Letters from my Windmill Part 11

vour ... ed ... him.... Then I appeared.... The actual arrival of the lions in the room could not have caused more panic. It was a moment of pure theatre! The tot screamed, the book fell, the canaries and flies bestirred themselves, the clock chimed, and the old man sat up, startled. I was a little fl.u.s.tered myself, and froze at the doorsill, shouting as loud as I could:

--h.e.l.lo, folks! I'm Maurice's friend.

Well! You should have seen the poor old soul come with open-arms to hug me, and shake my hand, and pace wildly round the room, going:

--My G.o.d! My G.o.d!...

His wrinkled face broke into deep creases of laughter. He flushed and stuttered:

--Oh, monsieur... Oh, monsieur!...

Then he went to the back of the room and called out for:

--Mamette!

A door opened; a mouse-like scurrying was heard in the pa.s.sage ... and there she stood, Mamette, as pretty as a picture in her sh.e.l.l-like bonnet, her nun-like habit, and her embroidered hanky, which she held in the respectful, old-fas.h.i.+oned way.... It was so touching; they looked completely alike. With his hair done up and yellow sh.e.l.ls, he could have been another Mamette, except that the real one must have cried a lot in her life, as she was even more wrinkled than he. She, too, had a girl carer from the orphanage, a little nurse, dressed in a blue cape, who never left her side. To see these old folks, cared for by the orphans, was unimaginably moving.

Mamette began by addressing me rather too formerly, but the old fellow cut her off mid-stream:

--He's Maurice's friend....

The effect was immediate; she stood there, trembling, crying, and blus.h.i.+ng even more than he was. That's old people for you! Only a drop of blood in their veins, but at the least emotion, it leaps to their faces....

--Quick, get a chair, said the old woman to her little companion.

--Open the blinds, cried the old man to his.

The couple took a hand each, and trotted me over to the window, which they opened wide to get a better look at me. Once they got back into their armchairs, I sat down between them on a folding stool, and with the little blues stationed behind us, the grand interrogation began:

--How is he? What is he doing with himself? Why doesn't he come? Is he settled in?...

And so on and so forth--for hours on end.

I was answering all their questions as best I could, filling in the details that I knew, shamelessly inventing those I didn't, without ever admitting that I hadn't noticed if his windows were well-fitting, or the colour of his bedroom wallpaper.

--The bedroom wallpaper!... It's blue, madame, pale blue, with a floral pattern on it....

--Really? went the old lady fondly, and added turning to her husband: "He's such a fine boy!"

--Oh yes, he's such a fine boy! he echoed enthusiastically.

All the time I was speaking, they shook their heads at one another, and chuckled, and gave knowing winks and nods to each other, then the old fellow drew close to me:

--Speak louder!... She's a bit hard of hearing.

And she said:

--Speak up, please!... He can't hear very well....

So, I raised my voice, which evinced a grateful smile, and as these smiles faded I could just make out a faint image of Maurice. I was overwhelmed to see it; a vague, veiled, yet evasive, vision, as if I had seen my friend himself smile back at me, but in the misty distance.

Suddenly, the old man sat up in his armchair:

--I'm wondering, Mamette, if perhaps he hasn't had any lunch.

Mamette, shocked, threw her hands in the air:

--Not eaten!... Good Lord!

I thought they were still on about Maurice, and I was about to rea.s.sure them that their dear grandson always ate before midday, but it turned out it was actually me they were concerned about. There was some consternation when I admitted that nothing had pa.s.sed my lips:

--Quick, lay the table, little blues! Put it in the middle of the room, use the Sunday-best table cloth, and the decorated plates. And do please stop giggling so much and make haste....

Certainly, they did hurry, and the dinner was soon served up--three broken plates later.

--There you are, a fine breakfast for you! said Mamette, urging me to the table; "You will be dining alone, though, the rest of us have already eaten this morning."

The poor old things! Whatever the hour, they would have always claimed they'd already eaten.

All Mamette would have had for a breakfast, was a little bit of milk, some dates, and a tartlet--and that had to keep herself and her canaries going for a least a week. And to think that it was I who finished off their supplies!... Also, what indignation there was around at the table! The little blues, propped up on their elbows whispered to each other. From inside their cage, the canaries seemed to be saying, "What sort of man would eat all our tartlet!"

In fact, I did finish it off--almost unconsciously--I was busy looking around the light and peaceful room, where the scent of antiques seemed to drift in the air.... There were two small beds in particular, that I couldn't take my eyes off. I pictured the beds, almost as small as two cots, early in the morning when they are hidden under their great fringed curtains. Three o'clock chimes; the time when all old people wake up:

--Are you asleep, Mamette?

--No, my dear.

--Isn't Maurice a fine boy?

--Oh, yes, a fine boy?

And I imagined a whole conversation in that vein, inspired by just looking at the old folks' two little beds, laying side by side....

Meanwhile, quite a drama was taking place in front of the wardrobe at the other side of the room. There was a jar of cherries in brandy in the top drawer--waiting for Maurice for ten years--and which they now wanted me to have. Despite Mamette's pleas, the old fellow had insisted on getting the cherries down himself, and stood on a chair to try to reach them, to his wife's great horror.... Picture the scene: the old man trembling and hoisting himself up, the little blues clinging to his chair, Mamette puffing and blowing behind him, her arms outstretched. I caught a light scent of bergamot wafting from the open wardrobe with its large piles of discoloured linen.... It was a charming sight.

At last, after much struggling, the much vaunted jar was fetched from the drawer together with a dented old silver tumbler, which belonged to Maurice as a child. It was filled to the brim for me; although it was Maurice who loved cherries so much! While serving me, the old chap spoke into my ear with the air of someone who knew about gourmet things:

--You are very lucky, to be able to have these!... My wife made them herself ... you are about to taste something very good.

Unfortunately, while making them she had forgotten to add any sugar.

What do you expect, you get absent-minded when you get old? The cherries were truly awful, my poor Mamette.... But it didn't stop me from eating them to very the last one, without batting an eyelid.

The meal finished, I stood up ready to take my leave. They really would have liked me to stay longer to chat about their precious grandson, but the day was drawing to a close, I was a long way from home, and it was time to go.

The old man stood up with me: