“I forgot,” said he, “that your house was the Ark of the Covenant.”
“And yours Noah’s Ark,” she retorted with a tic for his tac, knowing that her interlocutor harboured all sorts of shady folk.
In those days the bread was made in the kitchen in a kneading trough nearly a hundred years old, before being carried for baking to the town oven. Aunt Deen, who loved all sorts of cookery, used to oversee the operation, and even at times take a hand in it herself. One day when I was looking on, at the moment when the servant was about to mingle the flour, water and leaven, my aunt suddenly gave her a vigorous shake.
“What are you thinking of, girl?”
“Mixing the bread, miss.”
“You are forgetting the sign of the cross.”
For in serious houses no one omitted the sign of the cross over white flour that was on the point of being made into bread. At table, before cutting the loaf, father never failed to trace upon it a cross, with two strokes of the knife. When it fell to grandfather to cut the bread I was quick to notice that he did nothing of the kind.
That was one of my first surprises. From my earliest days I understood the importance of differences of opinion in matters religious.
Grandfather played his violin whenever he pleased. But he did not like to be disturbed. We learned this by experience. My sister Mélanie and my brother Stephen, who had retained from their first communion an ardent and somewhat aggressive piety, had built up a little chapel in a cupboard in that octagon parlour which we used to call the music room because in former days concerts used to be given there, and an old grand piano still stood there. It had been agreed among us that when Mélanie and Stephen were grown up they were to evangelise the savages, just as Bernard was to be an officer and win back Alsace and Lorraine, and Louise, the second sister, always generous, was to marry a champagne grower so that we might always drink as much as we chose of that sparkling golden wine to which we had never put our lips except on occasions of family festival. Thus the future was beautifully arranged for, except my own personal career which remained uncertain. Mélanie had been named for the little shepherdess of Dauphiny who at that time was much in people’s minds; the mystery of La Salette was talked of in guarded words. Sometimes I would ask her if she was not afraid of being eaten by cannibals, the existence of which had been revealed to me by my illustrated geography. Far from cooling her zeal, this frightful prospect simply warmed it. Stephen aspired no less ardently to martyrdom, notwithstanding that an unlucky adventure had happened to him in school: his comrades, admiring his devotion, had counted upon his performing a miracle on the day of his first communion, and the miracle not coming off, he was consequently held in some slight contempt.
I can never remember what sort of vespers or complines we used to say before the cupboard. The ceremonies consisted of hymns vociferated in chorus. Notwithstanding my tender years I was invited to share in these clerical manifestations. On that occasion we used to hold forth with all the energy of neophytes. Mélanie in particular would pitch her voice in its highest key, her piety being proportionate to the noise she made. Unluckily the music room was near grandfather’s chamber. All of a sudden, as we were at the utmost height of fervour, the door opened and grandfather appeared. He never used to pay much attention to us, though when we came within his visual angle he would look affably upon us. But this time he appeared to be greatly irritated. His dressing-gown flowing behind him, his Greek cap awry, his beard all disorder, gave him a fearsome aspect, greatly in contrast with his usual manner. He exclaimed harshly, “It’s impossible to have a moment’s peace in this house. Shut that cupboard, quick!”