To the right of the house were greenhouses, closed and full of marvellous plants … The stone staircase widened out gently as it descended to the level of the gravel courtyard; on each step there were flaming geraniums, calceolarias with little tiger-striped bellies, dwarf rose-trees that had been forced into too much bloom.
The obvious absence of any owner restored my courage.
‘I say, are you coming or not?
We’re not going to take root in the gardens of the Sleeping-Miser-in-the-Wood!’
‘Ssh!’ whispered Marie in terror.
‘What d’you mean, ssh?
On the contrary, we must call out!
Hi, over there!
Monsieur Caillavaut!
Gardener!’
No answer; all remained silence.
I went over to the greenhouses, and, pressing my face against the panes, I tried to make out what was inside; a kind of dark emerald forest, dotted with splashes of brilliant colour that must certainly be exotic flowers … The door was locked.
‘Let’s go,’ whispered Luce, ill at ease.
‘Let’s go,’ repeated Marie, even more anxious. ‘Suppose the old man jumped out from behind a tree!’
This idea made them flee towards the door; I called them back at the top of my voice.
‘Don’t be such dolts!
You can see there isn’t anyone here.
Listen … you’re each going to choose two or three pots, the best ones on the stone steps. We’ll carry them off back there, without saying anything and I think we’ll have a huge success!’
They did not budge; definitely tempted, but nervous.
I seized two clumps of ‘Venus’s slippers’, speckled like tit’s eggs, and I made a sign that I was waiting.
Anais decided to imitate me and loaded herself with two double geraniums; Marie imitated Anais, Luce too, and we all four walked discreetly away.
Near the door, absurd terror seized us again; we crowded each other like sheep in the narrow opening of the door and we ran all the way to the School where Mademoiselle welcomed us with cries of joy.
All at once, we recounted our Odyssey. The Headmistress, startled, remained in perplexity for a moment, then concluded light-heartedly:
‘Well, well, we shall see!
After all, it’s only a loan … a slightly forced one.’
We’ve never, never heard one mention of it since, but old Caillavaut has put up a bristling defence of spikes and broken tiles on his walls (this theft earned us a certain prestige; they’re connoisseurs in brigandage here).
Our flowers were placed in the front row and then, goodness me!, in the whirlwind of the ministerial arrival, we completely forgot to return them; they now embellish Mademoiselle’s garden.
For a good long time now, this garden has been the one single subject of discord between Mademoiselle and that great fat woman, her mother. The latter, who has remained an out-and-out peasant, digs, weeds, tracks snails to their last retreats, and has no other ideal than to grow beds of cabbages, beds of leeks, beds of potatoes – enough to feed all the boarders without buying anything, in fact.
Her daughter’s refined nature dreams of deep arbours, flowering shrubs, pergolas wreathed in honeysuckle – in short, of useless plants!
As a result, one could alternately see Mother Sergent giving contemptuous hacks with her hoe at the little lacquer-trees and weeping birches and Mademoiselle stamping an irritated heel on the borders of sorrel and the odorous chives.
This battle convulses us with joy.
I must be just and also admit that, everywhere else except in the garden and in the kitchen, Madame Sergent effaces herself completely, never pays us a visit, never gives her opinion in discussions, and bravely wears her goffered peasant’s bonnet.
The most amusing thing, in the few hours that now remained to us, was arriving at the School and going home again through the unrecognizable streets, transformed into forest paths and parklike landscapes, all fragrant with the penetrating smell of cut firs.
It was as if the woods that encircled Montigny had invaded it, had come in and almost buried it … One could not have dreamed of a prettier, more becoming decoration for this little town lost among the trees … I cannot bring myself to say more ‘adequate’, it’s a word I simply loathe.
The flags, which will make all these green alleys ugly and commonplace, will all be in place tomorrow, not to mention the Venetian lanterns and the fairy-lights.
What a pity!
No one felt embarrassed with us; the women and boys called out to us as we passed:
‘Hi! you there, you’ve got the trick of it! Come on, come and ’elp us a bit sticking in these roses!’
We ‘’elped’ willingly. We climbed up ladders: my companions let themselves – all for the Minister’s sake, of course! – be tickled around the waist and sometimes on the calves: I must say that no one ever allowed themselves those little pranks on the daughter of the ‘Gentleman of the slugs’.
In any case, with these boys who don’t give it another thought once their hand is removed, it’s offensive and not even annoying; I can understand the girls from the School falling in with the general behaviour.
Anais allowed all liberties and yearned after still more; Fefed carried her down from the top of the ladder in his arms.
Touchard, known as Zero, stuffed prickly branches of pine under her skirts; she gave little squeaks, like a mouse caught in a door, and half closed swooning eyes, without strength even to pretend to put up a defence.
Mademoiselle let us rest a little, for fear we should be too limp and tired on the great day.
Beside, I really could not see what remained to be done; everything was decked with flowers, everything was in place; the cut flowers were soaking their stalks in buckets of cool water in the cellar; they would be scattered all over the place at the last moment.
Our three bouquets arrived this morning in a big, fragile packing-case; Mademoiselle did not want us even to unnail it completely: she removed one slat, and slightly lifted up the tissue-paper which shrouded the patriotic flowers and the cotton wool from which came a damp smell: then Old Madame Sergent promptly took the light case, in which rattled crystals of some salt that I don’t know and that prevents flowers from fading, down to the cellar.
Nursing her principal subjects, the Headmistress sent us off, Anais, Marie, Luce and me, to rest in the garden under the hazels.
Slumped in the shade on the green bench, our minds were almost blank; the garden hummed.
As if stung by a fly, Marie Belhomme gave a start and suddenly began to unwind one of the big curl-papers that, for three days, had been quivering round her head.
‘… ’t ’you doing?’
‘Seeing if it’s curled, of course!’