I HAUNTED A BASKET-MAKER’S SHOP

Rain had fallen all day; it did not stop till evening. The day had been deadly tedious. No one went out at recreation, and all the time M. Seurel could be heard calling to the form: ‘Don’t make such a row, boys!’

After the last recreation of the day or, as we called it, the last ‘quarter,’ M. Seurel, who for a while had been walking to and fro lost in thought, suddenly stopped, banged vigorously on the table with a ruler to put an end to the confused buzz with which the last hour of a boring day ends, and, in the attentive silence, asked:

‘Who will drive to the station to-morrow with François to fetch Monsieur and Madame Charpentier?’

These were my grandparents; Grandfather Charpentier with his grey woollen burnous; an old man, a retired gamekeeper wearing a rabbit fur bonnet which he called his képi.... Little boys knew him well. In the morning, to wash himself, he would draw a pail of water and slosh his face in the manner of old troopers, vaguely rubbing his small pointed beard. A group of children, hands behind backs, watched him with respectful curiosity.... They also knew Grandma Charpentier, the small peasant woman and her knitted cap--as Millie never failed to bring her, at least once, into the infants’ class.

Each year, a few days before Christmas, we were in the habit of going to the station to meet the 4.2 train which brought them. To come to us they had crossed the length of the ‘département,’ dragging with them baskets full of chestnuts and other Christmas fare rolled up in napkins. The moment the two, muffled up, smiling, and rather shy, had crossed the threshold, we shut all doors on them, and a glorious week of happiness began for us all....

To drive them from the station I needed a steady fellow with me, one who would not upset us into a ditch, and yet a gay lad, too, because Grandfather Charpentier was pretty free with swear words and Grandma rather talkative.

In answer to M. Seurel’s question a dozen voices called out together: ‘Admiral Meaulnes! Admiral Meaulnes!’ But M. Seurel pretended not to hear.

Then they shouted: ‘Fromentin!’ Others: ‘Jasmin Delouche!’

The youngest, Roy, the boy who rode across the fields on a sow at full gallop, called out in a piercing voice: ‘Can I go? Can I go?’

Dutremblay and Mouchebœuf rather shyly put up their hands.

I should have liked it to be Meaulnes. This little drive, in a donkey cart, would have become a more important event. He also longed for it, but remained scornfully silent. All the big boys seated themselves, as he did, on the table, the wrong way round, feet on the bench, as we used to do in times of rest or great rejoicing. Coffin, his overall rolled up round his belt, was hugging the iron pillar which supported the beam of the classroom and, in his excitement, was beginning to climb it.

But M. Seurel damped every one by saying: ‘Good! I choose Mouchebœuf.’ And each went back to his seat silently.

* * * * *

At four o’clock, in the big icy playground, hollowed into channels by the rain, I found myself alone with Meaulnes. Without speaking, we both stood looking at the shining village drying under the squall. Soon little Coffin, wrapped in his hooded cloak and holding a piece of bread in his hand, came out of his house; walking close to the walls and whistling, he went straight for the door of the wheelwright. Meaulnes opened the big gate, hailed the boy, and a moment later the three of us were settled at the back of the hot red shop, across which icy gusts of wind swept. Coffin and I sat close to the forge fire, our muddy feet amongst the white shavings; Meaulnes, hands in pockets and silent, leaned against the leaf of the door. From time to time a village woman, stooping to brave the wind, passed by in the street on her return from the butcher, and we looked up to see who she was.

No one spoke. The blacksmith and his assistant--one blowing the bellows, the other beating the hot iron--threw big sharp shadows upon the wall.... I recall that evening as one of the great evenings of my youth. I felt both pleasure and anxiety; I was afraid my companion would deprive me of the small happiness of driving to the station, yet, without daring to own it to myself, I expected some extraordinary scheme from him which would upset everything.

From time to time the peaceful and regular work of the forge momentarily paused. The smith let his hammer fall onto the anvil in a series of clear, strong blows. He held the piece of iron on which he had been working close to his leather apron and looked at it. Then, raising his head, he said to us, by way of taking an easy breath: ‘Well, my lads! How goes it?’

His man kept his right hand high up on the chain of the bellows, put his left hand on his hip, looked at us with a smile.

Then the din of hard work began again.

During one of these pauses, we once caught sight of Millie through the swinging door, as she passed in the high wind, closely wrapped in her shawl and laden with small parcels.

The blacksmith asked: ‘I suppose Monsieur Charpentier will be coming soon?’

‘To-morrow, with Grandmother,’ said I. ‘I am going to meet the 4.2 train.’

‘In Fromentin’s cart, eh?’

I replied at once: ‘No, in Father Martin’s.’

‘Ah! then you won’t be back in a hurry!’

Both he and his man began to laugh.

His man, to say something, remarked slowly: ‘With Fromentin’s mare you could have fetched them from Vierzon. There’s an hour’s wait there. It is fifteen kilometres from here. You could have got there and back afore Martin’s donkey’s harnessed.’

‘Ah!’ said the other, ‘that mare has got some go in her!’

The conversation ended there. The forge, once again, became the place of sparks and din where each had his own thoughts.

But when the time had come to leave and I got up to attract Meaulnes’ attention, he did not notice me at first. Leaning against the door, his head bent down in deep thought, he seemed absorbed in what had just been said. Seeing him thus lost in thought, looking as though across leagues of fog at these quiet folk at their work, I was reminded suddenly of that picture in ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ where the young Englishman is seen on the eve of his great adventure ‘haunting the shop of a basket-maker.’ ...

And I have often thought of it since.