I should like to die now, quickly, before again realising that I am
alone.
* * * * *
* * * * *
I saw Juliette again last year. More than ten years had gone by since
her last letter, in which she had told me of Alissa’s death. A journey
to Provence gave me an opportunity of stopping at Nîmes. The Teissières
occupy an important house in the Avenue de Feuchères, in a noisy
and central part of the town. Although I had written to announce my
arrival, it was with considerable emotion that I crossed the threshold.
A maidservant showed me into the drawing-room, where Juliette joined
me in a few minutes. I thought I saw Aunt Plantier--the same gait,
the same stoutness, the same breathless hospitality. She immediately
began plying me with questions (without waiting for my answers) as
to my career, my manner of living in Paris, my occupations, my
acquaintances; what was my business in the South? Why shouldn’t I go on
to Aigues-Vives, where Edouard would be so happy to see me?... Then she
gave me news of all the family, talked of her husband, her children,
her brother, of the last vintage, of the fall prices.... I learnt that
Robert had sold Fongueusemare in order to live at Aigues-Vives; that he
was now Edouard’s partner, which left her husband free to travel, and
in particular to look after the commercial side of the business, whilst
Robert stayed on the land, improving and increasing the plantations.
In the meantime I was uneasily looking round for anything that
might recall the past. I recognised, indeed, amongst the otherwise
new furniture of the drawing-room, certain pieces that came from
Fongueusemare; but of the past which was quivering within me, Juliette
now seemed to be oblivious, or else to be endeavouring to distract our
thoughts from it.
Two boys of twelve and thirteen were playing on the stairs; she called
them in to introduce them to me. Lise, the eldest of her children, had
gone with her father to Aigues-Vives. Another boy of ten was expected
in from his walk; it was he whose advent Juliette had told me of in
the same letter in which she had announced our bereavement. There had
been some trouble over this last confinement; Juliette had suffered
from its effects for a long time; then last year, as an afterthought,
she had given birth to a little girl, whom, to hear her talk, she
preferred to all her other children.
“My room, where she sleeps, is next door,” said she; “come and see
her.” And as I was following her: “Jerome, I didn’t dare write to you
... would you consent to be the baby’s god-father?”
“Yes, with pleasure, if you would like me to,” said I, slightly
surprised, as I bent over the cradle. “What is my god-daughter’s name?”
“Alissa ...” replied Juliette, in a whisper. “She is a little like her,
don’t you think so?”
I pressed Juliette’s hand, without answering. Little Alissa, whom her
mother lifted, opened her eyes; I took her in my arms.
“What a good father you would make!” said Juliette, trying to laugh.
“What are you waiting for to marry?”
“To have forgotten a great many things”; I replied and watched her
blush.
“Which you are hoping to forget soon?”
“Which I do not hope ever to forget.”
“Come in here,” said she, abruptly, leading the way into a smaller
room, which was already dark, and of which one door led into her
bedroom, and another into the drawing-room. “This is where I take
refuge when I have a moment to myself; it is the quietest room in the
house; I feel that I am almost sheltered from life in here.”
The window of this small drawing-room did not open like those of
the other rooms, on to the noises of the town, but on to a sort of
courtyard planted with trees.
“Let us sit down,” said she, dropping into an armchair. “If I
understand you rightly it is to Alissa’s memory that you mean to remain
faithful.”