The Confidant. Helene Gremillon

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ several months.

      Eugénie looked distraught.

      ‘This is so worrying, such a long letter, something must have happened!’

      ‘For a mother, too long or too short is always a bad sign…’ I replied, in what I hoped was a cheerful tone. But the length of the letter surprised me as well. Up until now Annie had never sent her anything but very laconic postcards. My expression must have changed.

      ‘What has happened? Louis, tell me what is going on!’

      The time it took for me to look up from the letter and meet her gaze it was done, I had already lied.

      ‘Nothing. Everything is fine. Everything is fine. But I’m late, please forgive me. Go on home, I’ll stop by and read it to you tonight.’

      And I had rushed to my room with the letter in my hand, in order to go over it on my own. To understand how all this could have happened.

       ‘…The next day I came as agreed and everything went just as Madame M. had hoped. I became pregnant “with the efficiency of a virgin”. I will be giving birth in a few days. The child will be called Louis if it’s a boy, and Louise if it’s a girl. I am so afraid, afraid of dying and never seeing you again. I love you. I hope you can forgive me.’

      These were, more or less, the only words Annie had written to her parents that she had not repeated to me in her account.

      I copied out these few pages into an exercise book, to have a record of them, then I sat under the awning and watched as they melted in the rain. I had decided not to read them to Eugénie: it would be too cruel, she was too fragile. Annie pregnant with another woman’s baby: she could not bear it. Even I could not understand how it was possible – how could she have allowed that man to make her pregnant?

      As I watched the raindrops softening the paper I tried to find comfort in the thought that one often regrets confiding in others out of fear, and Annie would be relieved to know what I had done. And besides, I was not destroying the truth, merely deferring it. If by the time she got back from her journey she still wanted her mother to know what had happened, then she would tell her. But at that moment I sincerely thought I was acting for the best as far as everyone was concerned.

      The letter was illegible. The ink had spread in huge blots. I apologised ten times over to Eugénie, I had left the letter on my desk, I hadn’t noticed that the window was open, I was so sorry.

      So I had to make up another story – the war had just begun, the confusion on the front, all sorts of things which – and this did surprise me – Annie had not mentioned at all in her letter. But I reckoned that with everything she was going through she must have her mind on other things, and then again perhaps in the South of France the tension was less noticeable than here.

      Eugénie nevertheless found my version rather short in comparison to the length of the letter. I replied that things always seemed shorter when spoken than when they were written. I was ashamed to be taking advantage of her weakness, but I knew she would not say anything. I was right: she nodded her head humbly, without daring to ask anything else. She took my fabricated rule for a golden one, and merely remarked happily that her little girl had regained something of her talkativeness.

      I had never asked Eugénie why she had picked me to read her daughter’s letters to her. Had she sensed I was a young admirer who would be easy to corner? Did she hope I would read them out loud without paying attention? Or that I would talk to her about them, thus relating the precious contents?

      ‘I don’t know how to read.’

      She could not have asked me the time of day in a more offhand manner, but bent over on the stool in the passage she eventually murmured that it was a real torment for her. No matter how many hours she spent staring at Annie’s letters, she couldn’t understand a thing. At night she would go to bed hoping for a miracle, but in the morning nothing had changed. She felt utterly stupid because of a pile of letters. She had never told anyone. Neither her husband. Nor Annie. She had always managed to keep them from finding out.

      Eugénie was crying, blowing her nose fitfully. Even the day Annie had come home sobbing because Mademoiselle E. had told her that any mother who loves her children reads them stories – even that day, she had managed to find a way round it.

      ‘I don’t read you stories…that’s true…but that has nothing to do with love…Love is…it’s more mysterious than that…Where love is concerned, my darling, you mustn’t ask, mustn’t beg. Don’t ever try to make people love you the way you want them to love you, that’s not it, that’s not true love. You have to let people love you their own way, and my way, it isn’t about reading you stories, but it might be about sewing you all the dresses I can, and all the coats, skirts and scarves that you love so much. Aren’t we happy like that? You don’t want another maman, do you? Tell me, Annie, you don’t want another maman?’

      After that day Annie had never reproached her again. Eugénie thought that was one worry she’d got rid of for good. Even when Annie had told them she wanted to go away with Madame M. for a few months, Eugénie wasn’t particularly worried. No matter how often her husband told her he wanted nothing to do with a daughter who would abandon them for some bourgeoise, Eugénie knew that he would read her letters, and that he would write to her. He loved Annie too deeply to carry out any of his threats. But when the first card arrived, Eugénie was trapped; her husband had just been arrested, and she had no one to turn to. It had taken several cards before she got up the nerve to confess to me that she didn’t know how to read. Had she found her resolve by telling herself again and again that I was as worthy of her trust as the hundreds of metres of fabric that she had bought from my mother?

      And it would seem she was right. I never betrayed her secret.

      I have always thought that secrets must die with those who have harboured them. You must surely be thinking that I am betraying my own convictions since I am sharing them with you, but to you, I must tell everything.

       ‘I have always thought that secrets must die with those who have harboured them. You must surely be thinking that I am betraying my own convictions since I am sharing them with you, but to you, I must tell everything.’

      I was overcome by an unpleasant feeling. The author of these letters really was writing to someone. In a burst of anger that surprised me I tossed the sheets of paper across the room.

      I stood livid before the mirror. I saw myself closing my eyes and heard myself say, ‘Don’t worry, come on, it’s all just fiction.’ But once I had calmed down, I realised that I was afraid.

      Why had I tried to change the course of events? I was pacing back and forth in Annie’s room, I felt terribly guilty. It was all my fault. Why hadn’t I read the letter to Eugénie? But in that room that was too small for my remorse I had not been able to confess as much to Annie. I had only just found her, I could not bear the idea of losing her again, or of making her angry with me. Three years without seeing her.

      Even her absence for a few hours over the business with the keys made me feel sick.

      And besides, I would have been forced to betray her mother’s secret; Annie would surely ask me why I was the one reading her letters.

      I didn’t know what to do with myself. I was desperate for Annie to come back.

      I remember I washed the tray and our cups, looked at the handful of books on the shelf, and straightened СКАЧАТЬ