Alexander
As usual that day at four o’clock Alexander brought the three-wheeled invalid carriage in which by the doctor’s orders he took his old, helpless mistress out until six o’clock every day, round to the front of Maramballe’s little house.
When he had propped the light carriage against the step at the exact spot from which he could easily help the stout old lady he returned to the house and an angry voice was heard—the hoarse voice of a former soldier—using bad language: it was the voice of the master of the house, a retired infantry captain, Joseph Maramballe.
Then followed a noise of slammed doors, upset chairs and hasty footsteps, then nothing more; shortly after Alexander appeared in the doorway holding up Mme. Maramballe with all his strength, for the walk downstairs had quite exhausted the old lady. When, after a certain amount of trouble, she had been settled in the wheeled chair, Alexander took hold of the handle at the back and started off in the direction of the riverbank.
This was their usual way of crossing the small town, through which they passed amid respectful greetings that were certainly meant for the servant as well as for the old lady, for if she was loved and looked up to by everyone, he, the old trooper with his white, patriarchal beard, was considered the model servant.
The July sun shone down into the streets with cruel violence, bathing the low houses in a light made sad by its power and crudity. Dogs were asleep on the pavement in the line of shadow thrown by the walls, and Alexander, rather out of breath, hurried to reach the avenue that led to the bank of the river, as quickly as possible.
Mme. Maramballe dozed under her white parasol, the point of which swayed to and fro against the man’s impassive face.
As they reached the avenue of limes, whose shade thoroughly woke her up, she said good-naturedly:
“Not so fast, my good fellow, you will kill yourself in this heat.”
It never occurred to the kindhearted woman, in her candid selfishness, that she now wanted to go slower because she had reached the shelter of the leaves.
Near the road over which the old limes formed an arch, the winding Navette flowed between two willow-hedges. The wish-wash of the eddies, of water splashing over the rocks and of the sudden twists of the current, cast over the promenade a low song of moving water mingling with the freshness of the moisture-laden air.
After a rest, enjoying the green, cool charm of the place for some time, Mme. Maramballe said:
“Now I feel better. He certainly did not get out of the right side of the bed this morning.”
Alexander replied:
“Oh, no, madame.”
He had been in their service for thirty-five years, first as officer’s orderly, then as an ordinary valet unwilling to leave his master; now for six years he had been wheeling his mistress through the narrow roads round the town.
This long, devoted service followed by daily companionship had established a certain familiarity between the old lady and the old servant, affectionate on her part and deferential on his.
They discussed household affairs as between equals. Their chief subject of conversation and of anxiety was the captain’s bad temper, embittered by a long career that had opened brilliantly, run its course without promotion, and ended without glory.
Mme. Maramballe resumed the conversation:
“As for having bad manners, he certainly has. He forgets himself much too often since he left the army.”
With a sigh Alexander completed his mistress’s thought:
“Oh! Madame may say that he forgets himself every day and that he did even before he left the army.”
“That is true. But he has had no luck, the poor man. He started by an act of bravery for which he was decorated when only twenty, then from the age of twenty to that of fifty he never rose higher than the rank of captain, although at the start he had counted on being at least a colonel when he retired.”
“After all, Madame may say it is his own fault. Had he not always been about as gentle as a riding-whip, his superiors would have liked him better and used their influence in his favour. It’s no good being hard on others, you must please people if you want to get on.
“That he should treat us like that, well, that is our own fault because it suits us to stay with him, but it is a different matter for others.”
Mme. Maramballe was thinking things over. Every day for years and years she had thought about the brutality of the man she married long ago because he was a fine-looking officer who had been decorated in his youth, and had a brilliant future, so everyone said. What mistakes one can make in life!
She said gently:
“Let us stop awhile, my poor Alexander, you must have a rest on your seat.”
The seat was a small one, partly rotted away, placed at the turning of the avenue for the use of Sunday visitors. When they came this way Alexander always had a short rest on the seat.
He sat down, holding his fine, white, fan-shaped beard in his hands with a simple gesture full of pride; he grasped it tightly, then slid his closed fingers down to the bottom, which he held over the pit of his stomach for a few minutes, as if he wanted to fasten it there, and show off the great length of his growth.
Mme. Maramballe resumed:
“As for me, I married him: it is only just and natural that I should bear with his unkindness, but what I cannot understand is that you put up with it too, my good Alexander!”
He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders, saying:
“Oh, me … madame.”
She added:
“It is a fact. I have often thought about it. You were his orderly when I married and could hardly do otherwise than put up with him. But since then, why have you stayed with us who pay so little and treat you so badly, when you might have done like others, settled down, married, had children, founded a family?”
He repeated:
“Oh, me, madame, that’s another question.” He stopped and began to pull his beard as if it were a bell ringing inside him, as if he wanted to pull it off; the scared look in his eyes showed his embarrassment.
Mme. Maramballe followed her own line of thought:
“You are not a peasant. You have been educated …”
He interrupted her with pride:
“I studied to be a land-surveyor.”
“Then why did you stay on with us, spoiling your life?”
He stammered:
“Why! Why! It is a natural weakness of mine.”
“What do you mean, a natural weakness?”
“Yes, when I attach myself to anyone, I attach myself, that’s the end of it.”
She laughed.
“Come, you are not going to make me believe that Maramballe’s kindness and gentleness have attached you to him for life.”
Alexander moved restlessly about on the seat, visibly at a loss, and mumbled into his long moustache:
“It is not he, it is you!”
The old lady, whose sweet face was crowned by a snow-white ridge of curly hair that shone like swan’s feathers, carefully put into curl-papers every day, gave a start and looked at her servant with surprise in her eyes.
“Me, my poor Alexander. But how?”
He looked up into the air first, then to one side, then into the distance, turning his head about as shy men do when forced to admit some shameful secret. Then with the courage of a soldier ordered into the firing line, he said:
“It’s quite simple. The first time I took a letter from the Lieutenant to Mademoiselle, and Mademoiselle with a smile gave me a franc, that settled the matter.”
Not understanding, she insisted:
“Come, come, explain yourself.”
Overcome by the terror of the criminal who knows that all is over when he confesses a crime, Alexander blurted out:
“I felt drawn towards Madame. There!”
She made no reply and did not look at him, while she turned this over in her mind. She was kind, straightforward, gentle, reasonable, and full of good feeling.
In a second she realized the great devotion of the unfortunate man who had given up everything to live near her, without saying a word. She wanted to cry.
“Let us go back,” she said, looking serious, but with no feeling of anger.
He got up, walked round to the back of the wheeled chair and began to push it. As they approached the village they saw Captain Maramballe in the middle of the road, coming towards them.
As soon as he had joined them he said to his wife, obviously anxious to pick a quarrel:
“What is there for dinner?”
“A chicken and flageolets.”
He shouted indignantly:
“Chicken, chicken again, always chicken, damn it! I have had enough, I have, of your chickens. Can’t you think of anything else, must you always give me the same thing to eat every day?”
Resignedly, she replied:
“But, my darling, you know the doctor ordered it. It is the best thing for your digestion. There are lots of things I dare not give you that you should have if you did not suffer from indigestion.”
Exasperated, he stood right in front of Alexander:
“If I am ill it is this brute’s fault. For thirty-five years he has been poisoning me with his filthy cooking.”
Mme. Maramballe turned her head round quickly to look at the old servant. Their eyes met in a glance which contained their mutual thanks.