . . . quick, quick turn round; there, those two tree-tops above old Madame Adolphe’s roof, they’re the big fir-trees in the garden, my fir-trees, my very own ones . . . They haven’t grown; that’s good . . . Who on earth’s that girl I don’t know?’

  Apparently I asked this last in a tone of such comical asperity that Renaud roared with laughter and displayed all his white, square t
eeth. But there were snags ahead; we had got to spend the night under Lange’s roof and my husband might well laugh less light-heartedly up there, in the gloomy inn . . .

  Mercifully, it was all right! He found the room tolerable, in spite of the tent-shaped bed-curtains, the minute wash-basin, and the coarse sheets that were greyish, but, thank heaven, very clean.

  Renaud, excited by the poverty of the setting, by all the childishness that Montigny brought out in Claudine, flung his arms round me from behind and tried to pull me on to the bed. But I wouldn’t let him . . . the time would pass too quickly.

  ‘Renaud, Renaud, dear, it’s six o’clock. Please come over to the School and let’s give Mademoiselle a surprise before dinner!’

  ‘Alas!’ he sighed, anything but resigned. ‘That’s what comes of marrying a stuck-up little child of nature – she deceives you with a country town numbering 1,847 inhabitants!’

  A dab of the brush on my short hair (the dry air made it light and fluffy), an uneasy glance in the mirror – had I aged in eighteen months? – and we were outside in the Place de l’Horloge. It is so steep that, on market days, any number of little stalls find it impossible to keep their balance, turn oopsidaisy and collapse with a tremendous clatter.

  Thanks to my husband, thanks to my shorn locks (feeling a trifle jealous of myself, I thought of the long chestnut ringlets that used to dance well below my waist), nobody recognized me and I was able to take it all in at leisure.

  ‘Oh, Renaud, just imagine, that woman with a baby in her arms, that’s Célénie Nauphely!’

  ‘The one who used to suck her sister’s milk?’

  ‘None other. Now she’s the one who’s being sucked. Lawks a mercy, did you ever? It’s disgusting!’

  ‘Why disgusting?’

  ‘I don’t know. Little Madame Chou has still got the same peppermints in her shop. Perhaps she doesn’t sell any more now that Luce has gone . . .’