THE COMPOSITION TEST BOOK

Not long afterwards, old M. de Galais took to his bed in the house full of sad memories, where women spent the day rocking and soothing a small ailing baby. He passed away peacefully in the first severe weather, and I found it hard to keep back my tears at the bedside of this charming old man whose kindly indulgence and fantastic whims, joined to those of his son, had caused our whole adventure. He fortunately died in complete oblivion of all that had happened, and indeed in almost absolute silence. As for a long time he had had neither relatives nor friends in this part of France, he chose me for his sole legatee until the return of Meaulnes to whom I was to account for everything, if he ever came back.... And so I lived henceforth at the Sand Pit. I no longer went to Saint-Benoist except for school, starting early in the morning, eating at midday a lunch prepared at the estate, which I warmed up on my stove, and coming back in the evening after ‘private study.’ I was thus able to keep by my side the child whom the maids from the farm tended. Above all I added to my chance of not missing Meaulnes if ever one day he returned to the Sand Pit.

Besides, I had not lost hope of finding at last, in a piece of furniture or a drawer at the house, some paper, some indication, which would convey intelligence of his movements during his long silence of the previous years--and perhaps thus I might be able to grasp the reason of his flight or at all events to find some trace of him.... I had already searched in vain through innumerable closets and cupboards; I had opened in the storerooms quantities of boxes of all shapes, which I found full of bundles of old letters and yellowish photographs of the Galais family, or else overflowing with various millinery trimmings: flowers, aigrettes, feathers, and old-fashioned birds. Out of these boxes came a strange faint perfume, the scent of faded things, which would suddenly awaken in me, for the whole day, memories and regrets, and stop my search....

At last, one day home from school, I unearthed in the attic a small old-fashioned trunk, very low and long in shape, covered with pig-hide half eaten through, which I recognised as Augustin’s school trunk. I upbraided myself for not having begun my search there. I easily forced the rusted lock. The trunk was crammed full of books and exercise-books from Sainte-Agathe. Arithmetics, studies in literature, sum-books, goodness knows what!... Greatly moved rather than curious, I began to rummage amongst all this, reading over again the dictations I still knew by heart, as we had recopied them so many times: ‘The Aqueduct,’ by Rousseau; ‘An Adventure in Calabria,’ by P. L. Courier; ‘A Letter of George Sand to her Son.’

There was also a ‘Composition Test Book.’ This surprised me a little, as such books usually remained at school, the pupils never taking them home. It was a green exercise-book, faded at the edges. The name of the pupil, Augustin Meaulnes, was written on the cover in a beautiful round hand. I opened it. By the date of the tests, April, 189.. I realized that Meaulnes had started it only a few days before leaving Sainte-Agathe. The first pages were kept with religious care, as was the rule when one set work down in the composition book. But there were only three pages written, the others were blank, and this explained why Meaulnes had taken it away.

I was there on my knees, brooding over these practices and petty rules which had loomed so large during our youth, while my thumb skimmed the pages of the unfinished book causing them to open. And it was thus I discovered writing on other sheets. After four blank pages it started again.

It was still Meaulnes’ writing, but a hurried hand, ill-shaped, scarcely legible, forming small, unequal paragraphs separated by blank lines. In places there was only an unfinished sentence. Sometimes a date. From the first line I came to the conclusion that there might be information concerning Meaulnes’ past life in Paris, indications of the trail I was looking for, and I went down into the dining-room to use the daylight in perusing this strange document. It was a clear rough winter day. Sometimes the bright sun would cast the shadows of the crossbars of the window on the white curtains, then a sudden squall would throw an icy shower against the panes. And it was at this window, in front of the fire, that I read these lines which explained so many things to me and of which I give here the exact copy....