others too, and there was little point in sifting the ashes anymore. But she told me, all the same: at the end of an afternoon, in front of the small house to which she’d retired, with other widows like herself. Solemn had been run over in ’23 by a cart he hadn’t heard coming. Barbe found her consolation in chatter and brandied cherries, which she’d hauled off from the château by the jarful.
“We found him changed right away, as soon as the girl settled into the house. He began strolling in the park like a big sick bumblebee drawn to the only flower around. He’d walk in circles, in rain and snow and the fiercest wind. Mind you, he’d hardly ever stuck a toe outside before. When he came back from V he would shut himself in his office or in the library. I would bring him a glass of water on a tray—never anything else—and then he would dine at seven o’clock sharp. That was his day, without fail.
“When the teacher moved in, things got a bit irregular. He would come back earlier from court for his walk in the park. He would sit on the bench for long stretches, reading or looking at the trees. And often I might find him at the window, staring out at nothing like a old woman. But his loss of appetite, that was the most alarming. He’d never been a big eater, but now he hardly touched a thing before waving his hand at me to come take it all away. You know, you can’t live just on water and air! One of these days, I said to myself, we’ll find him on the floor, in his bedroom or somewhere else!
“Thank goodness it never happened. His face just got more and more drawn, especially his cheeks, and his lips, which were hardly there to begin with, got even thinner, like two loose threads. Everything changed. He’d always been early to bed. Now throughout the night I would hear footsteps, slow footsteps from the upper floors, then long silences, only for the slow steps to begin again. I have no idea what on earth he could’ve been doing— brooding, dreaming, who knows?
“On Sundays he would always manage to cross the girl’s path as she was going out. It was always as if by chance, but I saw him not a few times, waiting like a patient cat to pounce. As for her, if she understood what was going on, she certainly didn’t let on. She would give him a big hello, clear and hearty, and then be on her way. He would answer, but almost under his breath, with his voice pathetically trailing after her. And of course when she was gone he’d stand there pondering endlessly, as if it were the scene of a crime and he was looking for—who knows what?—a clue maybe, before he’d give up and come inside.”
Barbe seemed to relish chatting about the prosecutor and Lysia Verhareine. Anyway, she went on a good long while. The evening was falling around us, with its noises of animals being stabled and shutters banged shut. I imagined the prosecutor walking on the paths in the park, heading for the waters of the Guérlante, scanning the windows of the little house where the young teacher lived. That a man who was so near the end of his days should get his feet caught in the nets of love was nothing new. That story’s as old as the world. In such cases, all the proprieties go out the window. The absurdity is evident only to others, who just don’t understand. Even Destinat, with his face of marble and his hands of ice, had fallen prey to the unexpected appearance of beauty and the uncontrollable pounding of the heart. In the end, I suppose, that quite simply had made him human.
Barbe said that one evening there had been a grand repast. Destinat had bidden her to get out all the silver, to press the linen napkins and embroidered tablecloths perfectly. Fifty guests? No. Just the young teacher and himself. The two of them alone, at either end of the enormous table. It wasn’t Barbe who did the cooking, it was Bourrache, summoned specially from the Rébillon; and Morning Glory served them at table, as Barbe sat brooding by
“We found him changed right away, as soon as the girl settled into the house. He began strolling in the park like a big sick bumblebee drawn to the only flower around. He’d walk in circles, in rain and snow and the fiercest wind. Mind you, he’d hardly ever stuck a toe outside before. When he came back from V he would shut himself in his office or in the library. I would bring him a glass of water on a tray—never anything else—and then he would dine at seven o’clock sharp. That was his day, without fail.
“When the teacher moved in, things got a bit irregular. He would come back earlier from court for his walk in the park. He would sit on the bench for long stretches, reading or looking at the trees. And often I might find him at the window, staring out at nothing like a old woman. But his loss of appetite, that was the most alarming. He’d never been a big eater, but now he hardly touched a thing before waving his hand at me to come take it all away. You know, you can’t live just on water and air! One of these days, I said to myself, we’ll find him on the floor, in his bedroom or somewhere else!
“Thank goodness it never happened. His face just got more and more drawn, especially his cheeks, and his lips, which were hardly there to begin with, got even thinner, like two loose threads. Everything changed. He’d always been early to bed. Now throughout the night I would hear footsteps, slow footsteps from the upper floors, then long silences, only for the slow steps to begin again. I have no idea what on earth he could’ve been doing— brooding, dreaming, who knows?
“On Sundays he would always manage to cross the girl’s path as she was going out. It was always as if by chance, but I saw him not a few times, waiting like a patient cat to pounce. As for her, if she understood what was going on, she certainly didn’t let on. She would give him a big hello, clear and hearty, and then be on her way. He would answer, but almost under his breath, with his voice pathetically trailing after her. And of course when she was gone he’d stand there pondering endlessly, as if it were the scene of a crime and he was looking for—who knows what?—a clue maybe, before he’d give up and come inside.”
Barbe seemed to relish chatting about the prosecutor and Lysia Verhareine. Anyway, she went on a good long while. The evening was falling around us, with its noises of animals being stabled and shutters banged shut. I imagined the prosecutor walking on the paths in the park, heading for the waters of the Guérlante, scanning the windows of the little house where the young teacher lived. That a man who was so near the end of his days should get his feet caught in the nets of love was nothing new. That story’s as old as the world. In such cases, all the proprieties go out the window. The absurdity is evident only to others, who just don’t understand. Even Destinat, with his face of marble and his hands of ice, had fallen prey to the unexpected appearance of beauty and the uncontrollable pounding of the heart. In the end, I suppose, that quite simply had made him human.
Barbe said that one evening there had been a grand repast. Destinat had bidden her to get out all the silver, to press the linen napkins and embroidered tablecloths perfectly. Fifty guests? No. Just the young teacher and himself. The two of them alone, at either end of the enormous table. It wasn’t Barbe who did the cooking, it was Bourrache, summoned specially from the Rébillon; and Morning Glory served them at table, as Barbe sat brooding by
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