Duchoux
While descending the main staircase of the club, heated to such an extent that it felt like a hothouse, Baron Mordiane left his fur-lined overcoat open; but when the front door had closed after him, the intense cold suddenly pierced him to the marrow, making him feel thoroughly miserable. Besides that, he had been losing money, and for some time had suffered from indigestion, and could no longer eat what he fancied.
He was about to return home, when the thought of his great bare room, his footman sleeping in the anteroom, the water singing on the gas stove in his dressing-room, and the enormous bed, as old and gloomy as a deathbed, suddenly struck him with a chill even more acute than that of the frosty air.
For some years he had felt the burden of loneliness which sometimes overwhelms old bachelors. He had been strong, active and cheerful, spending his days in sport, and his evenings at social functions. Now, he was growing dull, and no longer took interest in anything. All sport tired him, suppers and even dinners made him ill, while women bored him as much as they had once amused him.
The monotony of such evenings, of the same friends met in the same place—at the club—the same card parties with their run of good and bad luck evenly balanced, the same conversation on the same topics, the same wit from the same tongues, the same jokes on the same subjects, the same scandal about the same women, all sickened him so much that there were times when he thought seriously of suicide. He could no longer face this regular, aimless and commonplace life, both frivolous and dull, and, without knowing why, he longed for peace, rest and comfort.
He had certainly never thought of marrying, he lacked the courage to face a life of depression, conjugal slavery, and that hateful coexistence of two human beings who know each other so well that every word uttered by one is anticipated by the other and every thought, wish or opinion is immediately divined. He considered that a woman was only worth attention so long as one knew very little about her, while she was still mysterious and unfathomed, vague and perplexing. Therefore what he wanted was family life without the tyranny of family ties, although he was continually haunted by the memory of his son.
For the last year he had always been thinking about him, and felt an irritating longing to see him and make his acquaintance. The affair had taken place while he was a young man, in an atmosphere of romance and affection. The child was sent to the South of France, and brought up near Marseilles, without knowing his father’s name. His father had paid for his upbringing, alike in his infancy, in his schooldays and in the activities that followed, ending up with a substantial settlement on a suitable marriage. A trustworthy lawyer had acted as intermediary without giving away the secret.
Baron Mordiane, then, only knew that a child of his was living somewhere near Marseilles, that he had a reputation for being intelligent and well educated, and that he had married the daughter of an architect and surveyor, whom he succeeded in the business. He was also said to be making money.
Why should he not go and see this unknown son, without disclosing his identity, in order to study him at first hand and see whether, in case of need, he might find a welcome refuge in his home?
He had always treated him liberally, and had made a generous settlement, which had been gratefully received. He was therefore sure of not coming into conflict with an unreasonable pride, and the idea of leaving for the South had now become an oft-recurring desire which was making him restless. He was also urged by a curious feeling of self-pity, at the thought of that cheerful and comfortable home on the coast where he would find his charming young daughter-in-law, his grandchildren ready to welcome him, and his son; all this would remind him of that brief and happy love affair so many years ago. His only regret was his past generosity, which had assisted the young man on the road to prosperity, and would prevent him from appearing amongst them as a benefactor. With these thoughts running through his mind he walked along, his head buried deep in his fur collar: his decision was quickly made. Hailing a passing cab, he drove home, and said to his valet, aroused from his sleep to open the door:
“Louis, we are leaving for Marseilles tomorrow evening. We shall be there perhaps a fortnight. Make all preparations for the journey.”
The train sped along the sandy banks of the Rhône, then over yellow plains and through village—a country with gaunt encircling mountains in the distance.
Baron Mordiane, awakened after a night in the sleeping-car, gloomily contemplated his reflection in the little mirror in his dressing-case. The crude light of the South showed up wrinkles he had never seen before, and revealed a state of decrepitude that had passed unnoticed in the shaded light of Parisian flats. Looking at the corners of his eyes, the wrinkled eyelids, bald temples and forehead, he said to himself:
“Good heavens, I am worse than faded: I look worn out!”
His desire for peace suddenly increased, and for the first time in his life, he was conscious of a vague longing to take his grandchildren on his knee.
He hired a carriage in Marseilles and about one o’clock in the afternoon he stopped before a dazzling white country-house typical of the South of France, standing at the end of an avenue of plane-trees. He beamed with pleasure as he went along the avenue and said to himself:
“It’s damned nice.”
Suddenly a youngster of about five or six rushed from behind the shrubs and stood motionless at the end of the drive, gazing round-eyed at the visitor. Mordiane approached and said to him:
“Good afternoon, my boy!”
The youngster made no reply.
The baron then stooped and picked him up to kiss him, but so strong was the odour of garlic coming from the child that he quickly put him down again, murmuring: “Oh! he must be the gardener’s son.” And he went on toward the house.
On a line in front of the door, the washing was drying, shirts, napkins, towels, aprons and sheets, while a display of socks hanging in rows on strings one above another filled the whole of a window, like the tiers of sausages in front of a pork-butcher’s shop.
The baron called out, and a servant appeared, truly Southern in her dirty and unkempt state, with wisps of hair straggling across her face. Her well-stained skirt still retained some of its original gaudiness, suggesting a country fair or a mountebank’s costume.
“Is M. Duchoux at home?” he inquired.
In giving this name to the unwanted child many years ago, he had indulged his sense of humour at its expense.
“You want M. Duchoux?” the servant repeated.
“Yes.”
“He is in the parlour, drawing plans.”
“Tell him that M. Merlin wishes to see him.”
She replied in surprise: “Oh! come in, if you wish him,” and shouted:
“M. Duchoux, a visitor to see you!”
The baron entered a large room darkened by half-closed shutters, and received a vague impression of dirt and disorder.
A short, bald-headed man, standing at an overcrowded table, was tracing lines on a large sheet of paper. He stopped his work and came forward.
His open waistcoat, slackened trousers and rolled-up shirtsleeves showed how hot it was, and the muddy shoes that he was wearing pointed to recent rain.
“To whom have I the honour? …” he asked, with a strong Southern accent.
“I am M. Merlin. I have come to consult you about some building land.”
“Ah! yes. Certainly.”
And turning towards his wife, who was knitting in the darkened room, Duchoux said:
“Clear one of the chairs, Joséphine.”
Mordiane saw a young woman, already showing signs of age, as do most provincial women of twenty-five, for want of attention and regular cleanliness, in fact of all those precautions which form part of a woman’s toilet, helping to preserve her youthful appearance, her charm and beauty up to the age of fifty. A neckerchief hung over her shoulders, and her hair, which was beautifully thick and black, but twisted up in a slipshod fashion, looked as though it was seldom brushed. With her roughened hands she removed a child’s dress, a knife, a piece of string, an empty flowerpot and a greasy plate from a chair, and offered it to the visitor.
He sat down, and then noticed that on the table at which Duchoux had been working, in addition to his books and papers, there were two freshly cut lettuces, a basin, a hairbrush, a napkin, a revolver, and several dirty cups.
The architect saw him glance at these, and smilingly remarked: “I am sorry that the room is rather untidy; that is the children’s fault,” and he drew up his chair to talk to his client.
“You are looking for a piece of land in the neighbourhood of Marseilles?”
Although he was at some distance away the baron smelt the odour of garlic which people of the South exhale as flowers do their perfume.
“Was that your son I met under the plane-trees?” Mordiane inquired.
“Yes, the second.”
“You have two sons, then?”
“Three, sir, one a year,” replied Duchoux, evidently full of pride.
The baron thought that if they all had the same perfume, their nursery must be like a real conservatory. He resumed:
“Yes, I would like a nice piece of ground near the sea, on a secluded beach. …”
Then Duchoux began to explain. He had ten, twenty, fifty, a hundred and more plots of land of that kind, at all prices and to suit all tastes. The words came in a torrent as he smiled and wagged his round bald head in his satisfaction.
Meanwhile the baron remembered a little woman, slight, fair and rather sad, who used to say with such yearning: “My own beloved,” that the memory alone made his blood run hot in his veins. She had loved him passionately, madly, for three months; then becoming pregnant in the absence of her husband, who was Governor of a colony, she had fled into hiding, distracted by fear and despair, until the birth of the child, whom Mordiane carried off one summer evening and whom they had never seen again.
She died of consumption three years later, in the colony where she had gone to rejoin her husband. It was their son who sat beside him now, who was saying with a metallic ring in his voice:
“As for this plot, sir, it is a unique opportunity …”
And Mordiane remembered the other voice, light as a zephyr, murmuring:
“My own beloved; we shall never part. …” The memory of the gentle, blue, devoted look in those eyes came back to him as he watched the round blue but vacant eyes of this ridiculous little man who was so like his mother, and yet. …
Yes, he looked more and more like her every minute; his intonation, his demeanour, his actions were the same; he resembled her as a monkey resembles a man; but he was of her blood, he had many of her little habits, though distorted, irritating and revolting. The baron was in an agony of fear, haunted suddenly by that terrible, still-growing resemblance, which enraged, maddened and tortured him like a nightmare, or like bitter remorse.
“When can we look at this land together?” he stammered.
“Why, tomorrow, if you like.”
“Yes, tomorrow. What time?”
“At one o’clock.”
“That will be all right.”
The child he had met in the avenue appeared in the door and cried:
“Father!”
No one answered him.
Mordiane stood up trembling with an intense longing to escape. That word “father” had struck him like a bullet. He was sure that this cry of “father” that reeked of garlic, that was full of the South, was meant for him. Oh! how good had been the perfume of his sweetheart of bygone days!
As Duchoux was showing him out, the baron said to him:
“Is this house yours?”
“Yes, sir, I bought it recently, and I am proud of it. I am fortune’s child, sir, and I make no secret of it; I am proud of it. I owe nothing to anyone; I am the child of my own efforts, and I owe everything to myself.”
The child, who had stayed on the doorstep, again cried: “Father!” the voice coming from a greater distance.
Mordiane, shivering with fear, seized with panic, fled as one does from a great danger. “He will guess who I am,” he thought to himself, “he will hug me in his arms and call me ‘Father’ and give me a kiss reeking of garlic.”
“I shall see you tomorrow, sir.”
“Tomorrow, at one o’clock.”
The carriage rumbled along the white road.
“Driver, take me to the station,” he shouted, while two voices seemed to ring in his ears. One of them, far away and sweet, the faint, sad voice of the dead, was saying: “My own beloved”; the other, a metallic, shrill, repellent voice, crying: “Father!” much as one shouts: “Stop him!” when a thief is in flight.
As he came into the club the next evening, Count d’Étreillis said to him:
“We have not seen you for three days. Have you been ill?”
“Yes, I have not been very well. I suffer from headaches occasionally …”