These letters arrived in the morning, by the eight o’clock mail. The concierge slipped them under the door, giving a knock with her broom handle to attract our attention. Louise would get out of bed, pick up the blue envelope, and sit down beside me and read me the letter from the “curé Loisel,” as she also came to call him.
For six months we were happy.
Then, one night, about one o’clock in the morning, a violent peal of the doorbell made us jump. We hadn’t been asleep—far from it—at that particular moment. Louise said, “What can that be?” And I answered, “I haven’t any idea. Probably a mistake.” And we stopped what we were doing and lay there pressed closely one against the other, our ears strained to catch any sound, very much on edge.
And then there was a second peal of the bell, and then a third, and then a fourth long peal filled our room with so much noise that we both sat up. This was no mistake: whoever it was, wanted us. I quickly pulled on my drawers and slippers and ran to the vestibule door, fearing some disaster. But before opening, I called, “Who is there? What do you want?”
A voice, a loud voice, the voice of my uncle, replied: “It’s me, Jean. Open your door, I don’t want to sleep on the stairs!”
I thought I would go crazy. But what was there to do? I rushed back into the bedroom and in a trembling voice said to Louise, “It’s my uncle. Hide!” Then I opened the outer door and the curé Loisel almost knocked me down with his carpetbag.
“What were you up to, you scamp? Why didn’t you open?”
I stammered that I had been asleep.
“Asleep at first, perhaps, but just now after you spoke to me—what were you up to then?”
I stammered that I had left my key in my trousers, and to prevent further discussion I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him violently on both cheeks.
That calmed him, and he explained his presence. “I’m here for four days, scapegrace,” he announced. “I wanted to take a look at the hellhole of Paris, to give myself an idea of what the real hell is like.” He gave a laugh like a roaring storm, then continued: “Put me up any way you can. We can lay one of your mattresses on the floor. But where’s your brother? Asleep? Wake him up! Wake him up!”
I felt that I was rapidly losing my wits, but managed to say, “Jacques isn’t home yet. He had a lot of extra work, night work, at the office.”
My uncle accepted that, rubbed his hands, and asked me how my work was going. Then he made for the door of my bedroom. I almost seized him by the collar. “No, no, this way, uncle.” An idea came to me. “You must be hungry after your trip. Come and have a bite of something.”
He smiled. “You’re right. I am hungry. I wouldn’t mind a snack.” And I pushed him into the dining room.
Dinner had been at our house that night, and the cupboard was full. I took out a piece of cold beef, and the curé lit into it heartily. I kept urging him to eat, kept filling his glass and reminding him of wonderful meals we had had in Normandy, to stimulate his appetite. When he had finished he pushed away his plate and said, “That’s that: I’ve had all I can manage.” But I had other things in reserve—I knew the good man’s weakness—and I brought out a chicken paté, a potato salad, a pot of cream, and some excellent wine that was left over from dinner. He almost fell over backwards in astonishment at my scale of living, pulled his plate toward him, and began all over again. It was getting late, and as he kept eating I kept trying to think of a way out, but nothing practical occurred to me.
Finally he got up from the table, and I felt my knees weaken. I tried to keep him where we were. “Here, uncle—some brandy. It’s old, it’s good.” But he declared, “No, this time I’m really through. Let’s see the rest of your quarters.”
I well knew that there was no holding him back, and shivers ran up and down my spine. What would happen? What kind of a scene and scandal? What violence, perhaps?
I followed him, filled with a wild desire to open the window and throw myself into the street. I followed him stupidly, not daring to say a word to restrain him, knowing myself lost, almost fainting with anguish, yet nevertheless hoping that some chance would come to my aid.
He entered the bedroom. One last hope lifted my heart: Louise, sweet thing, had drawn the bed curtains, and not a thing in the room betrayed the presence of a woman. Her dresses, her collars and cuffs, her stockings, her shoes, her gloves, her pins and rings—everything had disappeared. I stammered: “Let’s not go to bed now, uncle. The sun is almost up.”
“You’re a good boy to be willing to sit talking with an old man,” he answered. “But I could do with an hour or two of sleep.”
And he approached the bed, candle in hand. I waited, breathless, frantic. With one gesture he pulled the curtains open! It was a warm June night, and Louise and I had taken off the blankets, and on the bed was only a sheet, which Louise, in her desperation, had pulled over her head. Doubtless to make herself feel more securely hidden, she had rolled herself into a ball, and pressed tight against the sheet her—her contours were clearly visible.
I could hardly stand up.
My uncle turned to me, grinning so widely that I almost collapsed with astonishment. “So!” he cried, merrily. “Joking, were you! You didn’t want to wake your brother. Well—I’ll wake him, and you’ll see how.” And
