AT FLORENTIN’S

Just as far as I had been an unhappy child, dreamy and retiring, so I now became resolute and as we say at home ‘determined,’ when I felt that upon me depended the outcome of this high adventure.

From that evening, I believe, my knee definitely ceased to hurt me.

Vieux-Nançay was the parish to which the Sand Pit estate belonged and where all M. Seurel’s relatives lived, and in particular my Uncle Florentin, a tradesman with whom we often spent the end of September. Free as I was from examinations, I did not want to wait, and was granted permission to go at once to my uncle. But I decided to say nothing to Meaulnes as long as I could not be certain of having good news to impart. For, indeed, what was the good of drawing him out of his despair, to plunge him back into it, perhaps more deeply, afterwards?

Vieux-Nançay was for many years my favourite place in the world, the place that meant holidays, where we only went on rare occasions, when a carriage could be hired to take us. There had formerly been some disagreement with the branch of the family living there, and no doubt this explains why one had each time to beg Millie so hard to get her to come. But I cared little about these squabbles!... No sooner was I there than I became lost in the crowd of uncles and cousins, boys and girls, and enjoyed a life crammed with jolly doings.

We used to live with Uncle Florentin and Aunt Julie. They had a boy of my age, Cousin Firmin, and eight daughters, the two eldest of whom, Marie-Louise and Charlotte, might have been seventeen and fifteen. They kept a large shop in front of the church, at the entrance to this small town in Sologne--a sort of general stores, the shopping centre for all the neighbouring gentry and sportsmen living in lonely places in the remote country, often thirty kilometres from any station.

This shop, with its grocery and drapery counters, had numerous windows looking on the road and a glass door opening on the church square. But a strange thing, though quite ordinary in this poor district, the floor of the shop was of trodden earth.

At the back of the premises were six rooms, each stocked with a different kind of goods: the room with hats, the room with garden tools, the room with lamps ... goodness knows what! When, as a child, I used to go through this maze of a store, it seemed as if my eyes would never exhaust all its marvels. And even at that time I still thought that there could be no real holidays in any other place.

The family lived in the big kitchen, the door of which opened on the shop, and in this kitchen, at the end of September, huge fires were blazing by the side of which the gamekeepers and poachers who sold game to Florentin often came for a drink quite early in the morning, while the little girls, who were already up, went all over the place, making much noise, or smoothed one another’s hair with ‘some nice-smelling stuff.’ On the walls some old photographs, yellowish groups of schoolboys, depicted my father--after one had taken some time to recognise him in his uniform--amidst his Training College friends....

The mornings were always spent there; or in the yard where Florentin grew dahlias and reared guinea-fowls; here, seated on soap chests, you set about roasting coffee, or unpacking crates filled with all kinds of carefully wrapped things, the name of which we did not always know....

All day long the shop was invaded by peasants or by the coachmen of the neighbouring gentry. Carts, coming from far out in the country and dripping with the September fog, would pull up and stop in front of the glass door. And from the kitchen we listened to the peasant-women’s talk, curious to hear all their stories....

But in the evening, after eight o’clock, when we went out with lanterns to take hay to the horses whose reeking skins filled the stables with steam, the whole of the shop belonged to us!

Marie-Louise, the eldest of my cousins, though one of the smallest, was still in the shop, folding and putting away rolls of cloth and coaxing us to come and cheer her up. So Firmin and I with all the girls burst into the huge shop, under the overhead porcelain lamps, and coffee-grinders were set turning and acrobatic stunts performed on the counters; sometimes Firmin brought out from the attics some old trombone covered with verdigris, for the trodden earth floor was good to dance on....

I still blush at the idea that, at any moment in those previous years, Mlle. de Galais might have come in and caught us at these childish games.... But it was just before nightfall, one evening of that month of August, while I was quietly talking with Marie-Louise and Firmin, that I saw her for the first time....

* * * * *

The very first evening of my arrival at Vieux-Nançay I had questioned my Uncle Florentin concerning the Sand Pit estate.

‘It is no longer an estate,’ he told me. ‘Everything has been sold, and the buyers, sportsmen, have pulled down the old buildings to enlarge their shoot; the great courtyard is by now just a waste land of heather and broom. The former owners have only kept a one-storey shack and the farm. You’ll often have a chance of seeing Mademoiselle de Galais here; it’s she does all the shopping, coming sometimes on horseback, sometimes driving, but always the same old horse, old Bélisaire.... It’s a funny turn-out!’

I was so upset that I no longer knew what question to ask so as to learn more.

‘But surely they were rich?’

‘Yes. M. de Galais used to give parties to amuse his son, a strange boy, full of queer ideas. To give him a good time, the father always thought of some grand new thing. They had girls come from Paris ... fellows from Paris and elsewhere....

‘The Sand Pit was all falling to ruins, Mme. de Galais was near her end, they were still trying to amuse him, putting up with all his whims. ’Twas last winter--no, the winter before, they gave their biggest fancy-dress fête. Half of their guests were from Paris, others were country folk. They had bought or hired any amount of marvellous fancy costumes, games, horses, boats. Always to amuse Frantz de Galais. It was said that he was about to marry, and that it was his betrothal party. But he was much too young. And it was all broken off suddenly; he ran away and he’s never been seen since.... After the lady’s death, Mademoiselle de Galais was suddenly left alone with her father, the old sea captain.’

‘Isn’t she married?’ I asked at last.

‘No,’ he said, ‘I’ve heard nothing of it. Might you be a suitor?’

Very much put out, I confessed to him, as briefly and as discreetly as possible, that my best friend, Augustin Meaulnes, would perhaps be one.

‘Ah!’ said Florentin, smiling, ‘if he’s not particular as to money, it is a good match.... Should I say a word about it to M. de Galais? He still comes here sometimes to get small shot for game. I always give him a taste of my old brandy.’

But I begged him to do nothing of the sort, to wait. And on my part, I delayed to inform Meaulnes. Such an accumulation of lucky circumstances made me feel rather anxious. And this anxiety forced me not to inform Meaulnes of anything before I had at least seen the girl.

* * * * *

I had not long to wait. The next day, a little before dinner, night began to fall, and with it came a fresh mist, more like September than August. Firmin and I, guessing the shop would be empty of customers at the moment, had come to talk to Marie-Louise and Charlotte. I had confided to them the secret which had brought me to Vieux-Nançay earlier than usual. Elbows on the counter or seated with both hands stretched out flat on the polished wood, we were telling one another all we knew about the mysterious girl--and that was precious little--when a noise of wheels made us turn round.

‘There she is, that’s her,’ they whispered.

A few seconds later the queer equipage stopped in front of the glass door. An old farm carriage with rounded panels and small moulded cornices, the like of which I had never seen before in that district; an old white horse which always seemed to want to graze along the road, so low did he bend his head as he walked; and on the box--I say it in all simplicity of heart, but knowing well what I say--the most beautiful girl the world may ever have held.

I never saw so much grace combined with so much gravity. Her costume gave her so slender a waist that she seemed fragile. A long brown cloak, which she took off as she came in, was thrown on her shoulders. She was the gravest of girls, the frailest of women. A mass of fair hair weighed on her forehead and over her face which was delicate in outline and delicate in moulding. On her pure complexion summer had placed two freckles.... I detected only one defect in so much beauty: in moments of sadness, discouragement, or simply deep thought, this pure face was slightly dappled with red, as happens to people suffering from some serious and unsuspected complaint. Then one’s admiration on looking at her was replaced by a kind of pity, the more heart-rending because the more surprising.

At least this is what I seemed to discover as she slowly got out of the carriage, and Marie-Louise, with complete ease, at last introduced me and encouraged me to speak.

They offered her a polished chair, and she sat down, her back resting against the counter, while we remained standing. She appeared to know the shop well and to be fond of it. Aunt Julie, being at once informed, came in, and talked quietly, with her hands crossed over her stomach and her peasant shopkeeper’s white cap nodding gently. And thus the moment when conversation would begin on my part--which I rather dreaded--was postponed....

It came very simply.

‘And so,’ said Mademoiselle de Galais, ‘you will soon be a teacher?’

Aunt Julie was then lighting over our heads the porcelain lamp which gave dim light to the shop; I saw the girl’s sweet childlike face, her candid blue eyes, and was all the more surprised at her clear and serious voice. Whenever she stopped talking, her gaze settled away from the listener, not moving while she awaited the answer, and she slightly bit her lip.

‘I should also be teaching,’ she said, ‘if only M. de Galais would let me! I would teach little boys, like your mother....’

And she smiled, showing me thus that my cousins had spoken to her of me.

‘You see,’ she went on, ‘the village people are always very polite and kind and obliging to me. And I am very fond of them. But then, what credit can there be in my loving them?... While, with a school teacher, they are apt to be rather cross and critical, don’t you think? There are endless tales of lost pencils, exercise-books too dear, and of children who do not learn.... Well, I would fight it out with them and they would like me nevertheless. It would be far more difficult....’

And, without a smile, she dropped back into her thoughtful and childlike attitude, with her motionless blue gaze.

We were, the three of us, embarrassed by that ease in speaking of delicate things, of what is secret and subtle, and only comes off well in books. There was a moment’s silence; and slowly a long discussion began....

But with a sort of regret and of animosity against I know not what essence of mystery in her life, the girl went on:

‘And then I would teach the boys to be wise with a wisdom I know. I would not put into their hearts any longing to go about the world, as you will most likely do, M. Seurel, when you are an assistant master. I would teach them to find the happiness which is quite close to them, though it does not appear so....’

Marie-Louise and Firmin were as much confused as I was. We stood there, not saying a word. She felt our embarrassment, stopped, and bit her lip, and lowered her head, then she smiled as if she was making fun of us.

‘For instance,’ she said, ‘there is perhaps some big silly boy who is looking for me at the other end of the world, while I am here, in Madame Florentin’s shop, under this lamp, and my old horse is waiting at the door. If the young man did see me, he most likely would not believe his eyes?...’

To see her smile, daring seized me, and I felt that it was time to say, while I also laughed: ‘And it may be that I know him, that big silly boy?’

She quickly looked up at me.

At that moment there was a ring at the shop door; two country women entered carrying baskets.

‘Come in the “dining room,” you will be in peace,’ said my aunt, as she pushed open the kitchen door.

And, as Mademoiselle de Galais was refusing and wanted to go at once, my aunt added: ‘M. de Galais is there, chatting with Florentin by the fire.’

There was always, even in the month of August, the habitual fir-faggot crackling and blazing in the big kitchen. There also a porcelain lamp was lit and an old man with a kind, wrinkled face entirely shaven--the type of man nearly always silent like one burdened with age and memories--was seated close to Florentin in front of two glasses of brandy.

Florentin greeted me.

‘François!’ he called out in his strong huckster’s voice, as if there was a river between us or many acres of land, ‘I have just arranged an afternoon’s outing on the banks of the Cher for next Thursday. Those who like can shoot game, others can fish, or dance, or bathe!... Mademoiselle, you will come on horseback; that’s agreed with M. de Galais. I’ve arranged everything....

‘And François!’ he added, as if he had only just thought of it, ‘you might bring your friend, Monsieur Meaulnes.... It’s Meaulnes he is called, isn’t it?’

Mlle. de Galais had stood up, suddenly growing very pale. And at that precise moment, it came back to my mind that one day, at the mysterious manor, by the side of the lake, Meaulnes had told her his name....

When she held out her hand to me at the moment of leaving, there was between us, more clearly than if we had spoken many words, a secret understanding which death alone was to break, and a friendship more moving than a great passion.

... At four o’clock next morning, Firmin knocked at the door of the little room which I occupied in the guinea-fowls’ yard. It was still night and I had great trouble in finding my belongings on the table, amongst the brass candlesticks and the brand-new statuettes of saints which had been chosen out of the shop to decorate my dwelling on the day before my arrival. In the yard, I heard Firmin pumping up my bicycle tyres, and in the kitchen Aunt Julie using the bellows to make up the fire. The sun was hardly risen when I left. But my day was to be long: I was first going to lunch at Sainte-Agathe to explain my prolonged absence, then, continuing my way, I meant, before the evening, to reach La Ferté d’Angillon and the home of my friend Augustin Meaulnes.