Emmanuel Bove - Henri Duchemin and His Shadows

Alone again, I sat down on the bed. It was still quite light out. Someone was playing a guitar in a house nearby. At times he played the same tune twice in a row. Birds flew across the blue sky so quickly they seemed to be following a straight line. They were black, the way all birds are in the late afternoon.

I got up. I picked up my hat. I waited a bit so I would not catch up to Monsieur Boudier-Martel. I opened the door; the landing was deserted. I went out and strolled about until night fell.

* * *

I will always remember that radiant day that was one of the saddest of my life.

The previous night I had fallen asleep late because in my bed I had been thinking about Monsieur Boudier-Martel. I am such a good person that whenever I am far from people I no longer see their faults. I had foolishly imagined that Monsieur Boudier-Martel, in his bed, was also thinking about me. So I looked at my watch. I decided right then to go to his house the next day to tell him that at 11:10 p.m. our thoughts had crossed.

In the morning the idea seemed ridiculous to me. But since it had already been three days since we’d seen each other, I did not go back on my decision. He had been so insistent for me to come to lunch at his house that I was not afraid of abusing his kindness.

I put on my best clothes. When I’m in my room, I always find I look fine, but as soon as I go out, as soon as I am on the street mixing with the crowd, I realize how poorly I’m dressed. It’s not a question of contrast. No one notices me. It’s because I think everyone can see the life I lead and that they are all saying: “He’s only got what he deserves.” So I am fearful, and I lack confidence. I’m wrong. No one pays me any mind.

I left my room at eleven thirty. Usually I leave earlier, but that day I wanted to arrive at Monsieur Boudier-Martel’s fresh and clean, without a trace of dust.

The heat was overwhelming. A vehicle washing down the streets wet my feet. I walked slowly because even though the visit I had decided to pay was entirely justified, I was nervous.

The noon bells were ringing everywhere when I arrived in front of Monsieur Boudier-Martel’s. I went straight in. The corridor was not as cool as it had been the previous time; all the doors were closed. In summer, doors seem as though they are never supposed to open.

The elevator wasn’t there. I climbed the stairs. The railing was too wide to be held. When I got to the door, I removed my hat, then put it back on. I was panting, but with emotion—I couldn’t blame it on having climbed six flights of stairs.

I had to ring. Without bothering to switch on the hall light, I pressed the bell. I waited a few seconds.

“Is Monsieur in?” I asked the maid, one hand on the wall, the other in my pocket.

I struck this pose as soon as I saw her because I cannot bear servants. I wanted to show her that, although I was poorly dressed, I was above her. No doubt she felt it and, either out of unkindness or to get even, she asked:

“Monsieur who?”

I almost lost all the confidence I had worked so hard to gain.

“Your master,” I answered insolently.

I immediately regretted this outburst. I realized I was, after all, at the mercy of this woman. What could I have done if she had answered, “My master! He’s not in!” So right away I added:

“You must recognize me. I came for lunch the other day.”

And although I stammered, humiliated and frightened now, I was nonetheless reserving the pleasure of speaking ill of her later to Monsieur Boudier-Martel.

“Yes, he’s here. Come in.”

I removed my hat, despite the fact that I was loath to do so in front of this maid. She was capable of thinking I’d done it on her account.

“And whom should I announce?”

I hesitated a moment.

“Announce the gentleman who came to lunch the other day.”

“But which one? Gentlemen come every day.”

This time, I had to say my name. She was going to make fun of me; she would laugh. Oh, well, after all, my name is my name. I don’t have to be afraid of saying it.

“Monsieur Bâton.”

“Bâton.”

“Yes.”

“Please wait here.”

I sat in one of those foyer chairs where one sets down packages and hats, but where only people like me actually sit.

A door opened. Monsieur Boudier-Martel appeared without a collar, in his dressing gown. I leaped up.

Without moving, he held his hands out to me.

“Ah, it’s you. I am so pleased to see you. Come in. Let me introduce you to a friend, a man like you. Come in, come in.”

“A man like me?”

“Yes, come in.”

I did not have time to think. I went in stunned, happy, as in dreams we remember.

Suddenly I stopped cold. Instead of circulating through my whole body my blood all rushed to my head. Monsieur Boudier-Martel was pointing at me. The maid was somewhere behind me. Someone was speaking. I heard some words. The door, gently and by itself, was closing.

I had just seen, right there, in the same chair where I had sat, a poor man, a poor man like me. I needn’t look at them for long. I recognize them immediately. It was obvious that, right there, in the armchair, was a poor man.

“Come in, come in, my friend.”

I said nothing. Now I understood everything. Monsieur Boudier-Martel did not love me. He loved poor people.

“Well, come in, Bâton. What’s wrong?”

“No, no, I’m leaving. I don’t feel well.”

I was backing away. Monsieur Boudier-Martel followed slowly. I could tell he did not want to come any closer to me. You never draw close to people who abruptly change their attitude.

“Stay, dear man, stay. You’re at home here; you are my friend.”

I was still retreating, and then I opened the door.

“I’ll come back shortly, Monsieur. I don’t feel well. I’m ill. I have to go.”

I went out, leaving the door open. I could have closed it, but I did not have the will. As long as it stayed open, something was still possible between Monsieur Boudier-Martel and me. He could follow me, beg me to come back. I don’t know what I would have done in that case.

If I left the door open, it was so he would be the one to close it, so that he would be the one to break off our friendship forever, so that in my loneliness I would at least have reason to suffer because of other people’s lack of understanding.

Monsieur Boudier-Martel remained in front of his door as I descended the stairs. It seemed as if the landing was as far as he could go, and that the stairway was an abyss. He leaned forward, calling to me, not daring to place a foot on the first step.

“Come back, Bâton. What’s the matter?”

I, for my part, walked away very slowly. When I got to the hallway, I stopped. Was it because my suffering was not as great as I thought that I caught myself on guard, listening to what was happening on the mezzanine?

The door slammed shut. It was over.

In the blinding light of the street, it seemed that everything that had just happened in the shade of the house was already lost to the past. I did not weep. One never weeps right away. I was so on edge that, although I was not laughing, my face was contracted as if I were.

Days passed.

I would have forgotten this sad story a long time ago had I not retained the impression that Monsieur Boudier-Martel knew why I had left. He was certainly aware that a base sense of jealousy had forced me to flee, that I would have stayed if there had been a rich man instead of a poor man in the dining room. I’m sure he knew all the petty thoughts going through my mind at the time. Yes, without a doubt, he knew them all because, had I been in his shoes, I too would have guessed them.

What was making me sad? My books—all my books—were sleeping on the shelves. No one had spoken badly of me. My family and friends had no particular worries. I found myself in the midst of all things. So I did not need to fear that events, in my absence, would take a turn I would be unable to change. I was not unhappy with myself. And, even had I been, this intensity of feeling was different.