Mad Shadows by Marie-Claire Blais

Author:Marie-Claire Blais [Blais, Marie-Claire]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: French Literature, Fantasy, Classics, Fiction
ISBN: 9780771098673
Publisher: New Canadian Library
Published: 1959-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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5

Once again the chess game brought Louise and Lanz be neath the lamplight. Louise was using more and more make up, trying to hide the scandalous vein on her cheek. She was still absorbed in her own frivolity, while Lanz, with his opaque heart and his eyes that were like those of a bat, continued his monotonous and elegant existence. Patrice, who feared those eyes, stayed alone in his room, daydreaming.

Louise longed to return to this beloved, ill-loved son but she feared that he saw through her hypocrisy. She was more and more afraid of his opinion of her. Patrice, however, though she was still unaware of it, had no opinions.

‘Eat a little bread,’ said Louise to Patrice. ‘You haven’t eaten since yesterday.’

But he was not listening and his mute face turned away from her. Then he cut the bread himself, piercing the doughy core with his thumb.

‘Patrice, cut some bread for Lanz.’

Lanz and his gold cane were still inseparable. It made him look like a rich angel, lent him an aura of nobility, an illusion of freedom.

‘Patrice, darling, please!’

When they sat together at meals, Patrice tortured his mother without knowing it. She blushed and trembled as she ate. I must never lose Patrice, she thought. I must never lose his beauty.

Lanz looked at her with an icy, reproachful stare. She smiled; they both smiled, but simultaneously, as though with a single mouth. Isabelle-Marie’s place was empty. Louise unconsciously offered her some bread.

‘Isabelle-Marie,’ she pleaded, in her distraction, suddenly seeing her daughter before her as of old, brandishing a knife as though to rip her to pieces.

She grew silent, her long fingers touching her lips. The faintest appeal to her coquetry, however, was enough to free Louise from her worries. Lanz was merry and lavished jewels upon her, for a great many jewels and thick make-up were necessary to disguise the viper that crept along her cheek. Her delicate wrist was always richly adorned, as was her throat. Now she wore a choker to hide her wrinkles.

Patrice left before the meal was over. The moment he was outside, flies clung to his skin and stung him.

He walked without noticing, a forgotten Adonis.

He mounted his horse, breathing deeply. His arms were bronze and muscular, his back strong and virile, and his beautiful mouth was open, showing his teeth that sparkled as though a woman’s tear glistened on each one. A man? A child among men? Indefinable in the midst of infinity? Unpredictable in the midst of chance? A free man who knew neither the origins of his freedom nor why he should use it? Would this melancholy god ride straight through the sunset that spread out before him like towers traced in red? He seemed capable of anything. And yet the spirit within him was feeble, timorous, overawed—and profoundly empty.

A partridge darted behind a rock; another, of a different color, flew to join the first, and then there was silence. Standing in the luxuriant grass, the horse grew restless; its mane lose stiffly, and as the fragrance of the wheat tickled its nostrils it stamped impatiently.

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