The Dream (Oxford World's Classics), page 13
For a few seconds, they stared with dismay. He had grasped the situation, and set off in pursuit. The stream leapt and bounded over the pebbles, and the wretched camisole was sailing along faster than he could run. He leant over, thinking he’d just about got it, but snatched only a handful of foam. He missed with two attempts. Trembling excitedly, he plunged into the water like one heroically risking his life, and caught hold of the camisole just at the moment it was about to disappear underground.
Angélique had anxiously followed the rescue, but now felt laughter swell uncontrollably in her lungs. Well, so much for that adventure she had often dreamt about, with the encounter at the lake’s edge, and the young man as handsome as the sun delivering her from terrible danger! St George, the champion, the warrior, was none other than this stained-glass painter, this young workman in a grey smock. As she watched him walk back towards her, his legs drenched, the dripping camisole clasped awkwardly in his hands, fully aware of the absurd enthusiasm he had shown in retrieving it from the stream, she had to bite her lip to contain the burst of merriment that tickled her throat.
He gazed at her raptly. She appeared so adorable, so child-like, as she tried to hold in her laughter, her youthful frame quivering all over! Spattered with stream water, her arms chilled by the current, she gave off the pure clean smell of sparkling water as it gushes from a mossy forest spring. She was a picture of health and happiness in the bright sunshine. One could tell she was a good housewife, and a queen too, in her working dress, with her slender waist, and the oval face of a king’s daughter, just like the girls in the legends. He had no idea how to go about handing over this piece of washing to her, so overwhelming did he find her beauty—the sort of beauty he encountered in the art he loved. He felt vexed that he should appear so naive to her, for he could see very clearly the effort she was making not to laugh. But he had to do something, and so he handed over the camisole.
Angélique realized that if she unclenched her teeth she would burst into laughter. The poor boy! She felt fondly towards him, but the urge was irresistible. She was overflowing with happiness, and had such a great urge to break into laughter, she could not contain it.
When at last she thought she could speak again, she wanted simply to say:
‘Thank you, Monsieur.’
But the laughter returned, and she stammered and stuttered, and couldn’t complete a single word. Her laughter rang out very loudly, a shower of harmonious notes echoing like a song to the crystalline accompaniment of the Chevrotte. Disconcerted, he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. His pale face suddenly crimsoned, and his boyishly timid eyes flamed like an eagle’s. He fled, taking the old worker with him, while she continued laughing, leaning over the clear stream, and was splashed all over with water again as she rinsed the washing on this radiantly happy day.
At six o’clock the next morning they put the washing out to dry; it had been left in a bundle to drain since the previous day. The day was very windy, which would help with the drying. To stop the washing being blown away, they had to weigh down the pieces with a stone at each corner. And so, eventually, all the washing was spread out there, brilliantly white against the green grass, and scented with the clean fragrance of the vegetation, and it was as though the field had suddenly bloomed with snowy drifts of daisies.
After lunch, when she came back to check on it, Angélique was plunged into despair. The wind, gusting even more fiercely, was threatening to blow it all away beneath a sky of blue—which shone with bright clarity as though swept clean by the blasts of air. A sheet had already flown off, and some towels had been whisked away and lay tangled in the branches of a willow tree. She retrieved the towels. But then some handkerchiefs fluttered away behind her. And there was no one to help her! She grew frantic. When she tried to lay out the sheet again, she had to fight it. It wrapped about her, whipping her face and clacking uproariously, like a flag.
Above the wind, she heard a voice say:
‘Mademoiselle, would you like me to help you?’
It was him, and all at once, with no thought other than concern for her washing, she cried out:
‘Of course I would—yes, give me a hand!… Take the end, there! Hold on tight!’
They stretched out the sheet with their strong arms as it flapped about like a sail. They laid it on the grass, and placed larger stones at each corner. It slumped down, subdued, but neither of them stood up. They remained on their knees, at either end of the sheet, separated by the great dazzling white cloth.
She broke into a smile of thanks, devoid of any mockery. Emboldened, he said:
‘My name is Félicien.’
‘And I’m Angélique.’
‘I am a stained-glass painter, and I’ve been given the job of repairing the window.’
‘I live over there, with my parents. I’m an embroideress.’
Their words were carried away by the high wind, which whipped crisply and spiritedly about them as the warm sunlight shone down. They chatted together, saying things the other already knew, simply for the pleasure of it.
‘The window’s not being replaced, is it?’
‘No, no. The repairs won’t even be visible. I love it as much as you do.’
‘It’s true, I do love it. It has such soft colours!… I embroidered a St George once, but it wasn’t as beautiful.’
‘Come now, not as beautiful!… I think I’ve seen it, if it’s the St George on the red velvet chasuble that the Abbé Cornille was wearing on Sunday. It’s a marvel!’
She flushed with pleasure, and then called out sharply:
‘Put a stone on the edge of the sheet, on your left there. Otherwise the wind will carry it away again.’
He hurriedly weighted down the piece of washing, which had risen up, flapping all about like the wings of a tethered bird trying to fly again. It stopped moving altogether, and so they both rose to their feet.
She walked along the narrow strips of grass between the pieces of washing, checking on each, while he followed behind, greatly absorbed in the task, and deeply concerned by the possible loss of an apron or a tea towel. It all seemed completely natural. And she chattered on, telling him how she spent her time, and about the things she did and did not like.
‘I like everything to be in its proper place… Every morning, at six, I’m woken by the cuckoo clock in the workroom. I sometimes even get dressed in the dark: I keep my stockings here, the soap there, I have a mania for keeping everything just so. Oh, I wasn’t born like this, I used to be a very messy creature! Mother used to have words with me about it—very stern ones, at that!… And in the workroom, I couldn’t do anything properly if my chair wasn’t always in the same spot, facing the window. Fortunately I’m neither right- nor left-handed; I can embroider with either hand, which is a great gift; not everybody can… It’s the same with the flowers I like. If I keep a bunch next to me, I always get a splitting headache. Violets are the only ones I can put up with and, funnily enough, their scent actually calms me down. If ever I feel a little out of sorts, I only have to sniff some violets and I feel better.’
He listened, captivated. She had an extremely charming voice, and he was beguiled by its soft, compelling tone and its lingering melody. And he must have been particularly sensitive to this form of human music, as the gentle cadence she gave to certain syllables brought tears to his eyes.
‘Oh,’ she said, interrupting herself, ‘the chemises are almost dry.’
And then she confided a few last things to him, prompted by a naive impulse to reveal more of herself.
‘White is always beautiful, isn’t it? Some days I feel like I’ve had enough of blue and red and all the other colours, but I find a joy in white I never tire of. It’s never jarring; you feel like losing yourself in it completely… We had a white cat with some tawny markings, and I painted them over. He looked very nice, but the effect didn’t last… Now, one thing Mother doesn’t know is that I hang on to all the little left-over scraps of white silk. I have a drawer full of them, for no reason really, apart from the pleasure of looking at them and running my fingers over them now and again… I’ve got another secret too, a really big one! Every morning when I wake up, there’s always someone there beside my bed, truly! A pale figure, who quickly flits away.’
He did not doubt this for a moment, and seemed wholeheartedly to believe her. Wasn’t it all quite natural and straightforward? A young princess, surrounded by the splendours of her court, could not have conquered him more quickly. In the midst of all this white linen, laid out on the green grass, she radiated charm, good humour, and majesty, and he felt his heart gripped in a tightening embrace. That was that, it was all decided: there would never be anyone else for him but her, and he would follow her until the end of his days. She walked on ahead with tripping little steps, looking back from time to time with a smile; and he followed behind, choked with a feeling of happiness, but with no hope that such happiness could ever fully be his.
A sudden squall burst, and a host of smaller pieces, percale collars and cuffs, cambric scarves and bodices, were lifted into the air and swept a distance away, like a flock of white birds tossed about by a storm.
Angélique started running.
‘Oh, my God! Come on, help me!’
The two of them raced off. She pinned down a collar just at the edge of the Chevrotte. He was already clasping two bodices, plucked out of the tall nettles. The cuffs were retrieved, one by one. But in their headlong chase, the pleats of her whirling skirt thrice whipped softly up against him, and each time his heart throbbed wildly and his face flushed. And when he jumped up to try and get the last scarf, which was just out of reach, he brushed softly against her. She stood there, stock still, unable to breathe. The riot of emotions within her stilled her laughter and jokes, and silenced her mockery of this big, clumsy, innocent boy. What was the matter with her—why had her merriment vanished, why did she feel that she was fainting in this exquisite torment? When he passed her the scarf, their hands touched accidentally. They trembled, and stared at one another, wild-eyed. Then she abruptly took a step backwards, and stood there for a few seconds, not knowing what to do after the calamity that had just occurred. And then, suddenly, stricken with panic, she took to her heels, clutching a bundle of washing in her arms, and abandoning the rest.
Félicien tried to call out.
‘Oh, for pity’s sake… I beg you…’
The wind gusted even more fiercely, snatching the breath from his lungs. Hopelessly he watched her run, and it was as though she were being carried away by the wind. She ran on and on through the white expanse of sheets and tablecloths in the pale golden light of the angling sun, until the shadow of the cathedral swallowed her up. She seemed just about to disappear through the little garden gate, without having given a backward glance, when she turned sharply around, overtaken by a kindly impulse, not wanting to leave him with the impression that she was angry. Smiling self-consciously, she called out:
‘Thank you, thank you!’
Was she thanking him for having helped her gather in the washing? Or for something else? She had vanished, and the gate swung shut.
He remained alone in the middle of the field, and strong, invigorating gusts of wind regularly whipped down at him from a clear sky. The elms in the bishop’s garden swayed all about, heaving and moaning like a swell on the ocean, while a great clamour swept along the terraces and flying buttresses of the cathedral. But all he heard was the faint flapping of a little bonnet entwined like a white flower in a lilac branch—a bonnet that belonged to her.
From this day onwards, every time that Angélique opened her window she saw Félicien below in the Clos-Marie. The stained-glass repairs were a suitable excuse, and he practically lived there, without making the slightest progress on his work. He whiled away hours lying in the grass on the other side of a bush, watching through the leaves. It was lovely to be able to swap smiles, morning and evening. Brimming with happiness, she asked for nothing more. The washing would be done again only in three months’ time, and the garden gate would remain closed until then. But if they could see each other every day like this, surely the three months would simply fly past! Was it even possible to live more happily than this—the day spent in expectation of an evening glance, and the night, awaiting that of the morning?
At their first meeting, Angélique had talked about everything, her daily life, her likes and dislikes, the little secrets that lay in her heart. He had said little: his name was Félicien; she knew nothing more about him. Perhaps that was the way things should be, the woman revealing herself entirely, the man remaining withdrawn and mysterious. She felt no urgent curiosity about him, and a smile came to her face when she mused on the course things must inevitably take. In any case, what she did not know did not matter; the only thing of any importance was to be able to see each other. She knew nothing about him, and yet understood him so well that she could read his thoughts in the expression on his face. He had come, she had recognized him, and they were in love.
They took exquisite pleasure in this mutual possession at a distance. They were continually thrown into new raptures by the discoveries they made. She had long thin hands that he adored, though they were scarred by the needle. She noticed how small his feet were, and was proud of their daintiness. Everything about him delighted her. She was grateful to him for being so handsome, and was overjoyed when she noticed one evening that his fair beard was an even lighter ash blond colour than his hair, which lent his smile a particular sweetness. One morning he went away in a blissful trance after she had leant forward, revealing a brown mole on her delicate neck. They bared their hearts to one another, and discovered many things. The proud and simple way she flung open her window announced that she had the spirit of a queen, even though she was just a little embroideress. Similarly, she could detect the generosity of his soul in the way he trod delicately through the grass. In the first flush of their acquaintance, they glimpsed an endless array of glittering qualities and virtues. Each meeting brought new delights, and it seemed that they could never exhaust the happiness they felt on seeing one another.
However, Félicien soon started to show signs of impatience. He no longer lay for hours stretched out beneath a bush, motionless in perfect contentment. As soon as Angélique appeared at the balcony railing, he grew restive and tried to come nearer. This started to irritate her, as she was afraid that somebody might see him. One day there was a genuine falling out; he came right up to the wall, and so she had to go inside. This was a great shock to him, and he was distraught, his expression so eloquent of obedience and entreaty that she forgave him the next day, and came out onto the balcony at her usual time. But he was no longer happy simply to wait, and resumed his earlier behaviour. Now he seemed to roam all over the Clos-Marie—everywhere at once, filling it with his restless spirit. He emerged from behind every tree trunk, he appeared on top of every bramble patch. Like the woodpigeons that roosted in the tall elms, he seemed to make his home nearby, in the fork of some branch. The Chevrotte seemed to give him a reason for lingering there: he leant out over the stream, appearing to watch the drifting clouds. One day she sighted him over at the ruined mill, standing on the roof-beams of a caved-in shed, elated to have climbed up so high, since he couldn’t actually fly right up to her. Another day she stifled a faint cry when she saw him standing high up above her: between two windows of the cathedral, on the terrace over the choir chapels. How could he possibly have reached this gallery, accessible only through a locked door to which the beadle held the key? And how was it that he sometimes appeared silhouetted against the sky among the flying buttresses of the nave and the pinnacles atop the buttress piers? From these heights his gaze could swoop down into her bedroom, like a swallow plunging from the tip of a spire. It had never before occurred to her to hide. But from then on she shut herself away and felt increasingly uneasy at the way he was encroaching on her, and becoming her constant double. But if she was in no hurry herself, why was her heart pounding so violently, like the huge bell in the cathedral tower ringing out at full swing on the great feast days?
Three days passed and Angélique made no appearance, so alarmed was she by Félicien’s growing boldness. She vowed never to see him again and convinced herself that she hated him. But his restless mood had infected her and she could not stay still. She found any excuse to get up from the chasuble she was embroidering. Hearing that Mère Gabet was confined to her bed in conditions of the direst poverty, she went to visit her each morning. The old woman lived in the Rue des Orfèvres also, just three doors away. And so Angélique came bearing broth, or sugar, and went out to buy medicine for her from the pharmacist in the Grand’Rue. One day when she came back upstairs carrying various packets and phials, she was startled to find Félicien at the sick woman’s bedside. He turned very red, and awkwardly went away. The following day he appeared again, just as she was leaving, and she made way for him, displeased. Did he want to stop her from visiting her poor? She was in the grip of one of her charitable manias, in which she gave herself up entirely to lavishing care on those who had nothing. Her soul melted with fraternal pity at the idea of suffering. She ran all around, paying visits to old Mascart, a blind paralytic in the Rue Basse, whom she fed herself with a bowl of soup she had brought; and to the Chouteaus, husband and wife, an elderly couple in their nineties who lived in a cellar in the Rue Magloire, where she had brought old furniture from the Huberts’ store room; and to others also, a great many others—all the poor of the neighbourhood whom she quietly helped with little gifts of things she found around her home. It made her happy to see their faces light up with surprise and delight at some leftover from the day before. But every time she went to visit one of them now, there was Félicien! She had never seen so much of him, even though she had stopped appearing at her window precisely for fear of seeing him again. Her irritation mounted, until she felt ready to burst with anger.
