MICHEL TOURNIER
333
end up in a boiler! They ra,ised the alarm at once. My companion
was caught. The dodge of the dirty linen truck had become unus–
able. And it was my fault. My companions were mad at me. I was
ashamed. But it wasn't actually my fault, it was my nature . Nothing
is my fault! I'm at the mercy of my fate. Because I - though you
might not think it -
I
have a fate, and it's terrible to have a fate! You
think you're like everyone else. There doesn't seem to be anything
special about you. But you're not really free. All you can do is obey
your fate . And
my
fate is ... is . . .
(in a barely perceptible voice)
frills
and flounces.
And to prove it, Antoinette was waiting for me at the station in
Alen~on
when I came back from captivity in 1945. She was there
with our families, my little godmother. The first thing I noticed was
her dress. I can still see it, what's more _. a white organdie dress with
a little apron covered with flowers and birds intertwined. And over
her shoulders she was wearing a big shawl made of black wool, as
delicate as lace. I was sorry she wasn't wearing a hat. In the misera–
ble conditions I'd beer. in as a prisoner, I had always dreamed of
women wearing rather crazy hats, either felt or straw, with feathers,
flowers, ribbons, and above all, oh, above all with little veils! A
woman's face is so beautiful and exciting seen through the delicate,
quivering shadow of a veil! But that was all finished. The war did
away with hats, and the veils vanished with the hats. Women go out
hatless, their heads naked, their faces naked. Nakedness is so sad!
But even so, Antoinette was my fate, with neither veil nor hat.
Three months later, I married her.
I sometimes tell myself: you shouldn't have . A man of destiny
doesn't marry, he remains celibate, he becomes a recluse, or else a
priest , yes, all alone in a presbytery with an oid housekeeper. And
anyway, we have to face facts: when it comes to frillies, priests cer–
tainly get their satisfaction. Priests, they deny themselves nothing!
One day - not long after I'd been liberated - I passed a shop on the
Place Saint-Sulpice. "The Elegant Clergyman," it was called. Well!
In the window there were things like nylon cassoch, silk stockings in
white, crimson, purple, violet, and lace surplices, and gold-embroi–
dered chasubles, and mauve, red, and black capes. What a sight! I
simply had to go in and touch all those supernatural garments. Deep
down , though, they made me feel uneasy . Because even so, all that
stuff was still men's clothes. Oh, beautiful clothes, princely clothes,
episcopal clothes, archiepiscopal clothes! Nothing in common with
the prisoners' rags . The precise opposite, but even eo , men's clothes,
