I was planning to meet up with Maryse in Stuttgart. I would spend a few days with her, then travel to Paris to visit Uncle Charles, who’d recently been put in charge of improving medical instruction in the city, and from there, continue on to Toulouse, where I would stay until my tenant’s rental contract was up and I could move into the château. Foix had suddenly become not only the tiny kingdom of my childhood and adolescence, full of tranquil days and pleasant horseback rides, but also something like a place of retreat, a silent monastery surrounded by forests where I could mend my heart in solitude. Robert’s death had left me empty of emotion. I ate and drank without appetite and my sleep was broken and exhausting. More often than not, I awoke with a headache and the taste of ashes in my mouth. Although I wasn’t terribly hopeful, I had the idea of asking Maryse to come with me, together with her Théâtre Nomade—I’d learned from her letters that this was the name of her traveling show that, in little more than two years, had become a retinue of carriages, wagons, wheeled cages, and mules that transported more than forty people, “and that’s without counting, dear Henriette, the many animaux savants, dancing bears and dogs, a mathematical horse and a pair of ubiquitous doves that appear and disappear at the sound of the words hocus pocus. . . .”
I scarcely remember the journey to Stuttgart. I know only that when we saw one another, Maryse and I fell into each other’s arms in a commotion of hugs and tears. Oh, how we wept! We cried all together, Maryse, Claudette, Françoise, and I. We cried at the guardhouse, in the street, at a table at the guesthouse, and finally, in my room. Our eyes swollen and our noses red, we listened as each of us told what we had to tell, which turned out to be a great many things. The most surprising news was the romantic relationship that had developed between Claudette and Françoise. “It happened without us even realizing it,” said Françoise, matter-of-factly.
“In Linz,” added Claudette timidly.
Perplexed, I turned to Maryse for an explanation, but she merely smiled and shrugged her shoulders.
“And Pierre?” I asked, to hide my displeasure.
“He’s in charge of transportation for the troupe,” replied Maryse. “A very complicated undertaking. It’s not just a matter of leading our entourage, that’s nothing for him. It’s that there’s always one problem or another, a wheel to be replaced, too much cargo, a fire in the gypsies’ wagon, a lame mule, a leaky carriage roof, anyway, why bore you with the details, my sweet? He’s always busy. At this very moment he’s combing the streets in search of Tom, one of Frau Müller’s dancing dogs. I do hope he finds him; he’s the lead dog, and the show starts in three hours.”
That first night, overcoming my exhaustion from the journey, I allowed Maryse to take me to the theater, a humble and poorly lighted space. In any event, at the six-thirty curtain, not a single seat was vacant, despite the fact that this was their third performance in Stuttgart. Maryse’s appearance onstage was greeted with hearty applause. She wore a Venetian mask that resembled a cat’s face, and she was enveloped in a provocative white silk wrap that accentuated the sinuous movements of her body. I had never seen Maryse on stage before. I was amazed at her grace, her naturalness, the feline cadence of her undulating shoulders as she presented the evening’s program. Suddenly, there was a great boom and she disappeared in a scarlet cloud of smoke, replaced by the four Pinelli Brothers, acrobats whose skills were far superior to those I’d seen in Toulouse with Aunt Margot. They were followed immediately by the discordant strains of an off-key French horn, announcing “The Pursuit of the Unicorn,” a charade in which Pierrot, Harlequin, Pantalone, and Punchinello, mounted on broomsticks topped with horse’s heads, ran higgledy-piggledy about the stage, chasing a strapping, horned Columbine who is, at last, and as expected, mounted by Harlequin amid much kicking and bucking and waggling of hindquarters. Then came the gypsies with their bears, Pythagoras the horse, a group of fearless tightrope walkers, and Frau Müller’s dogs that, dressed as little ladies and gentlemen, danced a minuet and exited the stage, leaping through a ring of fire. The end of the first act belonged to Doctor Faustus Nefastus, whose black brocade cape sparkled with comets, stars, and moons embroidered in silver thread. His tricks were unparalleled, and I imagined that he must be one of the better-paid members of the troupe. For his final act—which I can’t resist describing—he locked Harlequin in a square box so that only his head stuck out, then covered his head with a red silk handkerchief that he pulled from between his fingers. Accompanied by a sudden drum roll, he sawed off the head, lifted the kerchiefed bundle from the box, and walked across the stage, gravely showing it to the audience. A clarinet sounded the tremolos of a Turkish tune and Claudette, dressed as Salomé, unfolded herself from inside the box, rhythmically beating a tambourine upon which the magician placed the red bundle—the presumed head of John the Baptist on the infamous platter. Then the pealing of the clarinet became frenetic and Claudette, changing the voluptuous modulations of her dance, began to describe quick circles across the stage, holding the tambourine aloft, first in her hands, and then atop her head. She came to a stop at last and the magician, covering her with his cape, intoned a spell that I would come to memorize from hearing it so often: Hocus pocus tontus talontus vade celerite jubeo. A tremendous thundering reverberated throughout the theater and, as the smoke cleared, a fully intact Harlequin appeared, straightening, in pantomime, his wayward head. Ignoring the hailstorm of applause, Faustus Nefastus—his real name was Piet Vaalser—repeated the same spell, and the four sides of the box fell to the floor, revealing a smiling Claudette, the silk handkerchief in one hand and the tambourine in the other.
After intermission, Pierrot, Harlequin, and Columbine, dressed in tight-fitting leotards, performed exquisite tragicomical pantomimes to the strains of a solitary and sublime violin. This was followed by two impassioned Shakespearian soliloquies translated into German, and two lively Mozart quartets, featuring Maryse herself. The evening ended with a circular, Roman-style march, in which horses, wagons, consuls, magistrates, and soldiers paraded repeatedly in front of an allegorically painted backdrop, inciting such a monumental reaction from the audience that the deafening beat of the drums was accompanied, to the very last, by applause and the incessant cries of “Bravo! Bravo!”
Captivated by the success of the Théâtre Nomade and its members’ lighthearted and carefree way of life, I felt my own life turning, day-by-day, away from nostalgia and toward unpredictability. My appetite returned, my sleep improved, and I realized that my vitality was returning. Halfway to Karlsruhe I decided to cancel my trip to Toulouse and I asked Maryse if I could stay with the troupe until my tenant’s lease was up in Foix.
“But dear heart, this business is as much yours as it is mine. Didn’t we start it together in Strasbourg with our two carriages?”
“Oh, no, Maryse! I couldn’t!” I said, moved by her generosity, and I slid over to sit by her side and hug her.
“Don’t be misled; we only manage to cover costs. The theaters keep the lion’s share of the money from our ticket sales. But when it comes to business, I’ve always tried to be a serious person,” she said, pulling away from me and giving me an affectionate shove toward the carriage window. “Come on, let’s talk seriously. To start with, I’ll tell you that it’s only by dint of a miracle that our little variety show even survives. Perhaps you, coming in from outside,