Reasons of State Read Online Free

the plated candlestick and the too-grey skull—the truth is I never touched it—which was probably made of wax or perhaps rubber. The bed, however, in spite of its conventual and penitentiary appearance, was extremely comfortable, with its pillows of false serge (down-filled slips looking as if made of austere sackcloth) and that bedstead whose elastic springs collaborated so obligingly with the movements of the elbows and knees working away on them. The bed was as comfortable as the divan in the caliph’s room or the velvet seat of the Wagons-Lits-Cook sleeping compartment(Paris-Lyon-Méditerranée) eternally at a standstill, with two wheels and a little ladder leading up to it, in a passage that always smelled—I don’t know by means of what ingenious device—of the breath of locomotives. I didn’t have time to try all the possible combinations of cushions and mats in the Japanese house; nor the cabin on the
Titanic
, realistically reconstructed from documents, and seeming as if branded with the imminence of the drama. (
Vas-y vite, mon chéri, avant que n’arrive l’ice-berg … Le voilà … Le voilà … Vite, mon chéri … C’est le naufrage … Nous coulons. Nous coulons … Vas-y …
) The rustic attic of a Norman farm, smelling of apples, with bottles of cider within reach; and the Bridal Suite, where Gaby, dressed in white and crowned with orange blossom, was deflowered four or five times a night if she wasn’t on the day shift—“on duty,” it was called—because one or two friends of the house, in spite of their grey hairs and the Legion of Honour, still enjoyed from time to time the glory of Victor Hugo’s triumphant awakenings. As for the Palace of Mirrors, it had so often subjected my image to lengthenings and foreshortenings, distortions and grimaces, that all my physical proportions were imprinted on my memory, just as an album of family photographs catalogues the gestures, attitudes, and clothes of the best days of one’s life. I understood very well why King Edward VII had kept a private bath for himself there, and even an armchair—today a historic object, put in a place of honour—made by a skilful and discreet cabinetmaker, so that it allowed him to submit to delicate caresses which might be hindered by his capacious abdomen. Last night’s spree had been very good fun. However—because of the amount I’d drunk—I was left with a sort of fear lest my sacrilegious amusements with the little Sister of Saint Vincent de Paul (another time, Paulette had presented herself to me as an English schoolgirl, armed with tennis rackets and ridingwhips; yet another time, very much made up like a sailor’s whore, in black stockings, red garters, and high leather boots) might have brought me bad luck. (Besides, that skull, now I came to think about it, was pretty sinister, whether it was made of rubber or wax …) The Divine Shepherdess of Nueva Córdoba, Miraculous Protectress of my own country, might have known of my deviations from the mountain fastness where her ancient sanctuary stood, between crags and quarries. But I calmed myself by reflecting that they hadn’t gone so far in their zeal for authenticity as to provide a crucifix in the false convent of my guilty adventure. The truth was that Madame Yvonne, dressed in black with a string of pearls, exquisite manners and a way of speaking that passed from Port Royal to the argot of Bruant, according to circumstances and the condition of the client—much like my French, which was part Montesquieu, part
Nini-peau-de-chien
—understood each person’s whims perfectly, and yet always knew exactly where to stop. There was no portrait of Queen Victoria in the Room of the English Schoolboy, any more than there was an icon in the Room of the Great Boyar, nor a too-ostentatious Priapus in the Room of the Pompeian Fantasies. And when certain clients visited her she took care that “
ces dames
” should take up their position, as