rats scamper about the heaps of fallen beams and roofing, feeling a vague sense of dread whenever they saw one scale the high walls. Beyond these ruins, however, the magic began. The pier, with its rows of floating timbers and buttresses like those of some Gothic cathedral, and the delicate Pont de Constantine, swaying like lace beneath the feet of pedestrians, intersected at right angles and seemed to dam the enormous mass of the river and hold it in check. Opposite stood the trees of the Halle aux Vins,24 and, farther on, the greenery of the Jardin des Plantes25 stretching off toward the horizon. Meanwhile, on the other side of the river, the Quai Henri IV and Quai de la Rapée were lined with low, uneven structures, rows of houses that looked from above like the little wood and cardboard houses the girls kept in boxes. In the distance, to the right, loomed the slate roof of La Salpêtrière,26 a patch of blue above the trees. Then, in the middle, stretching all the way down to the Seine, the broad paved banks formed two long gray passageways smudged here and there by a row of barrels, a hitched-up wagon, or a boatload of wood or coal piled on the shore. But the soul of it all, the soul that filled the scene, was the Seine, the living river. It came from afar, from the vague and trembling edge of the horizon, from the land of dreams, and flowed in tranquil majesty straight to the children, swelling mightily on its way and finally spreading into a great sheet of water at their feet, at the extremity of the island. The two bridges that crossed it, the Pont de Bercy and the Pont d’Austerlitz, seemed like necessary barriers, responsible for holding the river back and preventing it from rising up to the children’s room. The girls loved the giant river. Their eyes could not get enough of its colossal flow, of the eternal rumbling flood that rolled forward as if pursuing them, and they could feel it divide below them and vanish to the right and to the left, into the unknown, with the docility of a tamed Titan. When the weather was fine, on mornings when the sky was blue, they took delight in the Seine’s beautiful finery. The river decked itself out in variegated gowns, taking on a thousand hues of infinite subtlety ranging from blue to green. It looked like silk patterned with tongues of white flame and trimmed with satin ruffles. And the boats that found shelter along its banks made a ribbon of black velvet along its edges. In the distance especially the fabric seemed lovely and precious, like the enchanted gauze of a fairy’s tunic. Beyond the hem of deep green satin formed by the shadows of the bridges were golden breastplates and rich folds that glowed like the sun. The immense sky looming over the water, the rows of low houses, and the greenery of the two parks seemed to grow deeper before one’s eyes.
At times, Renée, already nearly grown, weary of this limitless horizon, and bursting with curiosity acquired at school about matters of the flesh, would cast a glance in the direction of the swimming school at Petit’s floating bathhouse, moored to the tip of the island. Through the flapping linen hanging from lines that did duty for a roof, she hoped to catch a glimpse of men in bathing suits that revealed their naked torsos.
3
Maxime remained at school in Plassans until the holidays of 1854. He was then thirteen years and some months old and had just finished the seventh grade. It was at that point that his father decided to have him come to Paris. His idea was that a son of that age would set him up, would permanently establish him in the role he was playing of a wealthy widower now remarried, a man of serious disposition. When he announced his plan to Renée, whom he prided himself on treating in a most courtly manner, she replied casually: “Fine, send for the boy. . . . He’ll amuse us a little. Mornings are so deadly boring.”
The boy arrived a week later. He was already a tall, thin, mischievous youth with a girlish face, a delicate, insolent look, and soft blond hair. But good God, how oddly he was turned out! His