Free The Bachelors by Henri de Montherlant Page B

Coëtquidan at the bottom of the garden — M. de Coëtquidan standing motionless as a statue, his stick dangling from a waistcoat pocket. Normally at this hour, whenever he was at home, M. Élie would be prowling around outside the kitchen waiting to tease the cats when they came in for lunch. It was clear that M. de Coëtquidan was 'blockaded' at the end of the garden by the presence of the small boy. He must have been loitering there, waiting until it was time for the cats, or else urinating against a certain tree, a sort of sacred tree against which it was a solemn ritual for the two gentlemen to relieve themselves, when the small boy arrived, and now he dared not go in for precisely the same reasons that prevented M. de Coantré from turning off the tap.
    (It was an old story. Often, in summer, Mme de Coantré would be sitting in the garden when a caller arrived, whom the old lady would receive under the shade of the trees. If either of the two gentlemen happened to be there, as soon as the bell rang he would disappear into a tool-shed by the garden wall and stay there, sometimes for as much as an hour, crouching in the dark among the rats and the cobwebs, unable to get back to the house without passing the visitor. Better a whole day imprisoned with the rats than to have to put themselves out for a few minutes with a guest.)
    Meanwhile M. de Coantré had decided that he must at all costs turn off the tap; this water overflowing was like blood flowing from his veins. As he went forward, he saw the little boy raise his head, smile and come towards him. His courage failed him, and on an impulse of irresistible panic he turned tail and retreated towards the kitchen.
    But alas! the little boy was of a naturally friendly disposition. He followed M. de Coantré, and the latter, thinking it better on the whole for an encounter in which he would cut a poor figure to take place without witnesses rather than in front of the cook, wheeled round and bravely stood his ground.
    'Don't you pick ticklers?' asked the little boy.
    'I'm afraid not. . . .'
    'Why? Won't your mummy let you?'
    M. de Coantré, who was a sentimental soul, found the question charming, and smiled. But he was so embarrassed that he could think of nothing to say. Then the small boy held out a handful of those hard little fruits of the wild rose which undignified people call 'ticklers' and which are the delight of children and birds in their mysterious picnics.
    'Here you are, would you like some?'
    'Eh? What would I do with them?'
    No sooner had he spoken than he realized, both from his gruff tone and the look of surprise that had superseded the cheerful expression on the child's face, that he had replied churlishly to this friendly offer. He felt he ought to say something, take the hips and put them in his pocket — but he had for so long been cut off from human intercourse that he could not bring himself to do so.
    At that moment he saw a shadowy figure pass hurriedly behind the little boy and sneak into the house. It was M. de Coëtquidan, who, taking advantage of the fact that the child's attention was distracted, had put on speed from the bottom of the garden and made port. Emboldened by the pleasure of having spotted his uncle and having rendered him this high strategic service, M. de Coantré summoned up the strength to say to the little boy 'Well, now, enjoy yourself. . . .' and then to lunge forward, as though leading a cavalry charge, turn off the tap and return triumphantly to the house without being further troubled by the child.
    They sat down to lunch and were in the middle of discussing the social implications of this encounter ('A charming youngster! And so clean! . . .' — 'In my day working-class children looked like working-class children. Now they're all like little gents.' — 'There aren't any classes left.') when the bell rang and Mélanie said: 'It's the postman.'
    For twenty years, whenever the postman rang, M. de Coantré had seen a wave