THE CART COMES BACK

When I had brought home my grandparents from the station and after dinner, seated in front of the large hearth, they began to relate in full detail all that had happened to them since the last holidays, I soon realised that I was not listening.

The little gate of the playground was quite near the dining-room door. It used to squeak as it opened. Generally at nightfall, during the long country evenings, I sat secretly waiting for this squeaking of the gate. It was usually followed by the noise of clogs clattering or being wiped outside the door, and sometimes by whispers as of people making some plan before coming in. There was a knock. It was a neighbour, the women teachers ... anyhow, some one who was coming to cheer us during these long hours.

But that evening I had nothing to hope for from outside, since all those I loved were met together in our house; and yet I continued to be alert to all the noises of the night and to wait for some one to open our door.

Old Grandfather was there, hairy and bushy in appearance like some big Gascon shepherd, his two feet firmly planted as he sat, his stick between his legs, and with the usual slant of his right shoulder when he stooped to tap the ashes from his pipe against his shoe. He was approving with his kind moist eyes what Grandmother was saying about their journey, their neighbours, and the peasants who had not yet paid their rent. But I was no longer with them.

I was imagining the rumbling of a cart which would suddenly stop at our door. Meaulnes would jump from it and walk in as if nothing had happened.... Or perhaps he had first gone to take back the mare to the Fair Star, and I should soon hear his step sounding on the road, and the gate opening....

But nothing happened. Grandfather was gazing fixedly in front of him and his winking eyelids kept closing over his eyes as at the approach of sleep. Grandmother awkwardly repeated her last sentence, which no one was listening to.

‘Is it about that boy that you are worried?’ she said at last.

As a matter of fact, I had questioned her at the station to no purpose. She had seen no one at Vierzon who might have been Admiral Meaulnes. My friend must have been delayed on the way. His attempt had failed. During our return journey I had brooded over my disappointment, while Grandmother was chatting with Mouchebœuf. On the road whitened with frost, small birds had been fluttering around the hoofs of the trotting donkey. From time to time above the stillness of the wintry afternoon had arisen the far-away call of a farm girl or of a lad hailing a comrade from one clump of firs to another, and each time that long call over the desolate hills had made me shudder as if it were the voice of Meaulnes inviting me to follow him from afar....

While I was going over all this in my mind, bedtime came. Already Grandfather had gone into the red room, the bed-sitting-room so damp and icy cold from having been closed since last winter. To make him at home the lace antimacassars of the armchairs had been removed, the rugs folded up and all the knick-knacks put away. He had placed his stick on a chair, his thick shoes under an armchair, he had just put out his candle and we were standing saying good-night, ready to retire to bed, when the noise of a cart silenced us.

It almost sounded as if two vehicles slowly followed each other at a very slow trot. The noise finally came to a stop under the dining-room window which overlooked the road, but was never used.

Father had taken up the lamp and, without waiting, went to open the door which had already been locked. Then pushing open the gate, he walked to the edge of the steps and raised his light above his head to see what was happening.

Two carts had in fact stopped, the horse of one fastened behind the back of the other. A man had jumped down and was hesitating....

‘Is this the town hall?’ said he, coming near. ‘Could you direct me to M. Fromentin, the farmer at the Fair Star? I have found his cart and mare without a driver, going along the lane, close to the road of Saint-Loup-des-Bois. I was able to read his name and address on the plate, with my lantern. As it was on my way, I brought back his trap round here to avoid accidents, but it has delayed me no end all the same.’

We stood there stupefied. Father approached and lit up the cart with his lamp.

‘There were no traces of a driver,’ went on the man. ‘Not even a rug. The animal is tired and slightly lame.’

I had got quite at the front and, with the others, I was looking at this lost vehicle which had come back to us like wreckage washed ashore by the high tide--the first and perhaps the last wreckage of Meaulnes’ adventure.

‘If it’s too far to Fromentin’s,’ said the man, ‘I’ll leave the cart with you. I’ve lost too much time already and they must be anxious at home.’

Father agreed. In this way we could take back the trap to the Fair Star that very evening without saying what had happened. Then we could decide what we were to tell the village people and to write to Meaulnes’ mother.... And the man whipped up his horse, refusing the glass of wine we offered him.

As we were coming in without uttering a word and Father was leading the cart towards the farm, Grandfather, who had lit his candle again, called out from his room: ‘Has that traveller come back then?’

The women consulted each other’s faces by looks for a moment.

‘Yes, he’s been to his mother’s. Go to sleep. Don’t worry.’

‘That’s all right. Just what I thought,’ said he.

And, reassured, he put out his light and turned over in bed to sleep.

That was the explanation which we gave to the village people. As to the mother of the runaway, it was decided to wait before writing to her. And during three long days we kept our anxiety to ourselves. I still see my father coming home from the farm towards eleven, his moustache damp with the evening mist, talking with Millie in a very low voice, anxious and angry....