that no one understood very well.
The morning he left, Hervé Joncour, along with Hélène, accompanied him to the train station at Avignon. He had with him a single suitcase, and this, too, was rather inexplicable. When he saw the train, halted on the track, he put the suitcase down.
‘Once I knew someone who had a railroad built all for himself.’
He said.
‘And the point of it is that he had it made completely straight, hundreds of miles without a curve. There was also a reason, but I don’t remember it. One never remembers the reasons. Anyway: goodbye.’
He wasn’t much cut out for serious conversations. And a goodbye is a serious conversation.
They saw him growing distant, him and his suitcase, forever.
Then Hélène did something strange. She separated from Hervé Joncour and ran after him, until she reached him, and hugged him, hard, and as she embraced him she burst into tears.
She never wept, Hélène.
Hervé Joncour sold the two silk mills at a ridiculous price to Michel Lariot, a good fellow who had played dominoes, every Saturday evening, with Baldabiou, always losing, with granite-like consistency. He had three daughters. The first two were called Florence and Sylvie. But the third: Agnes.
62.
T HREE years later, in the winter of 1874, Hélène became ill with a brain fever that no doctor could understand, or cure. She died in early March, on a rainy day.
Accompanying her, in silence, on the road to the cemetery, was all Lavilledieu: because she was a happy woman, who had not spread sorrow.
Hervé Joncour had a single word carved on her tombstone:
Hélas .
He thanked everyone, said a thousand times that he needed nothing, and returned to his house. Never had it seemed so large: and never so illogical his fate.
Because despair was an excess that did not belong to him, he submitted to what was left of his life, and began again to look after it, with the unyielding tenacity of a gardener at work the morning after the storm.
64.
A T 12 Rue Moscat he found a tailor’s shop. He was told that Madame Blanche hadn’t lived there for years. He managed to find out that she had moved to Paris, where she had become the kept woman of a very important man, perhaps a politician.
Hervé Joncour went to Paris.
It took him six days to find out where she lived. He sent her a note, asking to be received. She answered that she would expect him at four o’clock the next day. Punctually he went up to the second floor of a handsome building on the Boulevard des Capucines. A servant opened the door. She led him to the drawing room and asked him to sit down. Madame Blanche came in wearing a dress that was very stylish and very French. Her hair came down over her shoulders, in the Parisian fashion. She didn’t have rings of blue flowers on her fingers. She sat down opposite Hervé Joncour, without a word. And waited.
He looked her in the eyes. But the way a child would have.
‘You wrote that letter, right?’
He said.
‘Hélène asked you to write it and you did.’
Madame Blanche didn’t move; she didn’t lower her gaze or betray the least astonishment.
Then what she said was
‘It wasn’t I who wrote it.’
Silence.
‘Hélène wrote that letter.’
Silence.
‘She had already written it when she came to me. She asked me to copy it, in Japanese. And I did. That is the truth.’
Hervé Joncour realised at that moment that he would continue to hear those words all his life. He rose, but stood still, as if he had suddenly forgotten where he was going. The voice of Madame Blanche reached him as if from far away.
‘She also wanted to read me that letter. She had a beautiful voice. And she read the words with an emotion that I have never been able to forget. It was as if they were, truly, hers.’
Hervé Joncour was crossing the room, with very slow steps.
‘You know, monsieur , I think that she wished, more than any other thing, to be that woman . You can’t understand it. But I heard her
The morning he left, Hervé Joncour, along with Hélène, accompanied him to the train station at Avignon. He had with him a single suitcase, and this, too, was rather inexplicable. When he saw the train, halted on the track, he put the suitcase down.
‘Once I knew someone who had a railroad built all for himself.’
He said.
‘And the point of it is that he had it made completely straight, hundreds of miles without a curve. There was also a reason, but I don’t remember it. One never remembers the reasons. Anyway: goodbye.’
He wasn’t much cut out for serious conversations. And a goodbye is a serious conversation.
They saw him growing distant, him and his suitcase, forever.
Then Hélène did something strange. She separated from Hervé Joncour and ran after him, until she reached him, and hugged him, hard, and as she embraced him she burst into tears.
She never wept, Hélène.
Hervé Joncour sold the two silk mills at a ridiculous price to Michel Lariot, a good fellow who had played dominoes, every Saturday evening, with Baldabiou, always losing, with granite-like consistency. He had three daughters. The first two were called Florence and Sylvie. But the third: Agnes.
62.
T HREE years later, in the winter of 1874, Hélène became ill with a brain fever that no doctor could understand, or cure. She died in early March, on a rainy day.
Accompanying her, in silence, on the road to the cemetery, was all Lavilledieu: because she was a happy woman, who had not spread sorrow.
Hervé Joncour had a single word carved on her tombstone:
Hélas .
He thanked everyone, said a thousand times that he needed nothing, and returned to his house. Never had it seemed so large: and never so illogical his fate.
Because despair was an excess that did not belong to him, he submitted to what was left of his life, and began again to look after it, with the unyielding tenacity of a gardener at work the morning after the storm.
64.
A T 12 Rue Moscat he found a tailor’s shop. He was told that Madame Blanche hadn’t lived there for years. He managed to find out that she had moved to Paris, where she had become the kept woman of a very important man, perhaps a politician.
Hervé Joncour went to Paris.
It took him six days to find out where she lived. He sent her a note, asking to be received. She answered that she would expect him at four o’clock the next day. Punctually he went up to the second floor of a handsome building on the Boulevard des Capucines. A servant opened the door. She led him to the drawing room and asked him to sit down. Madame Blanche came in wearing a dress that was very stylish and very French. Her hair came down over her shoulders, in the Parisian fashion. She didn’t have rings of blue flowers on her fingers. She sat down opposite Hervé Joncour, without a word. And waited.
He looked her in the eyes. But the way a child would have.
‘You wrote that letter, right?’
He said.
‘Hélène asked you to write it and you did.’
Madame Blanche didn’t move; she didn’t lower her gaze or betray the least astonishment.
Then what she said was
‘It wasn’t I who wrote it.’
Silence.
‘Hélène wrote that letter.’
Silence.
‘She had already written it when she came to me. She asked me to copy it, in Japanese. And I did. That is the truth.’
Hervé Joncour realised at that moment that he would continue to hear those words all his life. He rose, but stood still, as if he had suddenly forgotten where he was going. The voice of Madame Blanche reached him as if from far away.
‘She also wanted to read me that letter. She had a beautiful voice. And she read the words with an emotion that I have never been able to forget. It was as if they were, truly, hers.’
Hervé Joncour was crossing the room, with very slow steps.
‘You know, monsieur , I think that she wished, more than any other thing, to be that woman . You can’t understand it. But I heard her
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