Lovers (9781609459192) Read Free

something she cannot believe.
That he must end up at the stake makes her love for him all the stronger.

28
    T hey are equals, that is what Balthazar tells his mother, loud and clear. He and Sébastien. One is not the shadow of the other.
    He is a sorcerer, Anne de Créon tells herself, this Sébastien is a sorcerer. An exceptional purveyor of narcotics, expectorant syrups, powders to banish ulcers and tumors. Young Faure successfully treats every one of her colds, every one of her fevers. Since he arrived, she has had no aches and pains, she has stopped being obsessed with her own body, she has been in rude health. Now Anne de Créon’s one fear is that her son’s life will end in flames. But she tries to put her mind at rest: Our young sorcerer will surely come up with a remedy that confers immortality. She clings to the hope that neither time nor man will have any hold over Balthazar, or her, or them, the Créons. There are evenings when Sébastien nods off beside her, in the salon, his thigh against hers. While he dozes, she has the impression that she is moving in pure water, floating in an indestructible, shimmering, reassuringly tangible universe. Sébastien has become part of her life.

29
    H e cannot stand her. Often during the week, very early in the morning, she sends for him. He has to cross the grounds, climb some steps, must shut himself up in a room with drawn curtains. She is not fully dressed when she receives him. She does not think of him as a man. But he is her present and her future. How much progress has he made with the potion that will guarantee them immortality? He laughs, then says, excitedly: This drug perhaps, and hands her a flask. She drinks the concoction, she knows he is deceiving her, she sends him back to his stills. After leaving her he walks along a corridor, climbs a staircase, knocks at a door.

30
    H e has reached Balthazar’s apartments. He slips a note under the door. One line, no more than that, the name of a place.
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    The Vauclair Meadow.
    Or the Vulcain Grove.
    Or the Marcy Clearing.
    Or the road to Les Guerdes.
    The meeting is arranged. Balthazar has not missed a single one.

31
    T hey stroll beneath the branches, beside a hedge, they cross an area of grazing land.
Sébastien neglects his studies and his inventions.
    When their walk is over, there is the chalet, there is the room, there is the bed.
    It is now a week since they threw their chastity to the winds.
    One day, at the sight of a certain stake, Sébastien will begin to recite, in a low voice, that same sweet litany: The Vauclair Meadow, the Vulcain Grove, the Marcy Clearing, the road to Les Guerdes. An inaudible prayer over the inferno.
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32
    T hey are lovers. That is all they want to be. They are at the beginning of their story. Love and passion indistinguishable one from the other.
    Yes, he neglects his test tubes and his cauldron.
    To paint. He wants to be a painter. But how to depict what dazzles you? So paint a bestiary, paint skies.
    Paint the night, the wind, the rain, the stars. And paint the day—blue and gold sometimes.
    He asks Balthazar for brushes and pigments.
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33
    G ently but firmly, Balthazar makes his handsome lover see reason.
He must not desert his laboratory.
    Sébastien promises.
    He refrains from judging his lover’s refusal. For that would mean entering a dangerous area: What does their love consist of? Can one be disappointed and still love?
    To paint the night—black with a few streaks of silver.
    To grind colors, and then paint.
    He decides against repeating his request. And now, whether through weakness or timidity, an obsession takes hold.
    To say, “I love you,” and feel as if you are dangling over an abyss.

34
    H e is yielding, he will yield, he has thought it over.
You will be a painter. Like my father.
An austere, reserved man, a hermit, a good man, what more is there to say about him,