“Perfectly. You’ve met Juliet, you being Romeo, and Juliet is named Ortofieri.”
“That’s it, exactly. Juliet is named Marguerite Ortofieri. She’s the daughter of the banker and the great-great-granddaughter of César Christiani’s murderer.”
“That complicates matters,” said Bertrand. “Forgive the pun—it was unintentional.9 What are you going to do?”
“Erase. Forget.”
“She doesn’t like you, then?”
“Yes—very much; I’m certain of it.”
“To the Devil with the quarrels of the dead, then!”
Charles looked at him in surprise. “Is it you who’s saying that, Bertrand? Think about it. Put yourself in my place. I’ve heard you say—quite frequently—that, deep down, you’re convinced of being the offshoot of an old and noble family…”
“Oh, nonsense!” said Bertrand, with a smile. “Sometimes, you know, one feels things—a thousand things stirring in the shadows of the brain: regrets, inclinations, desires, surges of emotion, intuitions of a sort, false certainties…one takes all that for ready money—I mean, for advertisements of heredity, the voice of atavism—but…”
“Be sincere.”
“Well, I admit it! I would take so much pleasure in descending from rich folk that I’ve ended up believing that it’s true, and that one day, as in melodramas, papers will be found in a casket that will cause me to be recognized! The Duc of somewhere or other! The Marquis of this or that!” He burst out laughing.
“You can laugh,” said Charles, shaking his head, “but listen: imagine for a moment, you who are honest, who don’t joke about honor, in spite of your indulgent child-like face—who, in sum, conduct yourself as if you belonged to a four-quartered nobility that has come down in the world—imagine that you really had dozens of generations behind you infatuated with honor and tradition, to the extent of stupid but superb prejudices! Imagine that you bore the standard and the épée of your race!”
“Damnation!” Bertrand admitted. “That’s true…”
“Do you think that I can betray mine?”
“Oh! Colomba wouldn’t hold it against you!”
“What about my mother?”
“Oh—yes, that’s something else.”
“And Mademoiselle Ortofieri is of the same opinion, rigorously.”
“Then, indeed, I can’t see any way out…”
“I haven’t come here seeking your help in finding one, but for your help in forgetting.”
“It’s a great pity,” said Bertrand, “that no Christiani has thought of avenging old César. In almost a century, one proper vendetta, one serious sweep of the broom…today, you’d be quits.”
“Our two families have evolved, since then, in a society in which grudges don’t manifest themselves in dagger-thrusts or blunderbuss-shots. And it’s better that way; one is never finished with vendettas; every act of vengeance calls forth another.”
“And the blood of César cries vengeance!” declaimed Bertrand.
“In spite of which the Ortofieris want it from us—as if, by God, it was their Fabius who had been assassinated by his victim!”
“Oh, you really aren’t easy-going people! When I think that my own children will be half-Corsican! What defenders I shall have!”
“Who knows?” Charles remarked. “Perhaps you’re more Corsican than I am!”
“With a nose like this? A nose…in the Choiseul style?”
“Go on, you aristocrat!” said his friend, smiling affectionately.
“I’ll concede that my walking-stick undoubtedly comes from a Parisian boutique—which proves absolutely nothing with respect to the nationality of my forefathers!” He unhooked the object in question, which was suspended lengthways on the wall.
“Ah, if objects could speak. Eh?” said Charles.
“At the rate at which science is progressing, anything’s possible. Anyway, that cane has already spoken, although it doesn’t say much. This is how: it’s long, after the fashion of its time; but, according to its proportions, it must have belonged to someone of my height. The stem is old, contemporary; the handle has the dimensions of a fist like mine. The cane has had a great deal of use—look at the silver pommel, which resembles a little shako without a visor; it’s polished by the friction of the palm, the decorative garlands are worn; the iron tip at the other end, however, isn’t much eroded by contact with the ground. We may deduce that the possessor of that came must have carried it under his arm most of the time—and, indeed, on the upper third of the rattan, we remark that the varnish is scored, by virtue of having experienced the contact of the arm and the torso while the right hand caressed the pommel.”
“Bravo, Sherlock Holmes! Have you taken the handle off, to see whether some clue might be hidden inside?”
“Child! My father did not neglect that operation. There’s nothing under the pommel. And I’ve interrogated my ancestor’s cane thoroughly, without it telling me anymore. But let’s get back to our business—how can I help you?”
“You’ve helped me as much as you could, by letting me confide my misery to you. I shan’t say anything about it to my mother. What good would it do?”
“Couldn’t you get a change of air? That’s still the best treatment for depression.”
“Exactly. I intend to leave for Silaz this afternoon, Claude’s requesting my presence. A few days of calm and solitude will do me good.”
“Beware of isolation.”
“Bah! I’ll take some papers with me, and the four sergeants of La Rochelle will keep me company. If I have a void in my soul, I’ll write another chapter of my book.”
“Brrr! Stories of conspiracy and the scaffold! You’d do better to write a farce!”
“I have no subject!” Charles replied, in the same bantering tone, shaking his hand.
When he had gone, Bertrand smiled delicately with his fleshy mouth, his mischievous eyes and, if one might put it thus, his excessively expressive nose. No subject! he said to himself. What more does he need? But some “see tragedy” and the others “see comedy”, and that’s the way it will always be, so long as there are men or anything analogous.
“You’ve arrived just in time, Charles—I was about to send a telegram asking you to return, or catch the Geneva train at La Rochelle.”
Madame Christiani was sitting at her desk, in front of open letters and domestic account-books. Her sharp profile was silhouetted against the softly sunlit background of large yellowing trees and the apse of the church of Saint-Sulpice. Having no suspicion that her son had been to Oléron, she simply said: “You’ve renounced that detour you intended to take. I approve. I don’t much like your Luc de Certeuil, as you know. I’ve received this from Claude.” She held out a letter in the tips of her swarthy, carefully-manicured fingers.
Charles hastened to take the folded piece of paper, without making any reply but thinking that his mother had just shown him, unknowingly, the best course to follow. That was it: so far as everyone was concerned, including himself, he had come directly from La Rochelle. The day before, he had been consulting the dustiest items in the library, guided in his research by the erudite Monsieur Palanque. He had never set foot on the spar-deck of the Boyardville; the Ile d’Aix and the Ile d’Oléron were still unknown to him. And Rita…Rita…
An emotion that made him feel quite ill stopped these vigorous thoughts in their tracks. Meanwhile, he read old Claude’s letter, whose style we shall respect, if not its spelling:
Madame,
Madame will be kind enough on excuse us, Péronne and your servant, for sending you a letter hot on the heels, so to speak, of the last one I had the honor of sending Madame, only last Sunday week.
The present is to let you know that the situation here is not tolerable. Things are enough to make your hair stand on end, and it’s only because of our devotion to Madame, her demoiselle and our Monsieur Charles that we have stayed at the château until now. Madame may believe me. You say that what is happening—oh, no, I’m only
a poor peasant, and I repeat it—is that someone’s making fun of us. But this can’t go on. Monsieur Charles will certainly be generous enough to come pay us a little visit right away. Otherwise, Madame will excuse me, but we’re each going home, as soon as the grape-harvest, me to Virieu, Péronne to Aignoz, until all these frightful phantasmagorias at the château are over and done with.
I beg Madame to accept my respectful salutations, and also the demoiselle and Monsieur Charles. And Péronne sends her respects too.
Claude Cornarel.
“You have to leave immediately, Charles. I don’t know what’s got into him. You’ll have to sort it out.”
“You’ll have to sort it out” was Madame Christiani’s answer to everything pertaining to Silaz. Since her marriage, she had only put in three or four appearances there. She did not like the mountains—which, she said, overwhelmed and oppressed her. The ancient dwelling appeared to her to be odiously sad. Colomba had scarcely ever seen it, but Charles went there from time to time to “sort things out.” That didn’t displease him, in any case. During his childhood, he had spent short periods at Silaz with his father. Later, when his vocation as a historian began to form, he had returned there to study and file the mass of family papers that were kept there, most notably the memoirs and correspondence of the corsair César Christiani. A lover of the past in all its forms, he gladly breathed in the ancient odors of the manor, which had not been opened up for a very long time, except to air it or when Charles came to settle a farmer’s lease, check the roofs, inspect the vintage and shake a few callused hands in the neighboring hamlets.
As for Madame Christiani, not content to flee Silaz, she had conceived an aversion for it, as she took to certain people even though they had done her no harm. She was not a nasty woman but, as the domestics put it “she got ideas”. Thus, for example, she had no longer wanted to see, for an indefinite interval, her old cousin Drouet, the last representative of the other branch of the Christianis. She had severed all relations with her. Charles and Colomba did not know what their relative looked like, and when they questioned their mother about her, the latter invariably replied that cousin Drouet had “behaved badly toward Mélanie” and that she no longer wanted to hear mention of her, Mélanie—another cousin, but on the Bernardi side—had no memory whatsoever of Madame Drouet ever having done anything to her, but Madame Christiani never forgot. Oh, she would not have been able to go into detail; she no longer knew what it was about, but one thing was certain: cousin Drouet had behaved badly toward Mélanie, and that could not be forgiven.
One can judge by that the execration in which Madame Christiani held the Ortofieris. Whenever she mentioned Silaz, her jet-black pupils reflected the hostile and acrimonious aspect of her soul, and all the rancor she nurtured lit up her gaze with sharp gleams. Charles divined that, with respect to Silaz, she was cursing, among others, cousin Drouet and the Ortofieris—and his somber mother’s black eyes filled him with a disappointment that he was astonished to experience, because he thought that he had banished all hope.
“It would be pleasant to travel by automobile,” he said. “Can I take the cabriolet?”
“Certainly.”
“On the Bordeaux-Geneva,” he added, “I’d have to suffer a very long railway journey, and I confess that I don’t find that tempting.”
“What’s more,” opined his mother, “I don’t know how you’d be able to get by without a car in Silaz—that hole!”
“But I’ll be depriving you of your car, and that…”
“That’s of no importance—Bertrand will lend us his. He’ll be delighted to do so—and then again, there are cars just as good as ours for hire.”
“Thank you,” said Charles. He kissed his mother on the forehead, at the junction of the parting that separated her hair into two flat and dull bangs. Madame Christiani, in return, sniffed against her son’s cheek; that was her own manner of kissing; her thin lips never participated under any circumstances, and it was obvious that they were not designed for that usage.
Colomba joined them for lunch. She was the smile of the house—and everything smiled upon her in return: her youth, her beauty, her engagement, her fiancé, and even Madame Christiani, who elevated a corner of her mouth in her favor, smiling on one side only, unable to do any better.
In the presence of his sister, Charles strove even harder than before to hide his melancholy. He mocked Claude’s terrors, not without wit, declaring himself convinced that superstitions, aided by some trickster, were responsible for all the trouble out there. He talked a great deal, gaily, without taking anything seriously—with the result that, as they left the table, when he saw Colomba approaching and she drew him to one side, he wondered what request was about to be addressed to him thanks to the joyful disposition he had just exhibited.
What she actually said to him, in a low voice was: “Are you upset?”
The shock he received put him off his stride; he blushed and then went pale, only to blush again.
“Would you like me to ask Mama for permission to go to Silaz with you?” she added.
“What about Bertrand? No, no—stay with him! Stay in Paris. When one’s in love, it’s best not to be apart. On the other hand, a few days’ retreat…”
“Who is she?” she demanded, through clenched teeth, her eyes looking sideways, fixed on Madame Christiani.
“No one! There was someone; not anymore.”
“Colomba—pour the coffee!”
“Au revoir!” said Charles, brusquely. “I’m going to get ready.”
When the two women were alone, Madame Christiani said: “Do you think there’s something wrong with him, then?”
“My God, Mama, perhaps…”
“As if you hadn’t noticed it, little faker! Except that I have no need to ask him what’s wrong to know what it is. He’s in love, my girl, he’s in love—and it’s not going as he’d wish. A love story! There we are. It was only to be expected, after all! Bah! He’s a Christiani; it will all work itself out, and we’ll make a second marriage…and I’ll be forced to invite that cousin Drouet—who behaved badly towards Mélanie—twice over.”
The young woman was amused, but remained thoughtful nevertheless, twisting the little black-enameled ring that Bertrand had given her around her finger. After a pause, she said: “It’s sad to be unhappy because one’s in love.”
“When one loves judiciously, my beauty, it’s impossible to be unhappy for long—and I’m sure of my Charles, from that point of view. If he’s in love, it’s judiciously.”
“Judiciously?”
“Yes. A woman worthy of him. And free. So I’m confident, you see. It will all work itself out.”
“Of course,” said Colomba.
IV. The Phantom of Silaz
The Château de Silaz is situated on the left bank of the Rhône, a few kilometers from Culoz. It rises up in the woods between the broad river and the long straight line of highway that follows its course. The hamlet of Silaz groups a few hearths around the domain at the foot of a small round crag, rocky and isolated, covered with bushes and shrubs, known as the Molard de Silaz. The region is therefore located on the border of the department of Savoy and, as in the ancient Sardinian province, old country people can still be found there who say “in France” when they talk about the right bank of the Rhône, from which extends the département de l’Ain.
The situation of the château is very beautiful, because of the mountains, which can be seen from all parts, and the woods, cut through by fields, vineyards and marshes, which surround it. The buildings are not very tall, and give the impression—falsely—of being constructed at a low level, the huge butte that supports them being dominated by the mass of the Molard and the imposing height of the horizon. It is a secluded spot. The road that goes to the nearby highway stops there, or, at least, only continues beyond Silaz in stony pathways, like all the hill-paths in the region.
The daylight was fading when Charles Christiani’s cabriolet, driven
by the chauffeur Julien, left the highway and set off along the final stage of the 550-kilometer journey from Paris to Silaz.
They had left the day before in the early afternoon. Charles had instructed the chauffeur not to hurry. That way, the voyage became salutary for him. He had sat beside Julien. The open air entered into his lungs generously. The spectacle of the world paraded its hundred thousand scenes before him, and he had been able to exchange a few words with his neighbor, who was neither stupid nor indiscreetly loquacious.
Charles was not at all worried about the cause that was bringing him to Savoy. He had dined well and slept well in Saulieu; they had been in no hurry to get back on the road. He abandoned himself quietly to pensive pleasure, to the beneficent dream of returning to a region and a house where he knew that his melancholy would not be jarred by any presence, untimely memory, ugliness or pettiness: a beautiful and silent desert.
A profound peace had filtered into him when, at Ambérieu, the car had suddenly gone into the gorges along a level road, following incessant curves at the bottom of the magnificent defile. Personally, he loved the mountain; it gave him physical pleasure to breathe the light and energetic atmosphere, while measuring the summits and the slopes, seeing the peaks stand out against the pure sky high above, or losing sight of them in the moving clouds.
Then, at the mouth of the valleys, in the grandiose enlargement of the land and the sky, in the dazzle of the returning bright light, as the descending road still overlooked the vast panorama, he had perceived the Molard de Silaz in the middle of the plain, and felt an almost-imperceptible quiver in his heart. Then he had thought that there was a little of the past preserved in his heard, a little of the Savoyard great-great-great-grandmother that stirred on approaching Silaz, and that idea charmed him again with a strange secret pleasure when he perceived the slate roofs and square tower of the manor.
All that dissipated within a second. Claude’s face reminded him instantly that he had not come to Silaz to enjoy a romantic repose.
The Master of Light Page 6
