The Catalans. Patrick O’Brian

is the range of an artist’s feelings, he thought, only an artist could suffer so much: and the tears rolled on.

       CHAPTER THREE

      ‘But, my dear Alain, how very yellow your face appears,’ she said, settling down comfortably, now that she had got him alone at last.

      ‘My dear Aunt Margot,’ he replied, ‘I suppose it does.’

      ‘But, my dear Alain,’ she said in a kindly but serious tone, leaning forward and tapping him on the knee, ‘why is it so yellow?’

      A vision of the Luong river, sliding dark and smooth in the suffocating gloom; the matted forest steaming in the thunderous rain; paddy fields, lichee trees, mushroom hats, flashed across his mind; but he despaired of his ability to describe the causes and the circumstances of his face’s yellowness, and replied vaguely, ‘It is the climate, you know.’

      ‘The climate? Yes; and the food, no doubt. I cannot think that the climate has so much to do with it, or the people here would be blue, if not yellow and black as well. There never was such a disagreeable climate as this, with its unhealthy dryness and clouds of dust, and the dreadful wind that never stops except in midsummer, when you need it. This last winter … I am sure I was better off in the Pas-de-Calais, where at least it does not pretend to be warm, and where the houses are properly built for the winter. But Alain, you would be far better with a wife to look after your house and see that you are properly fed: these birds’ nests and extraordinary dishes – mice, sharks’ fins – I don’t know indeed, but they cannot be good for you in the long run, however interesting at first, as curiosities.’

      ‘You are a friend to marriage, Aunt Margot: you rarely miss an opportunity of recommending me to take some young woman or other back with me. Yet the idea of Xavier having a wife again does not seem to please you?’

      ‘Ah, that! No, indeed. And I am surprised that you should refer to it so lightly, Alain; if you knew how it grieved me, I am sure you would not do so.’

      ‘Tell me, has anything definite happened since you wrote to me last?’

      ‘I wrote to you last in –’ With her lips pursed and her eyes thrown up to the ceiling she numbered the days, weeks, months. ‘No. I cannot say that anything definite has happened, if you mean by that has he publicly announced that he is going to marry her, or has he been taken off in a strait jacket to the madhouse. That is where he would be if I had my way: I often tell him so. No: it has gone on in the same fashion, but now of course it is still more widely known. I have had letters of sympathy from Mme. Marty in Toulouse and from André at Constantine.’

      ‘I cannot see what it has to do with them. But when you say it is going on in the same fashion, what exactly do you mean? I have not gathered an exact impression: judging from Côme’s remarks I should have supposed the girl to be a flaunting Jezebel, Xavier’s acknowledged mistress – practically a common woman. But then, as I remember, she was very often with you before her marriage; and I cannot reconcile that with a very high degree of open depravity.’ He smiled tentatively, having intended to be a little facetious. However, his aunt frowned and said coldly, ‘No; I do not suppose you can.’ She paused; and then, with an air of almost masculine candor, quite characteristic of her, she said, ‘I do not know what Côme has said, but I should say that it is certainly untrue. This girl is not a bad girl at all. She sees her advantage, and she wishes to profit by it: that is all. If it were not that her gain is our loss, I should have nothing to say, nothing at all. But as it is … No. This question apart, I have nothing to say against Madeleine: indeed, I had a real affection for her. When she was a young girl I was very fond of her – too fond of her, perhaps – and when her good-for-nothing husband ran off I was exceedingly sorry for Madeleine. Even now I should be sorry if she were unhappy. No: I do not say that she is vicious or dishonest. But I do say that for us she is the enemy, and must be fought like one.’

      ‘So there is no moral issue?’

      ‘Yes, there is a moral issue. She should not take advantage of Xavier’s lunacy.’

      ‘Is she his mistress?’

      ‘I do not think so. I cannot say, of course. From what I know of her I should say that she was virtuous; though it is true that she has a much more secretive nature than I liked, even then; and her marriage changed her a great deal. But I should certainly say that she is not his mistress, if for no other reason than that it would not answer her purpose. If it paid her to play the whore, it would be a different matter; though even then, I would not say for certain.’

      ‘You say that she takes advantage of Xavier’s madness. I take it, then, that there is no inclination on her side – she does not care for him at all?’

      ‘Care for him? Why of course not, Alain: how could you ask such a simple question? Think of Xavier’s age and his appearance. He looks exactly like a dried old goat; you know he does. But of course, you never saw Francisco Cortade when he was grown up.’

      ‘The husband?’

      ‘Yes. He was no good at all, no good whatever: but, my dear Alain, he looked like what’s-his-name in the thing.’

      ‘Did he, though?’

      ‘He did indeed. And still does, of course, wherever he is. He would make three of Xavier and still leave some to spare. A big, straight young fellow, very good-looking. Rather too good-looking for my taste, all gleaming teeth and curly hair, you know. But I must admit that he was not flashy, like most of the youths here who think themselves handsome, and he did not even look too much of a lout when he was dressed in his best clothes. He was not the sort who would wear well at all: no; there was too much youthful charm altogether; but he was exactly the kind of young man who would make a silly girl’s heart turn right over. I could understand her perfectly well although I never was a romantically inclined woman and although I disapproved, I thought that forty years ago I might have felt the same. I would never have acted as she did, of course; but I might have thought about it. And besides being so good-looking, he had that helplessness that is so appealing to an affectionate nature: that is to say, he appeared to have it. He appeared an ingenuous young man, too. However … No; I am convinced that Madeleine is eating her heart out for him. But even if she were not, I cannot see her looking at Xavier with anything but a businesslike eye. After all, he is twice her age, and even my dear sister-in-law, if she were alive now, could not call him anything but a dried-up old stick.’

      ‘Sometimes one finds girls madly enamored of men as old as their fathers. It is not so rare, either. And then again, Xavier is not actually decrepit, is he? If he were thinking of marrying, re-marrying, a handsome, well-connected dowry, are you sure that you would think of him as such an old man?’

      ‘Well, perhaps not. But that really has nothing to do with the case, has it? There is no dowry or connection here.’

      ‘So she is entirely mercenary?’

      ‘Yes. Though prudent would be a better word. Prudential motives, they say, don’t they? Though if we are to be entirely just to the girl I should say that I do not think she has her heart in the affair: I think it is mainly her family pushing her on. Though no doubt she sees her advantage as clearly as anybody.’

      ‘The family. That is the Pou-naous in the arcades.’

      ‘Yes. The father has the vineyard next to ours at the Puig d’en Calbo: there is not much harm in him. It is Mimi l’Empereur who is the dangerous one. She is Madeleine’s aunt.’

      ‘I know her. Strong-minded woman.’

      ‘Yes. She always ruled that family – both the others have always been afraid of her – and she is the one who is pushing the girl on. Her motive is clear enough, of course.’

      ‘Has she some special motive?’

      ‘You cannot have forgotten that old René l’Empereur is the one who has the tobacco license? Her father-in-law.’

      ‘No