The Dream (Oxford World's Classics), page 12
One May night, while out on the balcony where she spent so many long hours, she burst into tears. She was not in the least bit sad, but rather was overcome by a sense of expectation, even though nobody was due to come. It was pitch dark, and the Clos-Marie appeared like a well of shadows under a star-strewn sky, and she could make out nothing but the great dusky forms of the old elms in the grounds of the Bishop’s Palace and the Voincourt residence. The only light visible was the glow of the chapel window. If nobody was coming, why then was her heart pounding like this? For a very long time, since her earliest youth, she had had the feeling that she was waiting, and it had grown only more urgent as she grew older, swelling into the fretful agitation of puberty. Nothing could have surprised her now, as for weeks she had been hearing the hum of voices in this mysterious little place, peopled by her own imagination. The Legend had released its supernatural cargo of saints here and miracles were ready to blossom. She understood clearly that every single thing was coming to life, that voices were starting to be heard from things once mute—that the leaves of the trees, the waters of the Chevrotte, and the stones of the cathedral were all speaking to her. But whose arrival did these whispers, coming from the invisible realms, announce? And what intentions did they have for her, these obscure presences that gusted from the vast beyond and hovered in the air? She remained there, gazing into the darkness, as though keeping a one-sided tryst, and she waited and waited until she was drooping with sleep. And all the while she had the sense that the unknown was shaping her life, independently of her will.
For a week Angélique wept like this in the dark of night. She would return to the balcony and simply wait. She had a growing sense that the world was closing in on her, the horizon narrowing and suffocating her. Her heart was heavy, and voices hummed deep inside her skull, although no more clearly than before. All of nature, the earth and the vast sky above, were entering her being, and slowly taking possession of her. At the slightest sound, her hands burned, and her eyes strained to pierce the darkness. Had the long-awaited miracle finally started to occur? No, still nothing, doubtless just some night bird fluttering its wings. And she strained again to hear, and could even make out the different sounds of elm and willow rustling their leaves. Twenty times over, she felt a tremor run through her body, but it was just the sound of a pebble tumbling over in the stream, or an animal out on the prowl sliding down a wall. She leant forward, feeling very faint. Nothing, still nothing.
Finally, one evening, as a balmier darkness settled beneath a moonless sky, something stirred. At first she thought she was mistaken, as this slight noise, a novel one among all those she knew, was so faint as to be almost imperceptible. Silence followed, and she held her breath. Then she heard it again, louder this time, but still indistinct. She would have said the noise was a distant, muffled footfall, a trembling in the air signalling an approach, out of the range of sight and hearing. What she was waiting for seemed to be coming from the invisible realms, emerging slowly from the whole quivering world that surrounded her. Little by little, it was stepping out of her dream, as though the vague desires of her youth were being fulfilled. Was it St George from the window coming towards her, treading through the high grasses with the silent steps of a painted image? The window was indeed growing dimmer, and she could no longer clearly make out the saint, who appeared as just a small purplish haze, dissipating and melting away. That night, she could make no further sense of things. But the following evening, at the same hour, and in darkness just as profound, the sound grew louder, and drew a little nearer. It was the sound of footsteps, undoubtedly, the footsteps of a vision lightly brushing over the ground. They stopped and started, moved here and there, and it was impossible to tell their exact location. Perhaps they came from the Voincourts’ garden, from someone taking a late night stroll beneath the elms. Or perhaps they issued from the thick clumps of bushes in the bishop’s garden, from among the tall lilacs, with their heady perfume that troubled her so deeply. She peered vainly into the dark: the long-awaited miracle impinged only on her hearing and her sense of smell—the fragrance of the flowers seeming even more intense, as though mingling with someone’s breath. And, over the course of several nights, the footsteps skirted closer and closer to the balcony, eventually coming right up to the wall below her. There they halted, and a long silence ensued. She felt as though she were now completely enfolded in the slow, spreading embrace of the unknown, and she swooned.
On the evenings that followed she saw the slender crescent of the new moon appear among the stars. But it sank as the day drew to a close, and disappeared behind the roof of the cathedral like a bright eye blinking shut. She studied the moon, watching as it waxed a little fuller every evening, and grew impatient, for this was the torch that would at last shed light on the invisible. The Clos-Marie emerged slowly from the darkness, with its old ruined mill, its clumps of trees and fast-flowing stream. And the process of creation now continued in the light. What was emerging from the dream materialized into a shadow; at first she glimpsed just a dim shadow moving in the moonlight. What was it exactly? The shadow of a branch swaying in the wind? Sometimes it seemed to vanish, and the field slumbered on in deathly stillness, and she thought she must have been seeing things. Then there was no longer any doubt: a dark outline crossed a lit-up patch of ground, slipping from one willow tree to the next. She lost sight of it, and then found it again, without ever being able to tell its shape. One evening, she thought she made out a pair of shoulders, retreating rapidly, and she looked immediately across at the window. It appeared grey and empty, as though extinguished by the moon beaming directly onto it. From that time on, she noticed that this living shadow seemed to flatten out onto the ground as it came towards her window, moving from one pool of darkness to the next, approaching through the long grass along the edge of the cathedral. As she glimpsed it drawing nearer, her inner turmoil grew and she felt the nervous disquiet of one who is gazed on by mysterious eyes that themselves remain unseen. Undoubtedly, some presence was waiting there behind the leaves, its glance fixed on her, never looking away. And she felt on her hands and face the physical impression of its scrutiny, a long, lingering gaze that was gentle and shy. She chose not to hide away from it because she sensed that it was pure, coming as it did from the enchanted realm of the Legend. And her initial anxiety changed into pleasurable confusion, convinced as she was of happiness to come. Abruptly, one night, the shadow appeared in sharp outline on the pale moonlit ground, the shadow of a man whom she could not see, hidden behind the willow trees. The man did not move, and for a long time she watched the motionless shadow.
Thereafter, Angélique had a secret. It filled every corner of her bare, whitewashed room. She stayed for hours in her great bed, a slender little thing lost in thought, eyes closed, but not asleep, picturing over and over the motionless shadow etched on the bright ground. At dawn, when her eyes opened, she glanced from the great wardrobe to the old chest, and from the porcelain stove to the little dressing table, astonished to find that the mysterious outline was no longer before her, a figure she could have drawn unerringly from memory. In her sleep she had seen it drifting among the pale sprays of heather on the drapes. It filled her dreams as it did her waking hours. This shadow was a companion to her own: she had two shadows, even though she was alone with her dream. And she did not confide this secret to anyone, not even to Hubertine, to whom, until this moment, she had told everything. When Hubertine questioned her, curious to see her so elated, she blushed deeply, and answered that she was happy because of the early spring weather. From morning to evening, she buzzed around like a fly drunk on warm sunshine. Never had the chasubles she embroidered shone with such brilliance of silk and gold. The Huberts, who were in good spirits themselves, just assumed she was brimming with youthful vigour. Her gaiety mounted as the day drew to a close, and she broke into song when the moon came up. When the appointed hour arrived, she was always leaning there on the balcony, and saw the shadow appear. In the moon’s first quarter, the shadow arrived punctually for each tryst, upright and silent, and she learnt nothing further about it, and had no idea to whom it might belong. Was it just a shadow, a thing of appearance only, the saint, perhaps, stepping out from the window, or the angel who had once loved Cecilia, and who now came down to love her, Angélique, in turn? Her pride leapt at this thought, and it was as gratifying to her as a caress from the invisible realms. But she was also impatient to know the truth, and so resumed her wait.
The moon, reaching its full, shone down on the Clos-Marie. When it was at the zenith, the trees, beneath its torrent of perpendicular white beams, cast no shadows, and were like silent fountains streaming with light. The whole field was bathed in the luminous, crystal-clear radiance that spilled from them, and was so brightly lit that even the fine serrations of the willow leaves were clearly visible. The slightest breeze seemed to ruffle this moonlit lake, which slumbered in sovereign peace between the great elms of the neighbouring gardens and the vast curve of the cathedral roof.
Two more evenings went by and, when Angélique came out onto the balcony on the third night, she had a great shock. She could see him standing there in the bright light, facing her. His shadow, like the shadows of the trees, had retreated beneath his feet, and vanished. He was all alone now, and lit up very clearly. At this distance, he was as plainly visible as if he was standing in daylight, aged twenty, blond, tall and thin. He looked like St George, or a superb Jesus, with his curly hair, his sparse beard, his straight, rather strong nose, and dark eyes, which were filled with gentle pride. She recognized him perfectly, and had never imagined him otherwise; it was he, just as she had always expected him to be. The miracle was finally nearing its end: the slow creative work of the invisible realms was about to reach fruition in this living apparition. He was emerging from the unknown, from those tremors that vibrated deep down in things, from the murmuring voices, from the shifting shadows of the night, from all that had enveloped her and almost made her swoon. And he seemed to hover two feet above the ground, as befitted his supernatural coming, while the miracle enfolded him on all sides, floating on the mysterious lake of moonlight. He retained as his escort all the figures of the Legend, the male saints whose staves burst into flower, and the female saints whose wounds flow with milk. And the great white company of virgins flocking in the air blotted out the stars.
Angélique continued to gaze at him. He raised his arms and opened them wide to her. She was not afraid, and smiled.
Chapter 5
It was quite an occasion, every three months, when Hubertine did the washing. She hired a woman, Mère Gabet, and for four days embroidery was forgotten. Angélique joined in too, as it was a pleasant break from ordinary work to soap and rinse the linen in the clear waters of the Chevrotte. After soaking it in potash, they wheeled it out in a barrow through the little gate in the wall. They spent the days in the Clos-Marie, out in the sunshine and the open air.
‘Mother, I’ll wash this time, I really love doing it!’
With her sleeves rolled up above the elbow, and shaking with laughter as she brandished the beetle, Angélique vigorously beat the washing, relishing the healthy exertion of this simple task, which left her spattered with foam.
‘This will give me strong arms, Mother, it’s doing me good!’
The Chevrotte cut across the field at an angle, flowing sluggishly at first, but later on much more rapidly, as it plunged down a pebbly slope and churned with froth. It emerged from the bishop’s garden through a sort of sluice-gate set in the foot of the wall. At the other end of the field, it disappeared into a vaulted arch at the corner of the Voincourt residence, surging underground only to emerge again two hundred metres further on running alongside the Rue Basse, before joining the Ligneul. This meant that a very careful eye had to be kept on the washing, for if one ever let go of an item there was no point in running after it—it was as good as gone.
‘Wait a minute, Mother, just wait!… I’m going to put this big stone on top of the towels. We’ll see then if she runs off with them, the little thief!’
She set the stone in place, and went back to drag another from the ruins of the mill; it was a joy for her to exert herself, and wear herself out. When she bruised her finger, she simply gave it a shake, saying it was nothing. During the daytime, the family of paupers who lived in the ruins went out begging, scattering along the roadways. The field was left deserted—a lovely, cool, secluded place, with its clumps of pale willows, its tall poplars, and its sea of wild grasses that grew to shoulder height. Silence rippled outwards from the two neighbouring gardens, whose tall trees barred the horizon. At three o’clock, the shadow of the cathedral started to creep over it, mild and meditative, smelling faintly of incense.
And she beat the washing harder, with all the strength of her pale young arm.
‘Mother, Mother, I’m going to eat well tonight!… And, you know, you promised me a strawberry tart.’
On the day the rinsing was to be done, Angélique was left to work alone. Mère Gabet had suffered a sudden attack of her sciatica, and had not turned up, while Hubertine was kept at home by other household chores. Kneeling in her straw-lined box, the young girl picked up the pieces of washing one by one, and stirred them all about in the water, spreading dark, soapy trails, until eventually the water ran crystal-clear. She was in no hurry, and had been gripped by a feeling of anxious curiosity since morning, when she had been startled to see an old workman in a grey smock there, setting up some light scaffolding in front of the window in the Hautecœur chapel. Had he come to repair the window? There was a pressing need for this: the figure of St George had gaps in it, and some of the stained glass that had broken over the centuries had been replaced by clear pieces. And yet she was vexed. She was so used to the holes in the saint piercing the dragon, and in the king’s daughter leading it with her girdle, that the idea of their repair left her indignant, as though the figures were being deliberately mutilated. It was sacrilege to make alterations to such ancient things. But, all at once, when she came back from lunch, her anger vanished; a second workman stood on the scaffolding, a young man, also wearing a grey smock. She had recognized who it was. It was him.
With cheerful unconstraint, she resumed her earlier position, kneeling in the straw-lined box. Her wrists bare, she once more set to rinsing out the washing in the clear water. It was undoubtedly him: tall, thin, blond, with the springing beard and curly hair of a young god, his skin as pale as it had appeared in the white moonlight. As he was the one tackling it, there was no need to worry about the window; anything he did would only make it more beautiful. She was not in any way disappointed to see him in a smock, a worker like herself—a stained-glass painter,* no doubt. On the contrary, it made her light up with a smile, so absolutely did she believe in her dream of royal destiny. Appearance was all. What was the point of knowing more? One morning he would appear as he must be. A shower of gold streamed down from the roof of the cathedral, a triumphal march burst forth in the distant rumbling of the organ. She did not even stop to consider how he managed to come here, by day and by night. Unless he lived in one of the neighbouring houses, he had to enter along the Ruelle des Guerdaches, which ran beneath the wall of the Bishop’s Palace from the Rue Magloire.
And so a charming hour unfolded. As she rinsed the washing, she bent forward until the clear water was almost touching her face. Then, as she picked up each new piece, she raised her head and looked over, a grain of mischief in her glance, for all the commotion in her heart. Up on the scaffolding, he tried to give the impression that he was busily assessing the window, but meanwhile darted sidelong glances at her, and seemed embarrassed when she caught him turning his head towards her. It was remarkable to see how rapidly he blushed, his naturally pale complexion suddenly suffusing with colour. At the slightest emotion, whether of anger or affection, all the blood in his veins mounted to his face. Despite the truculence in his eyes, he was overcome by shyness when he felt her looking at him and became like a small child again, fumbling about with his hands, and stammering out instructions to the older man alongside him. As the water foamed coolly over her arms, she was greatly amused to realize that he was as innocent and as ignorant of everything as she—and had the same greedy passion to taste life for the first time. One doesn’t always have to proclaim one’s feelings out loud; they are conveyed by invisible messengers, and recounted by silent lips. She looked up, and caught him turning away. The minutes slipped by, and it was utterly delightful.
Suddenly she saw him jump down from the scaffolding, and he began to walk backwards through the grass, as though moving away from the window in order to get a better view of it. But it was so obvious that he was doing this simply in order to come nearer to her that she almost burst out laughing. He had leapt down recklessly, as though ready to risk all, but things had turned touchingly comical. He stood a few paces away from her, stock still, with his back to her, and didn’t dare turn around, so mortally embarrassed was he by his hasty action. For a moment she thought he was going to start back towards the window, just as he had come, without giving her a backward glance. He desperately screwed up his courage, and turned to her. Just at that moment she looked up, laughing impishly, their eyes met, and they held one another’s gaze. They were both paralysed with embarrassment, all composure vanishing, and they might have stayed like that for ever had a dramatic incident not occurred just then.
‘Oh, my God!’ she cried out, in alarm.
In her confused excitement, she had been paying little attention to the dimity camisole she was rinsing, and had let go of it. The fast-flowing stream was bearing it away, and in another minute it would disappear into the vaulted archway that swallowed up the Chevrotte at the corner of the Voincourt residence.
