Part 76 (1/2)

”I think I have been happier this month in Paris than ever before in my life. It seems six, so much has happened in it.”

”Poissac is where I am happiest.”

”Where is that?”

”We have a country house there, very old and very tumbledown. They say that Rabelais used to come to the village. But our house is from later, from the time of Henri Quatre. Poissac is not far from Tours. An ugly name, isn't it? But to me it is very beautiful. The house has orchards all round it, and yellow roses with flushed centers poke themselves in my window, and there is a little tower like Montaigne's.”

”When I get out of the army, I shall go somewhere in the country and work and work.”

”Music should be made in the country, when the sap is rising in the trees.”

”'D'apres nature,' as the rabbit man said.”

”Who's the rabbit man?”

”A very pleasant person,” said Andrews, bubbling with laughter. ”You shall meet him some day. He sells little stuffed rabbits that jump, outside the Cafe de Rohan.”

”Here we are.... Thank you for coming home with me.”

”But how soon. Are you sure it is the house? We can't have got there as soon as this.”

”Yes, it's my house,” said Genevieve Rod laughing. She held out her hand to him and he shook it eagerly. The latchkey clicked in the door.

”Why don't you have a cup of tea with us here tomorrow?” she said.

”With pleasure.”

The big varnished door with its knocker in the shape of a ring closed behind her. Andrews walked away with a light step, feeling jolly and exhilarated.

As he walked down the mist-filled quai towards the Place St. Michel, his ears were filled with the lisping gurgle of the river past the piers of the bridges.

Walters was asleep. On the table in his room was a card from Jeanne.

Andrews read the card holding it close to the candle.

”How long it is since I saw you!” it read. ”I shall pa.s.s the Cafe de Rohan Wednesday at seven, along the pavement opposite the Magazin du Louvre.”

It was a card of Malmaison.

Andrews flushed. Bitter melancholy throbbed through him. He walked languidly to the window and looked out into the dark court. A window below his spilled a warm golden haze into the misty night, through which he could make out vaguely some pots of ferns standing on the wet flagstones. From somewhere came a dense smell of hyacinths. Fragments of thought slipped one after another through his mind. He thought of himself was.h.i.+ng windows long ago at training camp, and remembered the way the gritty sponge sc.r.a.ped his hands. He could not help feeling shame when he thought of those days. ”Well, that's all over now,” he told himself. He wondered, in a half-irritated way, about Genevieve Rod. What sort of a person was she? Her face, with its wide eyes and pointed chin and the reddish-chestnut hair, unpretentiously coiled above the white forehead, was very vivid in his mind, though when he tried to remember what it was like in profile, he could not. She had thin hands, with long fingers that ought to play the piano well. When she grew old would she be yellow-toothed and jolly, like her mother? He could not think of her old; she was too vigorous; there was too much malice in her pa.s.sionately-restrained gestures. The memory of her faded, and there came to his mind Jeanne's overworked little hands, with callous places, and the tips of the fingers grimy and scarred from needlework. But the smell of hyacinths that came up from the mist-filled courtyard was like a sponge wiping all impressions from his brain. The dense sweet smell in the damp air made him feel languid and melancholy.

He took off his clothes slowly and got into bed. The smell of the hyacinths came to him very faintly, so that he did not know whether or not he was imagining it.

The major's office was a large white-painted room, with elaborate mouldings and mirrors in all four walls, so that while Andrews waited, cap in hand, to go up to the desk, he could see the small round major with his pink face and bald head repeated to infinity in two directions in the grey brilliance of the mirrors.

”What do you want?” said the major, looking up from some papers he was signing.

Andrews stepped up to the desk. On both sides of the room a skinny figure in olive-drab, repeated endlessly, stepped up to endless mahogany desks, which faded into each other in an endless dusty perspective.

”Would you mind O.K.-ing this application for discharge, Major?”