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Il revoyait pourtant sa grande chambre, avec le tapis épais sur lequel il faisait sa gymnastique, le fauteuil d’où le chat persan suivait ses exercices d’un œil plein d’indifférence, étagère de ses livres – mais c’était ceux de la bibliothèque paternelle qu’il lisait la nuit – les deux gravures anglaises : Le garçon bien et Le garçon rouge, qui encadraient son lit, la pendule légère, dont le timbre évoquait le siècle où il aurait été déjà, non plus écolier, mais page du roi, comme ce petit chevalier de Sarre dont le portrait se trouvait dans le salon.
Aurait-il jamais cru que le collège le détacherait si vite de tout cela ? Il ne regrettait pas plus, dès ce soir, le confort et le luxe, qu’il ne regretterait demain sa bicyclette. Suivant le mot du préfet, c’est ici qu’il était chez lui.
Il rêvait. Il rêvait à une cloche... C’était la cloche de la cathédrale de M..., ou la cloche de l’église du village pendant les vacances, peut-être la cloche du château à l’heure des repas, peut-être rien de plus que le réveille-matin. Soudain, Georges se sentit secoué par les épaules, et, sans comprendre ce qui lui arrivait, il aperçut un visage de prêtre au-dessus du sien, et entendit qu’on lui disait : « Allons, allons, debout ! »
Encore tout ébaubi, il s’agenouilla pour écouter l’oraison : « Mon Dieu, c’est par un effet de votre bonté que je revois la lumière... ». Blajan lui faisait un signe amical. Georges jeta un coup d’œil vers Lucien, qui lui sourit. Il sauta au bas de son lit, mit ses pantoufles, vida les poches de son costume bleu, le brossa rapidement – il avait des principes – et le porta dans le casier. Il choisit un costume de golf, et se rendit aux lavabos.
Toutes les places étant occupées, il attendit. Chacun de ses camarades avait sa façon de faire sa toilette. Celui-ci se mouillait à peine, furtivement. Celui-là se savonnait la tête sous le robinet, ressemblant à une pièce montée, tout couvert de mousse.
Yet he could still picture his large room, with the thick rug on which he did his gymnastics, the armchair from which the Persian cat followed his exercises with an indifferent eye, the bookshelf of his books—but it was those from his father's library that he read at night—the two English engravings: The Good Boy and The Red Boy, which framed his bed, the delicate clock, whose chime evoked the century in which he would already have been, no longer a schoolboy, but a page to the king, like that little knight from Sarre whose portrait hung in the drawing-room.
Would he ever have believed that school would detach him so quickly from all of that? He missed comfort and luxury no more this evening than he would miss his bicycle tomorrow. Following the prefect's words, this was where he was at home.
He was dreaming. He dreamt of a bell... It was the bell of M... Cathedral, or the village church bell during the holidays, perhaps the castle bell at mealtimes, perhaps nothing more than an alarm clock. Suddenly, Georges felt a jolt in his shoulders, and, without understanding what was happening to him, he saw a priest's face above his own and heard someone say, "Come on, come on, get up!" Still quite astonished, he knelt to listen to the prayer: "My God, it is by your grace that I see the light again..." Blajan gave him a friendly nod. Georges glanced at Lucien, who smiled at him. He jumped out of bed, put on his slippers, emptied the pockets of his blue suit, brushed it quickly—he had principles—and carried it to the locker. He chose a golf suit and went to the washrooms.
Since all the seats were taken, he waited. Each of his classmates had their own way of washing. One barely wet himself, furtively. Another soaped his head under the tap, looking like a tiered cake, completely covered in lather.
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