“Hey, the mayor,” said Charlotte, dully.
“I have to see him!” Herman cried.
But he didn’t even try to go after him. He was more eager to say hello to Métilde, to exchange a few words with her there in the lobby.
“I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” he said.
He thought informing the mayor of his situation was simply his duty, and he was no longer convinced the mayor would be shocked and take immediate, concrete steps to help him. In all honesty, he no longer even saw that as a possibility. Happily resigned, he told himself the village would decide his fate. But he didn’t like people openly disregarding his case, and in a firm voice, meant to be heard by the two women, he added:
“Yes, tomorrow I’ll talk to him, definitely.”
He was happy to see that Métilde greeted his presence with visible pleasure and curiosity. She invited him to come along to her apartment for an aperitif. And her chignon was as perfectly smooth as it had been that morning, her cheeks dewy and fresh, her brow authoritarian and resolute. She brazenly grasped Charlotte’s arm. In fact, she seemed to share Herman’s irrepressible desire to handle her friend’s flaccid body, because he saw her poking and kneading it with a sort of implacable ardor but no plausible pretext. She clasped Charlotte’s waist as if to help her up, then clutched Charlotte’s two hands in hers, then suddenly squeezed her shoulders and palpated the back of her neck with little sighs of hungry contentment, while Herman, envying her freedom to give Charlotte this unusual treatment, wondered what sort of agreement between them had accorded Métilde the privilege she was so casually exercising there in the lobby of the town hall, before the eyes of a stranger.
Charlotte did nothing to stop her. Suddenly annoyed, as if in a fit of frustration at some vague, repeated failure, Métilde let go of her friend and called to Herman:
“Let’s go to my apartment. You can help me make her see sense.”
And Charlotte let out a little giggle.
Soon they were in Métilde’s room on the top floor of the bakers’ house, for which she paid what Herman considered a vastly inflated fifteen hundred francs a month. But rooms to rent were scarce in the village. Having left the family farm some thirty kilometers away to come and work in the town hall, Métilde had been delighted by the bakers’ price. Besides, as Herman understood it, no one saw anything contemptible—only the natural order of things—in the greed of the local merchants, highly regarded as they were for their influence over the mayor, for their network of contacts all over the region, even beyond L., and also perhaps for the indisputable majesty of the wives, whether straight and severe or gracefully bowed behind their counters, twelve hours a day—their grace was genuinely inexhaustible, unaffected by late-afternoon fatigue or miserly customers.
Herman was surprised to find Métilde’s tidy little room filled with books. Everywhere he looked he saw works on accounting, manuals for word processing machines, self-taught courses in secretarial skills, treatises on marketing, all the many ways to self-improvement. Apart from that, there were only a few old pieces of furniture loaned by the bakers; the bed was draped with a comforter, the curtains were crocheted. Charlotte half reclined on the comforter, sighing with happiness.
“She’s going to fall asleep,” said Métilde.
She hurried forward to tug at Charlotte and sit her up on the edge of the bed. Charlotte frowned gently. But she obediently held the position Métilde had imposed on her, arms crossed over her thighs, mouth agape from dreaminess or exhaustion. As Métilde got out the bottles and glasses, scurrying from the sink to the armoire, she explained to Herman, in her crisp voice untouched by the slightest trace of weariness, that she’d been studying tirelessly for two years, all on her own, in hopes of one day finding work as an administrative assistant in L., because her ambition was not, absolutely not, to end up as a receptionist in the village town hall, or even a summer employee at the Chamber of Commerce; no, her ambition was to push herself, through work and will, all the way to L., where she’d set her sights on a number of businesses. She would soon take the exam for the Vocational Training Certificate, which meant going to L., sometime in April. She blushed a little as she spoke, and turned away in what Herman told himself was a blend of pride and trepidation.
He complimented her, but the sight of her books with their dry titles and cover photographs of determined, striving people filled him with a sudden exhaustion, as when Gilbert brought up the tennis match. He wished he could bury his nose in the comforter and its very discreet attic smell. But he was stirred by Métilde’s intensity. Again he wished her immediate success.
“Oh yes,” said Charlotte.
She was visibly forcing herself not to drop back on the mattress. Métilde poured glasses of fortified wine and sat down beside Charlotte. Again she explained to Herman what she’d meant earlier when she spoke of making Charlotte see sense. She meant nothing less than convincing her to give up the life she was leading, persuading her to follow in Métilde’s own footsteps, who would gladly sacrifice all she had to support and guide her, to convince her to work toward a career, like Métilde, and to become at long last a free and accomplished person, far from the village, where pernicious influences kept her down. Charlotte, said Métilde, was by nature an undemanding and cooperative person, powerless to resist the machinations aiming to make her serve the most ignoble interests, and—worst of all—interests deeply counter to her own, which out of pure apathy she refused to see. But Métilde knew what Charlotte’s best interests were. And so, bent toward Herman, her eye slightly fevered, she admitted unblinkingly that she would gladly renounce her ambitions if it meant she could give her friend a hand, as long as Charlotte committed to following her advice. Everything she’d read, everything she’d learned, all the efforts she’d made over the previous two years, she would happily offer it all up to Charlotte if she would only say at last that she was ready to receive her teaching, that it was long past time. She could quickly teach Charlotte the rudiments of secretarial work. Then she would help her study for her Vocational Training Certificate, which Métilde called the true key to a freedom no one had ever thought of giving Charlotte; a freedom she was too weak to demand, couldn’t even imagine, a freedom that would blossom in the lively, hard-working life of an executive secretary, for instance, at the Bodin Marble Works in L., where Métilde knew the switchboard operator. And then, if Charlotte ever appeared in the village again, it would be at the wheel of her own car, and no one would ask anything of her; she would sleep in her own room and pay for everything with her own money. Such was Métilde’s vision for Charlotte. And all her own successes meant nothing to her next to that.
Herman sipped gingerly at the slightly musty sweet wine. He nodded in agreement, enchanted by Métilde’s rapturous, almost transparent face. It occurred to him that he might say, “I’m a teacher, maybe in Paris there’s something I can do…” but he hesitated and missed his chance.
“I’m just fine the way I am,” mumbled Charlotte.
“No, you’re not,” Métilde answered softly, sighing, “you’re absolutely not.”