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

probably a servant, yes, quite probably a servant.”
    But at the same time he heard a soft voice: “
Bonjour
, my little Alexis, I wish you a happy birthday.”
    His uncle, kissing the boy, frightened him. He must have sensed it, for, paying him
     no further heed in order to give him time to recover, the viscount started brightly
     chatting with Alexis’s mother, his sister-in-law, who, ever since his mother’s death,
     was the person he loved most in the world.
    Now, Alexis, reassured, felt nothing but immense tenderness for this still charming
     young man, who was a wee bit paler and so heroic as to feign gaiety in these tragic
     minutes. The boy wanted to throw his arms around him but did not dare, afraid he might
     sap his uncle’s strength and make him lose his self-control. More than anything else
     the viscount’s sad, sweet gaze made the boy feel like crying. Alexis knew that those
     eyes had always been sad and, even in the happiest moments, they seemed to implore
     a consolation for sufferings that he did not appear to experience. But at this moment
     Alexis believed that his uncle’s sadness, courageously banished from his conversation,
     had taken refuge in his eyes, which, along with his sunken cheeks, were the only sincere
     things about his entire person.
    “I know you’d like to drive a carriage and pair, my little Alexis,” said Baldassare,
     “you’ll get one horse tomorrow. Next year I’ll complete the pair and in two years
     I’ll give you the carriage. But this year perhaps you’ll learn how to ride a horse;
     we’ll try when I come back. You see, I’m definitely leaving tomorrow,” he added, “but
     not for long. I’ll be back in less than amonth, and we’ll go to the matinee, you know, the comedy I promised I’d take you to.”
    Alexis knew that his uncle was going to visit a friend for several weeks; he also
     knew that his uncle was still allowed to go to the theater; but Alexis was thoroughly
     imbued with the idea of death, which had deeply upset him prior to his coming here,
     and so his uncle’s words gave him a deep and painful shock.
    “I won’t go,” Alexis thought to himself. “He’ll suffer awfully when he hears the buffoonery
     of the actors and the laughter of the audience.”
    “What was that lovely melody we heard when we came in?” Alexis’s mother asked.
    “Oh, you found it lovely?” Baldassare exclaimed vividly and joyfully. “It’s the love
     song I told you about.”
    “Is he play-acting?” Alexis wondered to himself. “How can the success of his music
     still bring him any pleasure?”
    At that moment the viscount’s face took on an expression of deep pain; his cheeks
     paled, he frowned, his lips puckered, his eyes filled with tears.
    “My God!” Alexis cried out mentally. “His play-acting’s too much for him. My poor
     uncle! But why is he so scared of hurting us? Why is he forcing himself so hard?”
    However, the pains of general paralysis, which at times squeezed Baldassare like an
     iron corset, the torture often leaving marks on his body and, despite all his efforts,
     making his face cramp up, had now dissipated.
    After wiping his eyes he resumed chatting in a good mood.
    “Am I mistaken,” Alexis’s mother tactlessly asked, “or has the Duke of Parma been
     less friendly to you for some time now?”
    “The Duke of Parma!” Baldassare furiously snapped. “The Duke of Parma less friendly!
     Are you joking, my dear? He wrote me this very morning, offering to put his Illyrian
     castle at my disposal if mountain air could do me any good.”
    He jumped up, re-triggering his dreadful pain, which made him pause for a moment;
     no sooner was the pain gone than he called to his servant:
    “Bring me the letter that’s by my bed.”
    And he then read in a lively voice:
    “ ‘My dear Baldassare, how bored I am without you, etc., etc.’ ”
    As the prince’s amiability unfolded in the letter, Baldassare’s features softened
     and