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Authors: Daphne du Maurier
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him, almost on top of the stove itself, seated in the depths of a great arm-chair, was a massive elderly woman, her flesh sagging in a hundred lines, but her eyes, her nose, her mouth so astonishingly and horribly like my own that for one wild moment I believed after all Jean de Gué had come up here before me and was masquerading as a final jest.
She held out her arms, and drawn to her like a magnet I went instinctively to kneel beside her chair, and was at once caught and smothered, lost in the mountain of flesh and woollen wraps, feeling momentarily like a fly trapped in a great spider’s web, yet at the same time fascinated because of the likeness, another facet of the self, but elderly, female, and grotesque. I thought of my own mother, dead long ago when I was a boy of ten, and she seemed dim and faded, lost to memory, bearing no resemblance to this swollen replica of all that might have been.
Her hands clung about me, reluctant to let me go yet pushingme at the same time, murmuring in my ear, ‘There, there, be off with you, great baby, great brute. You’ve been amusing yourself, I know.’ I drew away from her and looked into her eyes, half-hidden by the heavy lids and the pouched skin beneath, and they were my own eyes, mocking, my own eyes buried and transformed.
‘Everyone is upset as usual with your goings on,’ she said. ‘Françoise in hysterics, Marie-Noel with a fever, Renée sulking, Paul ill-tempered. Ouf! They make me sick, the whole collection. I was the only one not to worry. I knew you would turn up when you were ready to come home, and not before.’ She dragged me down again, chuckling in her throat, and then patted me on the shoulder and thrust me away. ‘I am the only one with faith in this house, isn’t it true?’ she said, looking up at the curé, who smiled at her, nodding his head, and as the nod continued intermittently I realized it was a nervous trick, a sort of spasm, that he could not help, having nothing to do with assent. The effect was disconcerting and I withdrew my eyes from him, glancing instead at the thin woman, who had not once looked at me since I entered the room, but now closed the book she was holding.
‘You don’t wish me to go on reading any more, I suppose, Maman,’ she said, her voice dead, expressionless. I knew from what the servant had told me that she was the Mademoiselle Blanche in whose bedroom I had just trespassed, and guessed that she must therefore be an elder sister to my masquerading self. The countess turned to the curé.
‘Since Jean has come home, Monsieur le curé,’ she said, her voice altered from the chuckle in my ear when she embraced me to one of courtesy and respect, ‘would you think it very rude of me if I asked to be excused this evening from our usual little session? He will have so much to tell me.’
‘Naturally, Madame la Comtesse,’ said the curé, the smile and the nodding head giving him so great an appearance of benevolent acquiescence that surely a refusal or a denial, coming fromhis lips, would never bring conviction. ‘I know very well how much you have missed him, even for so short a time, and it must be a great relief for you to have him back again. I hope,’ he went on, turning to me, ‘all went well for you in Paris? They tell me the traffic nowadays is quite impossible, and that it takes an hour to get to Notre-Dame from la Concorde. I should not care for it at all, but that does not worry you young people.’
‘It depends,’ I said, ‘whether one is in Paris for business or for pleasure.’ To engage him in conversation meant safety. I did not want to be left trapped with my supposed mother, who surely, instinctively, would know that something was amiss.
‘That is true,’ said the curé, ‘and I expect for you it was a little of both. Well, I won’t keep you any longer …’And without warning he slipped from his chair on to his knees, closed his eyes, folded his hands and began to pray with great
She held out her arms, and drawn to her like a magnet I went instinctively to kneel beside her chair, and was at once caught and smothered, lost in the mountain of flesh and woollen wraps, feeling momentarily like a fly trapped in a great spider’s web, yet at the same time fascinated because of the likeness, another facet of the self, but elderly, female, and grotesque. I thought of my own mother, dead long ago when I was a boy of ten, and she seemed dim and faded, lost to memory, bearing no resemblance to this swollen replica of all that might have been.
Her hands clung about me, reluctant to let me go yet pushingme at the same time, murmuring in my ear, ‘There, there, be off with you, great baby, great brute. You’ve been amusing yourself, I know.’ I drew away from her and looked into her eyes, half-hidden by the heavy lids and the pouched skin beneath, and they were my own eyes, mocking, my own eyes buried and transformed.
‘Everyone is upset as usual with your goings on,’ she said. ‘Françoise in hysterics, Marie-Noel with a fever, Renée sulking, Paul ill-tempered. Ouf! They make me sick, the whole collection. I was the only one not to worry. I knew you would turn up when you were ready to come home, and not before.’ She dragged me down again, chuckling in her throat, and then patted me on the shoulder and thrust me away. ‘I am the only one with faith in this house, isn’t it true?’ she said, looking up at the curé, who smiled at her, nodding his head, and as the nod continued intermittently I realized it was a nervous trick, a sort of spasm, that he could not help, having nothing to do with assent. The effect was disconcerting and I withdrew my eyes from him, glancing instead at the thin woman, who had not once looked at me since I entered the room, but now closed the book she was holding.
‘You don’t wish me to go on reading any more, I suppose, Maman,’ she said, her voice dead, expressionless. I knew from what the servant had told me that she was the Mademoiselle Blanche in whose bedroom I had just trespassed, and guessed that she must therefore be an elder sister to my masquerading self. The countess turned to the curé.
‘Since Jean has come home, Monsieur le curé,’ she said, her voice altered from the chuckle in my ear when she embraced me to one of courtesy and respect, ‘would you think it very rude of me if I asked to be excused this evening from our usual little session? He will have so much to tell me.’
‘Naturally, Madame la Comtesse,’ said the curé, the smile and the nodding head giving him so great an appearance of benevolent acquiescence that surely a refusal or a denial, coming fromhis lips, would never bring conviction. ‘I know very well how much you have missed him, even for so short a time, and it must be a great relief for you to have him back again. I hope,’ he went on, turning to me, ‘all went well for you in Paris? They tell me the traffic nowadays is quite impossible, and that it takes an hour to get to Notre-Dame from la Concorde. I should not care for it at all, but that does not worry you young people.’
‘It depends,’ I said, ‘whether one is in Paris for business or for pleasure.’ To engage him in conversation meant safety. I did not want to be left trapped with my supposed mother, who surely, instinctively, would know that something was amiss.
‘That is true,’ said the curé, ‘and I expect for you it was a little of both. Well, I won’t keep you any longer …’And without warning he slipped from his chair on to his knees, closed his eyes, folded his hands and began to pray with great
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