Read Online Marie by Madeleine Bourdouxhe - Free Book Online
Authors: Madeleine Bourdouxhe
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Jean left for Maubeuge again. Marie was ready early, and went with him on the bus to the station. A few minutes later she once more found herself staying behind on the platform as the train pulled out.
Nine o’clock on a cold morning, and Paris is bustling. Soon the clouds might disperse, and by midday the air might recapture a degree of warmth, but now Marie walks as rapidly as she can in the increasingly bitter air of the wide Neuilly avenues.
Set amongst the big hôtels particuliers is a more modest house, almost hidden by the trees of the neighbouring garden, which extend right along its façade. The impression is not that this park-like garden has strayed on to someone else’s property: the smaller building looks as if it’s been wedged into someone else’s territory.
The narrow path leading to the house looks like a right of way. Marie has walked up it and pulled shut the low gate behind her; she is so accustomed to the noise it makes that she does not hear it. The path lengthens narrowly between two hedges of high shrubs, then widens out towards the left into a small garden which opens out in front of the house. This is where Claudine and Marie played when they were children.
The front door is hardly ever locked. Marie doesn’t ring the bell but before lifting the latch she knocks a few times on the wood, quickly, according to a familiar pattern: whether they hear her or not, she has always done this to announce her presence.
In the corridor she walks quickly on – she knows that at this hour her parents will be taking their breakfast in the big glazed kitchen. They are sitting next to each other (when he was alive, her maternal grandfather sat opposite them, with Claudine at one end of the table and Marie at the other) and the maid is near the stove, busy with something or other: she doesn’t leave the room because she knows she isn’t disturbing them.
‘Marie? Hello, darling!’
‘Marie, how early you are! You’ve never turned up so early before!’
‘I’ve just put Jean on the train to Maubeuge.’
‘So you’ve come home to Mum and Dad to seek consolation …’
‘Would you like a cup of cocoa?’
Hot-water chocolate, since Marie’s father does not like milk. She delights in the slightly insipid liquid, and the intense memories it revives.
Marie looks at her mother: at this hour she hasn’t finished dressing, and her hair, which is still brown, is covered with a hairnet that is supposed to keep her waves in place during the night. She puts a hand up to her absurd-looking hair and apologises with the confused, almost girlish smile that she adopts when talking about herself – always a source of amusement to both husband and daughter. Marie’s eyes meet her father’s and they laugh; then they both turn towards the woman whose hair is not done and regard her tenderly. Marie says warmly: ‘It makes me so happy to see you like that!’
Her father gets up; it’s time for him to go to the office.
Marie stays behind with her mother. Even though she never goes more than two weeks without coming back to this house, today it seems as though she’s been away for several years; that’s what gives her an expression that is both moved and inquisitive. She reaches out fondly to every object, every movement, every word, as if seeking some kind of forgiveness.
She says: ‘Have you seen Madame Palafroid recently, Mother?’
Her mother has always made a mess of pronouncing this impossible name and Marie awaits her reply anxiously.
‘Yes, I have – Madame Palefroid is very well.’
Marie seizes upon the word ‘Palefroid’, savouring the ‘e’ as if it were a precious object.
She gets up and, standing next to the table, looks out of the window. From here you could see the little garden but not the path. She remembers herself and Claudine sitting at the table, heads bent over their big grey cloth-covered exercise books. Hearing someone on the path, they looked at each other and cried out:
Nine o’clock on a cold morning, and Paris is bustling. Soon the clouds might disperse, and by midday the air might recapture a degree of warmth, but now Marie walks as rapidly as she can in the increasingly bitter air of the wide Neuilly avenues.
Set amongst the big hôtels particuliers is a more modest house, almost hidden by the trees of the neighbouring garden, which extend right along its façade. The impression is not that this park-like garden has strayed on to someone else’s property: the smaller building looks as if it’s been wedged into someone else’s territory.
The narrow path leading to the house looks like a right of way. Marie has walked up it and pulled shut the low gate behind her; she is so accustomed to the noise it makes that she does not hear it. The path lengthens narrowly between two hedges of high shrubs, then widens out towards the left into a small garden which opens out in front of the house. This is where Claudine and Marie played when they were children.
The front door is hardly ever locked. Marie doesn’t ring the bell but before lifting the latch she knocks a few times on the wood, quickly, according to a familiar pattern: whether they hear her or not, she has always done this to announce her presence.
In the corridor she walks quickly on – she knows that at this hour her parents will be taking their breakfast in the big glazed kitchen. They are sitting next to each other (when he was alive, her maternal grandfather sat opposite them, with Claudine at one end of the table and Marie at the other) and the maid is near the stove, busy with something or other: she doesn’t leave the room because she knows she isn’t disturbing them.
‘Marie? Hello, darling!’
‘Marie, how early you are! You’ve never turned up so early before!’
‘I’ve just put Jean on the train to Maubeuge.’
‘So you’ve come home to Mum and Dad to seek consolation …’
‘Would you like a cup of cocoa?’
Hot-water chocolate, since Marie’s father does not like milk. She delights in the slightly insipid liquid, and the intense memories it revives.
Marie looks at her mother: at this hour she hasn’t finished dressing, and her hair, which is still brown, is covered with a hairnet that is supposed to keep her waves in place during the night. She puts a hand up to her absurd-looking hair and apologises with the confused, almost girlish smile that she adopts when talking about herself – always a source of amusement to both husband and daughter. Marie’s eyes meet her father’s and they laugh; then they both turn towards the woman whose hair is not done and regard her tenderly. Marie says warmly: ‘It makes me so happy to see you like that!’
Her father gets up; it’s time for him to go to the office.
Marie stays behind with her mother. Even though she never goes more than two weeks without coming back to this house, today it seems as though she’s been away for several years; that’s what gives her an expression that is both moved and inquisitive. She reaches out fondly to every object, every movement, every word, as if seeking some kind of forgiveness.
She says: ‘Have you seen Madame Palafroid recently, Mother?’
Her mother has always made a mess of pronouncing this impossible name and Marie awaits her reply anxiously.
‘Yes, I have – Madame Palefroid is very well.’
Marie seizes upon the word ‘Palefroid’, savouring the ‘e’ as if it were a precious object.
She gets up and, standing next to the table, looks out of the window. From here you could see the little garden but not the path. She remembers herself and Claudine sitting at the table, heads bent over their big grey cloth-covered exercise books. Hearing someone on the path, they looked at each other and cried out:
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