the pantry. Solemn, recognizing his uselessness, had trundled off to bed long before. The meal went on till midnight. Barbe strained to discover what on earth they were talking about; she needn’t have. Morning Glory told her. “They’re just looking at each other; all they do is look.” Barbe had learned nothing. She began knocking back little glasses of brandy with Bourrache, who ended up waking her toward morning, her head on the kitchen table. At least Bourrache had done all the tidying up, put everything away. He left carrying his daughter in his arms, wrapped in a blanket, sleeping like a baby.
As the night was sidling up to us, the old servant fell silent. She covered her hair with her scarf. The two of us lingered there in the dark for quite a while, saying nothing. Then, suddenly remembering, she dug into the pockets of her old blouse. Shooting stars cut through the sky, aimless and grotesque—fodder for omens, for those who need them—and then everything was quiet. What shone kept shining; what was dark grew even darker.
“Here,” Barbe said. “Maybe you’ll know what to do with this.”
She handed me a large key.
“Nothing’s changed since I stopped going there. His only heir is a little cousin on his wife’s side—so little we’ve never seen him. The notary says he left for America. I’d be surprised if he ever came back, and it would take forever to track him down As for me, I won’t be around much longer . . . so you’d be the caretaker, in a way.”
Barbe got up slowly, closed my hand around the key, and then went back into her house, without another word. I put the key to the château in my pocket and headed off.
I never had another occasion to speak with Barbe. Even so, the urge came over me often, a bit like a case of scabies that hasn’t entirely healed, a strangely pleasant feeling even though it itches. But I told myself I still had time. That’s why people are so full of bull; we’re always telling ourselves there’s plenty of time—we’ll be able to do this or that tomorrow, three days from now, next year, in two hours—but then everything dies. We find ourselves following coffins.
I looked at Barbe’s the day of her burial as though I could find some answers there, but it was nothing more than well-buffed wood, around which the priest was wafting Latin and puffs of incense. On the way to the cemetery with the meager, bleating flock, I even wondered whether she hadn’t been pulling my leg, that Barbe, with her tales of grand meals and Destinat playing the lover. But in the end it didn’t matter. The brandied cherries had sealed her fate. Maybe she was going to find whole cases of them up there, between two clouds.
I still had the key in my pocket, ever since the evening six months earlier when she’d given it to me, though I’d never used it. The shovelfuls of earth put me back on track. The grave was soon filled, and Barbe was reunited with her Solemn, for a heap of eternity. The priest went off with his two choirboys, their little country clogs clacking in the mud. His flock dispersed like starlings in a field of green wheat. As for me, I visited Clémence’s grave, kicking myself a bit for not going more often.
The sun, the rain, and the years have all but effaced the photograph I had mounted on her tombstone, in a porcelain medallion. All that remains is the shadow of her hair. I can also make out the outline of her smile, as if she were gazing at me through a veil of gauze. I rested my hand on the gilded letters of her name, and after a while I departed, having told her in my head all these tales of my life—the life I’ve led without her for all these years. She must know them by heart now; I’ve trotted them out often enough.
It was on that day, after Barbe’s burial, that I made up my mind to go to the château, to delve a bit further, you might say, into the mystery of which I was now one of the few surviving witnesses. Yes, that was the day I pulled
As the night was sidling up to us, the old servant fell silent. She covered her hair with her scarf. The two of us lingered there in the dark for quite a while, saying nothing. Then, suddenly remembering, she dug into the pockets of her old blouse. Shooting stars cut through the sky, aimless and grotesque—fodder for omens, for those who need them—and then everything was quiet. What shone kept shining; what was dark grew even darker.
“Here,” Barbe said. “Maybe you’ll know what to do with this.”
She handed me a large key.
“Nothing’s changed since I stopped going there. His only heir is a little cousin on his wife’s side—so little we’ve never seen him. The notary says he left for America. I’d be surprised if he ever came back, and it would take forever to track him down As for me, I won’t be around much longer . . . so you’d be the caretaker, in a way.”
Barbe got up slowly, closed my hand around the key, and then went back into her house, without another word. I put the key to the château in my pocket and headed off.
I never had another occasion to speak with Barbe. Even so, the urge came over me often, a bit like a case of scabies that hasn’t entirely healed, a strangely pleasant feeling even though it itches. But I told myself I still had time. That’s why people are so full of bull; we’re always telling ourselves there’s plenty of time—we’ll be able to do this or that tomorrow, three days from now, next year, in two hours—but then everything dies. We find ourselves following coffins.
I looked at Barbe’s the day of her burial as though I could find some answers there, but it was nothing more than well-buffed wood, around which the priest was wafting Latin and puffs of incense. On the way to the cemetery with the meager, bleating flock, I even wondered whether she hadn’t been pulling my leg, that Barbe, with her tales of grand meals and Destinat playing the lover. But in the end it didn’t matter. The brandied cherries had sealed her fate. Maybe she was going to find whole cases of them up there, between two clouds.
I still had the key in my pocket, ever since the evening six months earlier when she’d given it to me, though I’d never used it. The shovelfuls of earth put me back on track. The grave was soon filled, and Barbe was reunited with her Solemn, for a heap of eternity. The priest went off with his two choirboys, their little country clogs clacking in the mud. His flock dispersed like starlings in a field of green wheat. As for me, I visited Clémence’s grave, kicking myself a bit for not going more often.
The sun, the rain, and the years have all but effaced the photograph I had mounted on her tombstone, in a porcelain medallion. All that remains is the shadow of her hair. I can also make out the outline of her smile, as if she were gazing at me through a veil of gauze. I rested my hand on the gilded letters of her name, and after a while I departed, having told her in my head all these tales of my life—the life I’ve led without her for all these years. She must know them by heart now; I’ve trotted them out often enough.
It was on that day, after Barbe’s burial, that I made up my mind to go to the château, to delve a bit further, you might say, into the mystery of which I was now one of the few surviving witnesses. Yes, that was the day I pulled
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