The Hurlyburly's Husband by Jean Teulé

either side, the heavy pockets of his greatcoat pulled him towards the bottom. He plunged his head underwater and tore at the seams of his coat. He watched wearily as the heavy bracelets sank straight down, with sets of diamonds and necklaces of precious stones gliding away like snakes. Broken strands of pearls hovered, and their little white globes escaped from the string. They scattered, shone and disappeared into the black water.
    Finally he saw a meadow in the distance, where the last buttercups, the last daisies begged the day for mercy. He washed up on the beach, like a jellyfish. With one cheek in the sand, his lips blew bubbles, a rosary of love: ‘Athénaïs …’
    He returned to France: the war had brought no glory to his name. Once again, Montespan had come back covered not in honour but in shame and debt. His head wound in rags, he arrived on foot, and only in his shirt, at Rue Taranne. He climbed the steps, and opened the door to the kitchen. Athénaïs was sitting in a tub, taking a bath. She stood up, clutching a towel to her, then, on recognising her husband, she dropped the towel in the water. Louis-Henri looked at her round belly and gaped.

7.
    ‘A girl, and now a boy: ’tis what is called “the King’s choice”!’
    Constance Abraham, the wigmaker’s wife on Rue Taranne, waxed ecstatic as she gazed at the sleeping infant before picking him up. ‘Ah, praise be to God, is he not lovely, this little Louis-Antoine with his fair white skin. He is the image of his mother!’
    But Athénaïs, standing next to her in the shop, was wringing her hands whilst Marie-Christine, now two years of age, tugged at her mother’s skirt. Athénaïs pushed her away: ‘Leave me alone.’
    Louis-Henri de Pardaillan was sitting in a tall armchair being shaved. He looked at his wife.
    ‘Are you all right, Athénaïs?’
    The marquise was not all right. She felt oppressed, had difficulty breathing, and had sudden violent urges to weep. The kindly, plump wigmaker’s wife thought she understood her malaise.
    ‘Don’t worry, my dear, this must be a post partum reaction; ’tis quite frequent. I had the same, did I not, after my son’s birth. Do you recall, Joseph?’
    ‘I do!’ exclaimed the wigmaker, trying a new wig on Montespan’s scalp. ‘Dear me, you became so sensitive that the slightest vexation, sometimes even a compliment, brought on a fit of tears or anger. You lost your appetite, you couldn’t sleep, and you were so distracted I wondered if you were not thinking about someone else.’
    ‘Boo-hoo!’
    The fair marquise burst into tears. Her husband lifted the towel from his lap to wipe the shaving cream from his face. He pushed the copper basin in front of him away and got to his feet.
    ‘Athénaïs!’
    He embraced his wife whilst their little girl clung to her, saying, ‘Maman, Maman.’
    ‘Do stop pulling on my skirt, you’ll tear it! Oh!’
    Athénaïs wept profusely, knelt down and immediately apologised to the little girl. ‘Forgive me, Marie-Christine. I am not a proper sort of mother. I have no maternal instinct…’
    ‘But you do!’ protested Constance Abraham loudly, waking the infant still in her arms, who began to cry. ‘Have no fear, my sweet, a post partum depression never lasts very long. In the space of a few hours or a few days you will once again feel like the happiest of mothers. And you will want many more children.’
    ‘Particularly as you are fearsome fertile; your powder ignites easily,’ said the wigmaker. ‘Whenever your husband returns from the army, he finds you with child.’
    Constance rocked Louis-Antoine, who continued to wail.
    ‘The only question one must ask is, after the first child who so resembles her father, and the second child who so resembles his mother, who will the third child resemble?’
    ‘Boo-hoo!’
    The marquise stood up, shaken by violent spasms; she was in an extraordinary state of sadness and anxiety. Leaning over the railing of the