The Complete Short Stories of Marcel Proust Read Online Free Page A

dreamed
     about a future in which, always on horseback, he would be as elegant as a lady and
     as splendid as a king, recognized Baldassare as what he, the nephew, considered the
     most sublime epitome of a man. He knew that his uncle was handsome, that he, Alexis,
     resembled him; he also knew that his uncle was intelligent, generous, and as powerful
     as a bishop or a general. Truth to tell, his parents’ criticism had taught Alexis
     that the viscount had his faults. He even remembered his uncle’s violent anger the
     day his cousin Jean Galeas had made fun of him; his blazing eyes had hinted at the
     joys of his vanity when the Duke of Parma had offered him his sister’s hand (trying
     to disguise his pleasure, the viscount had clenched his teeth in a habitual grimace
     that Alexis despised); and the boy recalled his uncle’s scornful tone when talking
     to Lucretia, who had openly stated that she did not care for his music.
    Often Alexis’s parents would allude to other things that his uncle had done and that
     the boy did not understand, though he heard them being sharply condemned.
    But all of Baldassare’s faults, his commonplace grimace, had undoubtedly disappeared.
     When he had learned he might be dead in two years, how indifferent he must have become
     to the mockeries of Jean Galeas, to his friendship with the Duke of Parma, and to
     his own music. Alexis pictured his uncle as still handsome, but solemn and even more
     perfect than he had been before. Yes, solemn, and already not completely of this world.
     Hence, a little disquiet and terror mingled with the boy’s despair.
    The horses had been harnessed long ago, it was time to leave; the boy stepped into
     the carriage, then climbed downagain in order to ask his tutor for some final advice. When Alexis spoke, his face
     turned very crimson:
    “Monsieur Legrand, is it better for my uncle to believe or not believe that I know
     that he knows that he’s dying?”
    “He must not believe it, Alexis!”
    “But what if he brings it up?”
    “He won’t bring it up.”
    “He won’t bring it up?” said Alexis, astonished, for that was the only alternative
     he had not foreseen: whenever he imagined his visit with his uncle, he could hear
     him talking about death with the gentleness of a priest.
    “But what if he does bring it up after all?”
    “You’ll tell him he’s mistaken.”
    “And what if I cry?”
    “You’ve cried too much this morning, you won’t cry in his home.”
    “I won’t cry!” Alexis exclaimed in despair. “But he’ll think that I don’t care, that
     I don’t love him . . . my dear, sweet uncle!”
    And he burst into tears. His mother, losing patience, came looking for him; they left.

    After handing his little overcoat to a servant who stood in the vestibule, wearing
     a green and white livery with the Sylvanian arms, Alexis momentarily halted with his
     mother and listened to a violin melody coming from an adjacent room. Then the visitors
     were ushered into a huge, round, glass-enclosed atrium, where the viscount spent much
     of his time. Upon entering, you faced the ocean, and upon turning your head, you saw
     lawns, pastures, and woods; at the other end of the room there were two cats, plus
     roses, poppies, and numerous musical instruments. The guests waited for an instant.
    Alexis flung himself on his mother; she thought he wanted to kiss her, but, pressing
     his lips against her ear, he whispered:
    “How old is my uncle?”
    “He’ll be thirty-six this June.”
    Alexis wanted to ask: “Do you think he’ll ever reach thirty-six?”, but he did not
     dare.
    A door opened, Alexis trembled, a domestic said: “The viscount is coming shortly.”
    Soon the domestic returned, with two peacocks and a kid, which the viscount took along
     everywhere. Then, more steps were heard, and the door opened again.
    “It’s nothing,” Alexis thought to himself, his heart beating whenever he heard noise.
     “It’s