Read Online The Woman With the Bouquet by Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt
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women until I felt like saying I’d had enough?”
“To commit suicide?”
“No, to kill those women. I had dreams of murder. But in fact they destroyed themselves, through their stupidity. That much was lucky, they were such nincompoops. One time, only once, did I nearly make a mistake!”
She waved her hands, as if she were still struggling against the danger.
“That wretched Myriam, she nearly got me. I’ve never seen a woman who put so much energy into trying to seem brainless . . . Guillaume sneaked me into the palace, where I took part in his meals, hidden behind some drapery, in order to confirm my choice of ninny. In the beginning I chose that Myriam because she spouted one stupidity after another, like a veritable machine gun of nonsense, until the moment I noticed she never said anything but amusing stupidities, always funny, never off the mark, never boring: it gave me a chill, and I concluded that she had a sense of humor, which is no less than a sign of refinement. After that, I paid closer attention, and I noticed that she behaved in a certain way with each of the men she met: if a man was starchy, she would let slip something like, ‘He’s a funny sort of fellow,’ with a relaxing familiarity; if he was vain, she would come out with flattering things about his so-called success; if he was crazy about hunting, she would listen tirelessly, as if the conqueror of the rabbits were a hero of several world wars; in short, she was an ace charmer who hid her game very well. At dessert, she went over to Guillaume and talked to him about sports, persuading him that she wanted to do a parachute jump. It wasn’t true, but she was perfectly capable of trying her luck in order to fall into his arms, she was an adventurer after all! I forbade her from coming to the palace. A clever little bitch who played the airhead, all the better to manipulate her men . . . She’s had a brilliant career since then, she’s married one important gentleman after the other, and each time, what do you suppose, worse luck: they were all rich!”
“Did Guillaume get attached to any of those women?”
“No. You know, men are not demanding regarding the conversation they have before getting into bed, because they are ready to deserve their reward; after bed, however, a man of taste and culture becomes strict again, don’t you think?”
I looked down, silenced by this unanswerable truth.
She wiped her hands on her knees, and smoothed the folds of her skirt.
“That period with the mistresses, it may have been tiring, but it was rather thrilling, because it also allowed me to become an expert in the art of ending relationships. Obviously! It was I who suggested the words to say when he left them. I invented them, loads of them, all the phrases destined to ditch them, their mouths gaping, speechless. The break had to be clean, no mess, no trace, irrevocable, no suicides.”
“And?”
“We’re getting there.”
Now I suspected we were about to deal with the darkest period of this story, the one that would relate its culmination. Emma Van A. could sense it, too.
“A glass of port?”
“With pleasure.”
While she busied herself, it allowed us to take a breather before attacking the rest of the story. She savored the fortified wine, in no hurry to narrate the end, dismayed that we had reached it so soon.
Suddenly, she turned to me, her expression grave.
“And yet, I realized that we could no longer go back. Up to then, we had postponed the issue, gone around the obstacle, and yet now the time was coming where he would have to get married and have children. I would rather it was I who rejected him than see him leave me. Pride . . . I dreaded the moment where I would no longer be the object of his affections, but his mother. Yes, his mother . . . Who else pushes a man to take a wife and have children, when she would really rather keep him for herself?”
Her eyes grew moist. Several decades later, the same reluctance
“To commit suicide?”
“No, to kill those women. I had dreams of murder. But in fact they destroyed themselves, through their stupidity. That much was lucky, they were such nincompoops. One time, only once, did I nearly make a mistake!”
She waved her hands, as if she were still struggling against the danger.
“That wretched Myriam, she nearly got me. I’ve never seen a woman who put so much energy into trying to seem brainless . . . Guillaume sneaked me into the palace, where I took part in his meals, hidden behind some drapery, in order to confirm my choice of ninny. In the beginning I chose that Myriam because she spouted one stupidity after another, like a veritable machine gun of nonsense, until the moment I noticed she never said anything but amusing stupidities, always funny, never off the mark, never boring: it gave me a chill, and I concluded that she had a sense of humor, which is no less than a sign of refinement. After that, I paid closer attention, and I noticed that she behaved in a certain way with each of the men she met: if a man was starchy, she would let slip something like, ‘He’s a funny sort of fellow,’ with a relaxing familiarity; if he was vain, she would come out with flattering things about his so-called success; if he was crazy about hunting, she would listen tirelessly, as if the conqueror of the rabbits were a hero of several world wars; in short, she was an ace charmer who hid her game very well. At dessert, she went over to Guillaume and talked to him about sports, persuading him that she wanted to do a parachute jump. It wasn’t true, but she was perfectly capable of trying her luck in order to fall into his arms, she was an adventurer after all! I forbade her from coming to the palace. A clever little bitch who played the airhead, all the better to manipulate her men . . . She’s had a brilliant career since then, she’s married one important gentleman after the other, and each time, what do you suppose, worse luck: they were all rich!”
“Did Guillaume get attached to any of those women?”
“No. You know, men are not demanding regarding the conversation they have before getting into bed, because they are ready to deserve their reward; after bed, however, a man of taste and culture becomes strict again, don’t you think?”
I looked down, silenced by this unanswerable truth.
She wiped her hands on her knees, and smoothed the folds of her skirt.
“That period with the mistresses, it may have been tiring, but it was rather thrilling, because it also allowed me to become an expert in the art of ending relationships. Obviously! It was I who suggested the words to say when he left them. I invented them, loads of them, all the phrases destined to ditch them, their mouths gaping, speechless. The break had to be clean, no mess, no trace, irrevocable, no suicides.”
“And?”
“We’re getting there.”
Now I suspected we were about to deal with the darkest period of this story, the one that would relate its culmination. Emma Van A. could sense it, too.
“A glass of port?”
“With pleasure.”
While she busied herself, it allowed us to take a breather before attacking the rest of the story. She savored the fortified wine, in no hurry to narrate the end, dismayed that we had reached it so soon.
Suddenly, she turned to me, her expression grave.
“And yet, I realized that we could no longer go back. Up to then, we had postponed the issue, gone around the obstacle, and yet now the time was coming where he would have to get married and have children. I would rather it was I who rejected him than see him leave me. Pride . . . I dreaded the moment where I would no longer be the object of his affections, but his mother. Yes, his mother . . . Who else pushes a man to take a wife and have children, when she would really rather keep him for herself?”
Her eyes grew moist. Several decades later, the same reluctance
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