Read Online The Bachelors by Henri de Montherlant - Free Book Online

who have money.' (Yes, but those who have no money live in a world that is worse than a dream an obsession. It is impossible to discuss anything with them in a disinterested way; everything comes back to their bread and butter.) But he felt full of courage, and plunged straight in:
    'To be quite frank, Uncle Octave, I have no feeling for politics. I saw Lebeau two days ago. We worked out together what I would be left with, and found that after I've paid their fees I shall have six thousand francs. Six thousand francs all told, and that's assuming there won't be another bombshell.'
    'Lebeau is pessimistic on principle, you know,' said the baron.
    M. de Coantré recognized his uncle's genius for refusing to face unpleasant facts.
    'But Uncle Octave, it isn't a question of optimism or pessimism. Those are the figures, and you can't get round figures.'
    M. Octave gave a little laugh.
    'You can do what you like with figures. Believe me, I'm an old banker! I remember in 1919 . . .'
    He described how he had falsified a balance-sheet. And his face, naturally shrewd, took on a quite remarkable expression, transfigured and as it were spiritualized by the thought of having cheated a fellow-creature. It is easily verified among animals — for example in kennels — that the most intelligent are always the most vicious.
    But all this had no connexion with the financial situation — all too simple, alas! — of M. de Coantré. 'Will you allow me to summarize the whole thing?' said the count, feeling his courage waning. 'I have a piece of paper here . . .' And he produced the paper he had placed on M. Élie's table two days earlier.
    'Go ahead,' said M. Octave with the forced joviality of a man who has already made up his mind. 'But let me give you a word of advice: you ought to get used to doing without notes. That's the way to lose your memory. I simply decided one fine day, "No more notes". That was in '96, the year Aunt Hortense died. Since then (he tapped his forehead) it's all in here. What about an experiment — try and explain your problem without referring to your paper?'
    M. de Coantré's features had contracted slightly. 'Tomorrow I shall be on the street,' he thought, 'and all he can do is suggest experiments!'
    'You know perfectly well, Uncle Octave, that I've been suffering from amnesia for twenty years. I have doctor's certificates. . . .'
    'Come now! You have an excellent memory. ... I regard you as an extremely healthy man,' he added, accentuating each syllable forcefully. For he knew all about the Coué system from the newspapers, and was just the kind of man who is impressed by that sort of science.
    M. de Coantré suppressed the inevitable grimace of the man who is told he is not ill. He apologized with some vigour for not being able to do the experiment, and after his uncle had said 'I won't insist', he gave him the same account he had given to M. Élie, sprinkling it again with technical words he had picked up here and there.
    When he had finished, 'And now I must work,' he added. 'That is partly why I came to bother you, Uncle Octave.'
    'Have you begun to look for anything?' asked M. Octave.
    'Yes. I've written all over the place,' said M. de Coantré, who had done nothing of the sort. For the past two days, so great was his joy at the prospect of leaving the boulevard Arago, he had concentrated exclusively, eight months in advance, on plans for moving out of it, and deliberately refrained from thinking about his future. It was at once a 'bachelor' trait and a 'Coëtquidan' trait to avoid, for as long as possible, if not for ever, doing anything disagreeable.
    'I shall speak to Héquelin du Page about it,' said M. Octave. 'He sees a lot of people. I don't. I lead a very quiet life.'
    In this way he was preparing the ground, giving advance reasons for the failure of his feeble efforts. For he had no intention of losing prestige by warmly recommending this dim and ineffectual relative. At the same time he was