Autobiographical fiction; France -- Social life and customs -- Fiction
but respectful air. Robert’s mistress began to gaze at him with a
strange attentiveness. But Aimé’s sunken eyes, in which a slight
short-sightedness gave one the impression of veiled depths, shewed no
sign of consciousness in his still face. In the provincial hotel in
which he had served for many years before coming to Balbec, the charming
sketch, now a trifle discoloured and faded, which was his face, and
which, for all those years, like some engraved portrait of Prince
Eugène, had been visible always at the same place, at the far end of a
dining-room that was almost always empty, could not have attracted any
very curious gaze. He had thus for long remained, doubtless for want of
sympathetic admirers, in ignorance of the artistic value of his face,
and but little inclined for that matter to draw attention to it, for he
was temperamentally cold. At the most, some passing Parisian, stopping
for some reason in the town, had raised her eyes to his, had asked him
perhaps to bring something to her in her room before she left for the
station, and in the pellucid, monotonous, deep void of this existence of
a faithful husband and servant in a country town had hidden the secret
of a caprice without sequel which no one would ever bring to light. And
yet Aimé must have been conscious of the insistent emphasis with which
the eyes of the young actress were fastened upon him now. Anyhow, it did
not escape Robert beneath whose skin I saw gathering a flush, not vivid
like that which burned his cheeks when he felt any sudden emotion, but
faint, diffused.
“Anything specially interesting about that waiter, Zézette?” he
inquired, after sharply dismissing Aimé. “One would think you were
studying the part.”
“There you are, beginning again; I knew it was coming.”
“Beginning what again, my dear girl? I may have been mistaken; I haven’t
said anything, I’m sure. But I have at least the right to warn you
against the fellow, seeing that I knew him at Balbec (otherwise I
shouldn’t give a damn), and a bigger scoundrel doesn’t walk the face of
the earth.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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