Nothing has been forgotten and nothing will be. You can count on Florida. Madame can go off and cry in peace. Iâll see to everything.
There she is now, standing in the doorway. Impossible to hear her coming, with those slippers she always wears. The heavy, muffled step, those big feet and their giant strides. That long, curved, equine neck of hers, with its little head of braided hair bobbing about. Just like an undertakerâs horse, tossing her little gray braids, ribboned with black. Sheâs smiling now, a mouthful of long, white teeth.
âItâs market day. Some of the wagons are coming by already. Madame can go to sleep now. No need to worry about Monsieur. Iâll be here.â
Florida lifts up Jérôme Rolland in her powerful arms, turns him over like an empty box. Takes off his nightshirt, soaked with sweat, washes him all around, puts on a clean one. Elisabeth feels sheâs in the way, stands aside. Leans out the window. Sees in the reflection of the room behind her â now suddenly Floridaâs room â all the early-morning bustle of a hospital.
Madame Rolland surrenders her husband to those soothing hands that take possession of him. And as she steals out of the room, Monsieur Rolland â washed, shaved, and much relieved â falls off to sleep between fresh sheets, exhausted. Florida keeps watch, motionless in her chair beside the bed. Monsieur Rolland is dreaming that he will lie forever, nestled in Floridaâs lap.
Thrown out! Out of the room we shared together. Out of my bed. Eighteen years with that mild little man, lying together in a fine, big bed, all carved by hand. Feather mattress, linen sheets . . . And now, alone. In this tiny bed, this ludicrous little bed the governess sleeps in. The childrenâs governess, Léontine Mélançon. And Léontine, upstairs in Anne-Marieâs room, sleeping on a sofa. Since yesterday. Now that Jérôme is so sick . . . That smell. Like ink. A musty, old-maid smell . . . I have to fall asleep. Sleep. Quick, before the children all start waking up. Have to get used to sleeping by myself. To put up with my horrible dreams. Alone. No man to run to, no man to protect me. Knowing that someone is there, under the covers. The heat of a body to keep you warm. An embrace to comfort you. Cleanse you of every ill: short-lived eternity, at peace again with the whole wide world. Today I can admit it, dear little Jérôme. If not for you, Iâd be dead by now, frightened to death. Devoured by my nightmares, ripped to shreds. A storm of terror rages around us. There, in the snow, I see a man all covered with blood. I see him there, stretched out forever, his stiff arm, frozen, pointing up to heaven . . . Oh, Jérôme! Dear, dear Jérôme! Iâm so afraid! Take me in your arms just one more time.Help me find my lost salvation. A little peace. A little sleep at last!
Madame Rolland gets up with a start, surprised to be lying on Léontineâs bed in all her clothes. I must have dozed . . .
Twice she tries before she can pull down the covers, tucked in so smooth and tight. She loosens her bodice, unbuckles her belt. Thinks about calling someone to come unbutton her shoes and help her out of them. But no, she doesnât dare. It might wake the children. A mouthful of hairpins between her lips, she bends over to unbutton the shoes herself. Almost chokes on one of the pins, almost swallows it. Bursts out sobbing. Locks of reddish hair, disheveled, falling in her eyes. A breast bulging out of her corset.
At last she lies down. On top of the covers. That sour, slovenly old-maid smell! Too much, I canât stand it! . . . Elisabeth closes her eyes.
Guilty! Guilty! Youâre guilty, Madame Rolland! She jumps up, listens. On the floor below, Floridaâs solemn step is bustling about, here and there, by her husbandâs bed. Has Jérôme taken a turn for the worse? No, Florida would let me know,
There she is now, standing in the doorway. Impossible to hear her coming, with those slippers she always wears. The heavy, muffled step, those big feet and their giant strides. That long, curved, equine neck of hers, with its little head of braided hair bobbing about. Just like an undertakerâs horse, tossing her little gray braids, ribboned with black. Sheâs smiling now, a mouthful of long, white teeth.
âItâs market day. Some of the wagons are coming by already. Madame can go to sleep now. No need to worry about Monsieur. Iâll be here.â
Florida lifts up Jérôme Rolland in her powerful arms, turns him over like an empty box. Takes off his nightshirt, soaked with sweat, washes him all around, puts on a clean one. Elisabeth feels sheâs in the way, stands aside. Leans out the window. Sees in the reflection of the room behind her â now suddenly Floridaâs room â all the early-morning bustle of a hospital.
Madame Rolland surrenders her husband to those soothing hands that take possession of him. And as she steals out of the room, Monsieur Rolland â washed, shaved, and much relieved â falls off to sleep between fresh sheets, exhausted. Florida keeps watch, motionless in her chair beside the bed. Monsieur Rolland is dreaming that he will lie forever, nestled in Floridaâs lap.
Thrown out! Out of the room we shared together. Out of my bed. Eighteen years with that mild little man, lying together in a fine, big bed, all carved by hand. Feather mattress, linen sheets . . . And now, alone. In this tiny bed, this ludicrous little bed the governess sleeps in. The childrenâs governess, Léontine Mélançon. And Léontine, upstairs in Anne-Marieâs room, sleeping on a sofa. Since yesterday. Now that Jérôme is so sick . . . That smell. Like ink. A musty, old-maid smell . . . I have to fall asleep. Sleep. Quick, before the children all start waking up. Have to get used to sleeping by myself. To put up with my horrible dreams. Alone. No man to run to, no man to protect me. Knowing that someone is there, under the covers. The heat of a body to keep you warm. An embrace to comfort you. Cleanse you of every ill: short-lived eternity, at peace again with the whole wide world. Today I can admit it, dear little Jérôme. If not for you, Iâd be dead by now, frightened to death. Devoured by my nightmares, ripped to shreds. A storm of terror rages around us. There, in the snow, I see a man all covered with blood. I see him there, stretched out forever, his stiff arm, frozen, pointing up to heaven . . . Oh, Jérôme! Dear, dear Jérôme! Iâm so afraid! Take me in your arms just one more time.Help me find my lost salvation. A little peace. A little sleep at last!
Madame Rolland gets up with a start, surprised to be lying on Léontineâs bed in all her clothes. I must have dozed . . .
Twice she tries before she can pull down the covers, tucked in so smooth and tight. She loosens her bodice, unbuckles her belt. Thinks about calling someone to come unbutton her shoes and help her out of them. But no, she doesnât dare. It might wake the children. A mouthful of hairpins between her lips, she bends over to unbutton the shoes herself. Almost chokes on one of the pins, almost swallows it. Bursts out sobbing. Locks of reddish hair, disheveled, falling in her eyes. A breast bulging out of her corset.
At last she lies down. On top of the covers. That sour, slovenly old-maid smell! Too much, I canât stand it! . . . Elisabeth closes her eyes.
Guilty! Guilty! Youâre guilty, Madame Rolland! She jumps up, listens. On the floor below, Floridaâs solemn step is bustling about, here and there, by her husbandâs bed. Has Jérôme taken a turn for the worse? No, Florida would let me know,