Ending

Her eyes blazed with fire. Her entire being, upright and resolute in the middle of the room, radiated a violence that could no longer be contained, paralyzing me with both fear and admiration. She repeated, her voice softer, as though speaking to herself:

"Self-possession... mastery of oneself... above all, never let yourself be defeated by your own self…"

My mother paused. Her long hands had already stilled, and the calm spread throughout her being. She continued, her face nearly expressionless. Only the glimmer in her eyes remained, faint like the remnants of a celebration in a deserted house.

"François, I will return to the village with my head held high. Everyone will bow before me. I will have triumphed! Triumph! I will not allow some drunken bastard to humiliate me or touch my son. You are my son. You will fight against evil instincts, until you achieve perfection. You will be ready! Respect! Respect—what a victory over them all!"

Ready. That word seemed so overwhelming to me, especially on that day when I had been so deeply hurt in my desperate longing for a kind face. My mother often explained:

"The Mass is sacrifice. The priest is both the sacrificer and the victim, like Christ. He must immolate himself on the altar, without mercy, with the host."

I was so small. I had never been happy. I broke into tears. My mother nearly lunged at me, but then turned on her heels and said, in her sharp voice:

"Crybaby! Spineless child! I've received the director's letter; you'll start at the college next Thursday, the fourth of September. Go fetch me a bundle of kindling so I can light the stove for supper. Come on, move!"

My schoolbooks had once belonged to my mother when she was a child. That evening, under the pretext of packing my bags for college, I took the books, one by one, and eagerly looked at the name written on the first page of each: Claudine Perrault.

Claudine, the beautiful Claudine, the great Claudine...

The letters of her name danced before my eyes, twisting like flames, taking on fantastical shapes. It had never struck me before that my mother's name was Claudine. And now, it seemed strange—painful even. I no longer knew whether I was reading her name or hearing it spoken in a raspy voice, like that of a demon, close to me, its breath brushing my cheek.

My mother approached me. She did not lighten the atmosphere. She did not rescue me from my oppression. On the contrary, her presence added weight to the supernatural nature of the scene. The kitchen was dark; the only circle of light from the lamp fell on the open book I held. Into that bright circle, my mother's hands moved. She seized the book. For a moment, the Claudine, written in bold, deliberate letters, caught all the light, then it disappeared, and in its place I saw, written in the same proud calligraphy: François.

A François in fresh ink, fused with the Perrault written in old ink. And so, in that narrow beam of light, over the course of a few minutes, my mother's long hands played and sealed my destiny. All my books underwent the same transformation.

Her words hammered in my mind: "You are my son. You carry me forward."

That extraordinary day vanished, and under my mother's command, I forced myself to push it from my memory. Trained for so long by an iron rule, I managed fairly well to stop consciously thinking about the past scenes and to mechanically carry out the tasks she imposed. Yet, deep inside, I sometimes felt an unknown, formidable richness that both surprised and troubled me by its dormant presence.

The practical result, if one can call it that, of my first encounter with others was a perpetual wariness and a decision to forever withdraw any spontaneous gesture of human sympathy. My mother recorded this as a victory.

I entered college in this mindset. Wild and reserved, I observed my classmates. I rejected their timid or mocking advances. Soon, a void formed around the new student. I told myself it was better this way, as I was meant to attach myself to nothing in this world. Then, I imposed penances on myself for the pain I felt from my isolation.

My mother wrote to me:

"I am not there to discipline you. Impose mortifications on yourself. Above all, fight against weakness—your dominant flaw. Do not let yourself be softened by the illusion of some particular friendship. Everyone—teachers and students—are only there for a time, necessary for your instruction and formation. Take what they have to offer, but remain reserved. Do not surrender yourself at any cost, or you will be lost. Besides, I am kept informed of everything happening at the college. You will give me an exact account during the holidays—and to God as well, on the Day of Judgment. Do not waste your time. Help the farmer in the stable and the fields when needed."

My mother's commands shaped me, and I preferred working in the fields to following my classmates during recreation. I neither knew how to play nor laugh, and I always felt out of place. As for the teachers, rightly or wrongly, I considered them my mother's allies, and I was especially guarded around them.

Throughout my college years, I studied. That is to say, my memory recorded dates, names, rules, precepts, and formulas. Faithful to my mother's teachings, I retained only the external signs of the subjects studied. I guarded myself against true knowledge, which is both experience and possession. Thus, concerning God, I clung with all my willpower to the innumerable prayers recited daily, building a fortress against the possible shadow of His unveiled face.

My grades remained excellent, and I usually held the top rankings demanded by my mother.

I viewed the structure of a classical tragedy or a poem as a mechanism of principles and formulas chained together by the author's sole will. Once or twice, however, grace touched me. I sensed that a tragedy or poem might depend only on its own internal fatality, the condition of true art.

These revelations struck me painfully. In an instant, I perceived the void of my existence. I foresaw despair. Then, I steeled myself. I absorbed entire pages of chemical formulas.

At the announcement of grades and especially at the prize-giving ceremonies, I failed to maintain my composure despite my efforts

.

In my senior year, I finished first and won numerous awards. My arms laden with books, my ears buzzing from the polite applause of classmates to whom I remained a stranger, I walked from my seat to the stage, overwhelmed by such acute anxiety and oppression that I could barely move forward.

When the ceremony ended, I lay on my bed in the dormitory, surrounded by the noise of students bustling about, preparing to leave for the holidays.

Suddenly, I glimpsed what my life could have been. A brutal, almost physical regret gripped me. I felt suffocated. Something tightened in my chest. I watched my classmates leave, one by one or in groups. I heard them laugh and sing. I did not know joy. I could not know joy. It was more than a prohibition—it was sterility. My heart was bitter, ravaged—I was seventeen.

One boy remained in the dormitory, struggling to close his trunk. I almost offered to help him. As I got up, he said:

"Help me close this trunk, will you?"

Surprised and irritated at being preempted, I muttered to buy time:

"What did you say?"

My phrase echoed in the empty room, grating on my nerves. My brief, hoarse voice was always painful and irritating to hear.

I lay back down, lips tightly pressed, waiting for him to ask again. I counted the seconds, filled with the certainty that he would not call out again. And I did not move, savoring the twisted pleasure of doing something irreparable.

"Thanks for nothing, and have a nice vacation, you jerk!"

Then, this classmate—whom, secretly, I had preferred over all others—disappeared, bent under the weight of his trunk.

My mother never came to fetch me at the station. She didn't even watch for me from the window. She waited for me in her own way—wearing her weekday dress, in the middle of some task. Upon my arrival, she would pause to ask me a few necessary questions. Then she would return to her work, after assigning me my tasks until the next meal.