Read Online Lovers (9781609459192) by Howard (TRN) Daniel; Curtis Arsand - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Howard (TRN) Daniel; Curtis Arsand
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the time of day, he has seen autumn and winter. He has now spent four months in his wooden lodge.
Balthazar always walks him back after dinner. They sit by the fire. There are evenings when Créon says little. A man who keeps silent may touch the emotions. It was during one of the first of these intimate, almost silent sessions that Sébastien discovered how carnal silence may be. Thanks to Créonâs silence, he learns to savor the waiting, to imagine what tomorrow will be like, to be silent himself, the better to dream of what is and what will be, of all the possibilities gathered on a threshold still invisible but anticipated. But Créon always takes his leave, always long after midnight. And then the silence that surrounds Sébastien is quite strange, the silence of absence, a silence that drives away sleep. It is possible to lose oneself in it, as in all things.
And tomorrow becomes today.
Balthazar knocks at the door of the chalet a little earlier each afternoon. One of these past days, he declared himself a tutor. He wants Sébastien to learn to read and write, to learn to count, to memorize thankless facts. He teaches him grammar and a smattering of Latin. The pupil is gifted, Balthazar convinces himself; the pupil sometimes expresses his disappointment at some rule or theorem. Is that all it is? he says in surprise. When they go for a walk in the grounds, it is Sébastienâs turn to give a name to things and to reveal the daily life of plants and animals. Here is a shrike and here is an oriole, there is the bellflower, there the starflower. It is not unusual for them to venture beyond the gates. With Sébastien, it is impossible to get lost.
Four months, six months, a year.
21
M uch to Anne de Créonâs displeasure, Balthazar seems to be in no hurry to go back to Versailles. He has been sent for. The King has informed him, through Saint-Polgues, that he is getting impatient. But Balthazar delays his departure. He has even written a brief missive to his monarch, explaining that a strange wasting disease has confined him to his bed. The tone was expeditious, to say the least. It was not well received. He is lying, they say in Versailles, he is handsome and witty but he is a liar. They begin to suspect him of plotting a rebellion, or indulging in some scandalous pleasure, or practicing alchemy. He is a buggerer, they whisper to the King, one who obtains his gold from dark sources. The rumors reach the chateau, the Princesse grows anxious, Balthazar answers his motherâs warnings with these words: I am here and they are there. He shrugs, he idles and daydreams, sometimes he even neglects Sébastien and his future. Another day dawns, another night gathers, but he forgets even the passing of time, he forgets that he belongs to this world.
22
G od, how commonplace it is to have enemies, how commonplace is naivety, and hatred, and narrow-mindedness, and cowardice, and jealousy, and cunning, and death too, of course, death that comes and goes, a great walker, and madness, and fear, and infatuation. As for love, that is much less commonplace, less than death anyway, but death comes and goes, it is there, it will arise, a distinct event, clearly demarcated, unadorned, death is not a fable. Oh God, how commonplace also are the wind and the rain, the snow, the elements, everything in fact, they too come and go, they come and go but they are not death, not always, they are not its messengers, not always.
And let us not neglect men. Most are insignificant, except them, these two lovers Balthazar de Créon and Sébastien Faure, they are not insignificant, they cannot be, here they are: magnificent.
23
A n incurable sodomite, they say of Créon.
Terrible stories circulate about him, at Court, in the countryside, and no doubt in the chateau too.
They surround him like an aura.
Terrifying, but untouchable.
He organizes saturnalia that end in murders, they say.
He is one of the
Balthazar always walks him back after dinner. They sit by the fire. There are evenings when Créon says little. A man who keeps silent may touch the emotions. It was during one of the first of these intimate, almost silent sessions that Sébastien discovered how carnal silence may be. Thanks to Créonâs silence, he learns to savor the waiting, to imagine what tomorrow will be like, to be silent himself, the better to dream of what is and what will be, of all the possibilities gathered on a threshold still invisible but anticipated. But Créon always takes his leave, always long after midnight. And then the silence that surrounds Sébastien is quite strange, the silence of absence, a silence that drives away sleep. It is possible to lose oneself in it, as in all things.
And tomorrow becomes today.
Balthazar knocks at the door of the chalet a little earlier each afternoon. One of these past days, he declared himself a tutor. He wants Sébastien to learn to read and write, to learn to count, to memorize thankless facts. He teaches him grammar and a smattering of Latin. The pupil is gifted, Balthazar convinces himself; the pupil sometimes expresses his disappointment at some rule or theorem. Is that all it is? he says in surprise. When they go for a walk in the grounds, it is Sébastienâs turn to give a name to things and to reveal the daily life of plants and animals. Here is a shrike and here is an oriole, there is the bellflower, there the starflower. It is not unusual for them to venture beyond the gates. With Sébastien, it is impossible to get lost.
Four months, six months, a year.
21
M uch to Anne de Créonâs displeasure, Balthazar seems to be in no hurry to go back to Versailles. He has been sent for. The King has informed him, through Saint-Polgues, that he is getting impatient. But Balthazar delays his departure. He has even written a brief missive to his monarch, explaining that a strange wasting disease has confined him to his bed. The tone was expeditious, to say the least. It was not well received. He is lying, they say in Versailles, he is handsome and witty but he is a liar. They begin to suspect him of plotting a rebellion, or indulging in some scandalous pleasure, or practicing alchemy. He is a buggerer, they whisper to the King, one who obtains his gold from dark sources. The rumors reach the chateau, the Princesse grows anxious, Balthazar answers his motherâs warnings with these words: I am here and they are there. He shrugs, he idles and daydreams, sometimes he even neglects Sébastien and his future. Another day dawns, another night gathers, but he forgets even the passing of time, he forgets that he belongs to this world.
22
G od, how commonplace it is to have enemies, how commonplace is naivety, and hatred, and narrow-mindedness, and cowardice, and jealousy, and cunning, and death too, of course, death that comes and goes, a great walker, and madness, and fear, and infatuation. As for love, that is much less commonplace, less than death anyway, but death comes and goes, it is there, it will arise, a distinct event, clearly demarcated, unadorned, death is not a fable. Oh God, how commonplace also are the wind and the rain, the snow, the elements, everything in fact, they too come and go, they come and go but they are not death, not always, they are not its messengers, not always.
And let us not neglect men. Most are insignificant, except them, these two lovers Balthazar de Créon and Sébastien Faure, they are not insignificant, they cannot be, here they are: magnificent.
23
A n incurable sodomite, they say of Créon.
Terrible stories circulate about him, at Court, in the countryside, and no doubt in the chateau too.
They surround him like an aura.
Terrifying, but untouchable.
He organizes saturnalia that end in murders, they say.
He is one of the
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