Last Century's Memoirs

Chapter 1

" You know, Sir, I don't think she'll accept to talk to you, affirmed the housemaid. Madame doesn't bear people. She doesn't bear people anymore. But I'll try. "

The lady, that looked no longer so young, crossed the corridor and let alone the visitor. Youthful, rather small for his age, with brown hair and sweet grey eyes, he had never been seen by here. The domestics had first thought that he was the new solicitor's clerk of Madame, a delicate Parisian, a faint of heart, almost haughty. 

But the honest ones had quickly changed their mind when the young man had given his better-looking smile and asked with his best manners to meet their employer.

Everybody was surprised to see him turn up from God knows where, soaked to the skin by the Atlantic rain and looking for the most famous almost-centenarian of the region, the one who had not been seen for nearly fifteen years, but whose advanced age could be guessed with perceptiveness. This isolation gave matter of debate to the washerwomen and other tattletales, who counted each day of her absence. The domestics had heard so many stories about her ! She wasn't any longer in her mansion ; she had bought a property in Agadir, Algiers, or even Menton on the French Riviera... The least funny said that her employees had killed her to get back the inheritance. The Maréchaussée had come several times, asking to see the victim, and the victim was of course very alive and very unpleased. She could not stand her discernement being questioned through her trust to the inhabitants of her house. Then, she left, furious, and still stayed hidden in her bedroom, without giving any news about her to anyone except the ones who worked here.

And now, this young man, bright as a button, reserved like a gentleman,dared to ask to meet her! Was he a descendant who came to see his old aunt to have a easy conscience when he would receive his money ? Some others had apparently not his qualms. Consequently,until they know what he wanted – he wished to tell it only to Madame – all the domestics were waiting and working in a deafening silence.

The housemaid returned some minutes later, looking relieved.

"I'll come with you ", she declared. "She agrees, but a few minutes only. She doesn't like strangers, you know. Especially when they're sent by her nephews. "

" I understand ", assured the visitor. " It won't take too long. Actually, it will depend of her answer. "

Intrigued, the domestic, however, stayed quiet. She took him through the west wing to the main apartments, and knocked to the skilfully painted door.

" Is that you, Marthe ? " asked a smothered voice.

" Yes, Madame. The stranger is with me. "

They heard a muttering, then the voice replied :

" Let him come in. "

The lady's charism gleamed even at the entrance when the young man got into the little living room. Decored with taste, it was full of books, older and newer. Novels, short stories, scientific reports,philosophy essays, nothing wasn't worthy of being read in this room. At the center, "Madame" had the place of honour, royal in her lace nightdress and her flounced dressing gown. She sat in a Voltaire armchair, covered with blue velvet, fitting with the rest of the room. She apparently stopped reading - a book was resting on her knees, and she kept the right page with her finger - and her cyan eyes were fixing him with annoyance. Her voice brought him back to reality: 

"Well? It seems to me that I gave you only a few minutes! What are you waiting for, eating flies?"

It startled the newcomer. He didnt' expect so much vehemence from an old lady, but the de Douarnez's matriarch was siting up straight, ready to counterattack in case of need. 

"I... I apologize for this disruption, Madame, sincerely. My name is Théophile Dieudonné, I am a biographer."

"A biographer?"

"Yes, Madame."

"So you want to write my biography?"

"I was sent here for this task, Madame."

"My stupid grandnephews sent you here, did they?"

Théophile simply shrugged his shoulders with a sheepish look. 

"And what interests would have they to possess my biography? It is not a book of trading shares" said the aristocrat. 

"I wasn't been told, Madame."

She nodded and concluded nonchalantly:

"I am not interested. Marthe, escort him to the exit."

She took again her book, verifying the page, while the housemaid took him out of her sight. The latter tried one more time:

"Madame, I only want to do my job!"

"You will do your job in another family! I don't like the failed writers, and even less the tattletales!"

"I know, about Marianne!"

Startled, Marthe released his arm. He continued:

"The late Marianne Le Perthuis! She left us last year!"

The book had fallen for the old woman's knees, who articulated furiously:

"Yes, and it is for this reason that even the village's chatterboxes don't pronouce her name anymore. So you, you little penpusher from the suburbs, how can you dare to do so?"

"I have nothing against her. In the contrary. I only want to tell the truth. To achieve justice."

"How do you know her?"

"Many people know her. I know that she has been disinherited by her father, abandonned by her own family!"

"It was long before you were born."

"Notoriety doesn't go like the gale, Madame! Why was she despised, while you were adored?"

"Enough!"

He knew he was putting her to the test. She could sent him away to Paris, and overall advertise his capacities very poperly, even isolated as she was at that moment. 

"You are as stubborn as a deep-sea fisherman, and shameless in front of a respectable lady."

Théophile ducked his head; he felt that he was going to be put in his place in a quarter of a second. 

"I was exactly the same at your age."

He opened wide eyes, stupefied by the thunderbolt that hasn't fallen upon his head. The mistress of the house declared, vaguely interested:

"People that look alike and can't understand each other have another point in common: nonsense. Yet, I don't consider myself as a foolish person, and you don't seem to be one of them, Monsieur Dieudonné."

"I hope so, Madame."

"Good. Be here tomorrow, at two o'clock in the afternoon, rested and fit. And patient. You will not only write my story."

"Madame..."

"Don't tell me that you haven't been careful enough to rent a bedroom!"

"No! Well, yes, I took a bedroom in the village..."

"So what?"

"Thank you. Very much. It is an honour, really."

The old lady sighed, retaking her book. 

"Go away."

And he left without being asked twice.