Paul Morand - The Man in a Hurry

“Do you know that you would make an excellent secretary?” he said.

This frantic canter through the necropolis of art, the sudden absence of her sisters, the irritating cries of “We’re closing, we’re closing”, this “marvellous” proposal that had just been made to her all had a dazzling effect on Fromentine. She, in turn, felt a childish need to provoke and astonish. She leant over to Pierre and told him in all seriousness:

“You are prolific.”

They found themselves in the Salon Carré just at the moment when the wardens were shutting up shop. The closing bell was ringing. The immortal masterpieces, warm, well protected and sure of a good night, would now be able to cohabit without any admirers other than firemen on their rounds.

Angélique, looking pale and weary, and Hedwige, hobbling like Ribera’s Clubfoot , were waiting for their sister, who arrived with five minutes to spare, the sole representative of the family left in the company of the space-gobbler. Pierre was very pleased to have loosened the Boisrosés’ ties. Fromentine looked radiant.

“Monsieur Niox has taken me on as a secretary!” she exclaimed.

“Now all you need is to learn how to spell,” said Angélique.

MADAME DE BOISROSÉ was shuffling cards as she waited for her daughters.

For some time now, she was occasionally on her own. In this bedroom, where four female existences used to unfold harmoniously, something had changed. Bonne felt it as an almost physical sensation, as though a strong draught from outside had blown away the warmth and the aroma of family virtues. She even gave this draught its proper name; but although she had figured everything out, she apportioned no blame, she said nothing and pretended she had not noticed anything, for, as monarch of this small state, she possessed that essential quality that monarchs have, that of not intervening until the last moment. This did not prevent her from getting dreadfully bored. And so, when the cleaning lady came to announce Madame de La Chaufournerie, she was delighted to welcome her.

Madame de La Chaufournerie was a tiny tinted and painted old lady, who scurried about in a self-effacing way, and who only took centre stage at tragic moments, just as the chorus occupies the proscenium arch while kings and queens are murdering one another in Mycenaean palaces. Bonne suspected her of having the evil eye and only proffered two fingers in the shape of a horn to greet her, but she happily put up with her because she could pour out her feelings freely in her presence, which is the only pleasant form of conversation; this confidante’s deafness and failing memory guaranteed discretion. Bonne treated her with disdainful indulgence; she simultaneously despised her and felt sorry for her for having married off her two daughters to officers who hadn’t a penny, which — though irritating in the circumstances — made them perfectly happy, since it meant being far away from their mother.

Madame de La Chaufournerie, though lifeless to herself, had not finished sacrificing herself for her children, bequeathing them virtually her entire pension, doing without everything for their sake, wearing herself out doing their shopping and considering herself happy if her daily advice — which she lavished on them by letter (even though she lived in the same neighbourhood) and which covered the full range of a woman’s existence, from the shape of her hairstyle to what precautions to take against microbes — was, if not exactly followed, received without impatience. Her life was like a perpetual battle in which, claws splayed and holding her breath, she was ready to pounce on any dangers that might threaten her daughters. She had the heart of a soldier in the heat of battle, paying no attention to hunger, thirst, exhaustion, fear or what was impossible; in the heroic atmosphere in which she immersed herself, the amenities of life — pleasure, comfort, respect, politeness — played no part and even had no meaning; this fragile little old lady was tough as a trooper, she attacked and surmounted whatever obstacle lay in her path and made herself unbearable wherever she went. As a result, she had no friends, which did not matter to her since she had no need of them, and the only person she saw was Bonne de Boisrosé in whom she believed, quite incorrectly, she recognized a motherly love that resembled her own.

Barely had she entered the room than Madame de La Chaufournerie came, as was her wont, straight to the point.

“I no longer see your daughters,” she said, “or rather I no longer see them from my window. Fromentine, in particular. Where are they rushing off to like that?”

“What, Herminie,” Bonne drawled, “What! Didn’t you know that Fromentine has become secretary to a well-known antique dealer?”

Herminie, who, once she had asked her questions, was not bothered about the answers, launched into a long speech that had not the least connection with the Boisrosé girls. She jumbled her sentences together in a uniform vocal register that prevented one from remembering any of them. This monotonous verbiage plunged Madame de Boisrosé into an extremely pleasant sort of hypnotized doze in which she poured out her feelings aloud.

“You’re right,” she said, “we don’t see Fromentine any more. As soon as she comes home, she locks herself away in her bedroom. She is, of course, sorting out her clothes and basing everything around this one central purpose: ‘a man to take her out’. Wouldn’t she be better off reading my Figaro to me? And the airs she puts on! She continually annoys her sisters. Hedwige sulks. It’s understandable, the younger one is trespassing on her preserve… she’ll return empty-handed; I’ve seen only too clearly that if he is chatting to Fromentine, he’s only really looking at Hedwige; but Angélique, I do rather wonder what’s biting her? She’s bored; did she get bored before? To think that I was counting on this man to restore some order to my affairs and all he has done is to sew disorder in my household! He’s indecisive, a dawdler,” she concluded in a caustic tone that pierced Madame de La Chaufournerie’s sluggish eardrum. “Yes, a dawdler!”

“But of whom are you talking, my dear?” the latter replied. And since Bonne looked vague and did not answer: “Would it be about a good catch for your girls?” (Herminie was prone to the sort of insights which, along with her exceptional inquisitorial ability, would have taken her far as an examining magistrate…) “And of course, all three are in love with him?”

Bonne gave a start.

“In love! My girls in love! Well, that would be the last straw!”

She drew her heavy jade-green Ottoman morning coat over her bosom (any allusions to love aroused these reflexes of threatened modesty in her) and cast a resentful glance at her friend.

“Love, love, that’s all you ever think about!” she said severely. “Should a woman of your age be meddling in such filth! Men ought to disgust you, just as they do me! You do make me laugh.”

But she wasn’t laughing; it was Madame de La Chaufournerie, her face like that of a scrawny overworked nag, who broke into an extremely rare fit of laughter.

“It’s you with your horror of men who’s the comical one! So have you decided never to marry your daughters?” she said.

“Yes, men are repugnant, but my daughters ought to get married,” said Bonne peremptorily.

The new secretary was extremely useful: since she knew neither shorthand nor typing, Pierre was obliged to learn them himself; since she did not know Paris very well, he did his own shopping and because she organized her own time badly, he also did Fromentine’s. She was aware of this and she laughed.