After a rest, enjoying the green, cool charm of the place for some time, Mme. Maramballe said:
“Now I feel better. He certainly did not get out of the right side of the bed this morning.”
Alexander replied:
“Oh, no, madame.”
He had been in their service for thirty-five years, first as officer’s orderly, then as an ordinary valet unwilling to leave his master; now for six years he had been wheeling his mistress through the narrow roads round the town.
This long, devoted service followed by daily companionship had established a certain familiarity between the old lady and the old servant, affectionate on her part and deferential on his.
They discussed household affairs as between equals. Their chief subject of conversation and of anxiety was the captain’s bad temper, embittered by a long career that had opened brilliantly, run its course without promotion, and ended without glory.
Mme. Maramballe resumed the conversation:
“As for having bad manners, he certainly has. He forgets himself much too often since he left the army.”
With a sigh Alexander completed his mistress’s thought:
“Oh! Madame may say that he forgets himself every day and that he did even before he left the army.”
“That is true. But he has had no luck, the poor man. He started by an act of bravery for which he was decorated when only twenty, then from the age of twenty to that of fifty he never rose higher than the rank of captain, although at the start he had counted on being at least a colonel when he retired.”
“After all, Madame may say it is his own fault. Had he not always been about as gentle as a riding-whip, his superiors would have liked him better and used their influence in his favour. It’s no good being hard on others, you must please people if you want to get on.
“That he should treat us like that, well, that is our own fault because it suits us to stay with him, but it is a different matter for others.”
Mme. Maramballe was thinking things over. Every day for years and years she had thought about the brutality of the man she married long ago because he was a fine-looking officer who had been decorated in his youth, and had a brilliant future, so everyone said. What mistakes one can make in life!
She said gently:
“Let us stop awhile, my poor Alexander, you must have a rest on your seat.”
The seat was a small one, partly rotted away, placed at the turning of the avenue for the use of Sunday visitors. When they came this way Alexander always had a short rest on the seat.
He sat down, holding his fine, white, fan-shaped beard in his hands with a simple gesture full of pride; he grasped it tightly, then slid his closed fingers down to the bottom, which he held over the pit of his stomach for a few minutes, as if he wanted to fasten it there, and show off the great length of his growth.
Mme. Maramballe resumed:
“As for me, I married him: it is only just and natural that I should bear with his unkindness, but what I cannot understand is that you put up with it too, my good Alexander!”
He gave a slight shrug of his shoulders, saying:
“Oh, me … madame.”
She added:
“It is a fact. I have often thought about it. You were his orderly when I married and could hardly do otherwise than put up with him. But since then, why have you stayed with us who pay so little and treat you so badly, when you might have done like others, settled down, married, had children, founded a family?”
He repeated:
“Oh, me, madame, that’s another question.” He stopped and began to pull his beard as if it were a bell ringing inside him, as if he wanted to pull it off; the scared look in his eyes showed his embarrassment.
Mme. Maramballe followed her own line of thought:
“You are not a peasant. You have been educated …”
He interrupted her with pride:
“I studied to be a land-surveyor.”
“Then why did you stay on with us, spoiling your life?”
He stammered:
“Why! Why! It is a natural weakness of mine.”
“What do you mean, a natural weakness?”
“Yes, when I attach myself to anyone, I attach myself, that’s the end of it.”
She laughed.
“Come, you are not going to make me believe that Maramballe’s kindness and gentleness have attached you to him for life.”
Alexander moved restlessly about on the seat, visibly at a loss, and mumbled into his long moustache:
“It is not he, it is you!”
The old lady, whose sweet face was crowned by a snow-white ridge of curly hair that shone like swan’s feathers, carefully put into curl-papers every day, gave a start and looked at her servant with surprise in her eyes.
“Me, my poor Alexander. But how?”
He looked up into the air first, then to one side, then into the distance, turning his head about as shy men do when forced to admit some shameful secret. Then with the courage of a soldier ordered into the firing line, he said:
“It’s quite simple. The first time I took a letter from the Lieutenant to Mademoiselle, and Mademoiselle with a smile gave me a franc, that settled the matter.”
Not understanding, she insisted:
“Come, come, explain yourself.”
Overcome by the terror of the criminal who knows that all is over when he confesses a crime, Alexander blurted out:
“I felt drawn towards Madame. There!”
She made no reply and did not look at him, while she turned this over in her mind. She was kind, straightforward, gentle, reasonable, and full of good feeling.
In a second she realized the great devotion of the unfortunate man who had given up everything to live near her, without saying a word. She wanted to cry.
“Let us go back,”
