He thought, however, that he might perhaps never return to Savoy, and it amused him to place two panes a century thick in plain sight, in order that, a hundred years later, someone might have the unparalleled surprise of perceiving the events of his own time through those plates. The window had no shutters, so no obstacle would mask the view or oppose the action of the light—at least for some time. The plates, being virginal, would remain opaque for 100 years; they would not attract any attention. César therefore fitted them into the frame of the casement, carefully sealing their edges to avoid the feeble glow of their cross-sections from betraying his stratagem.
He finally brought his confession—which he had written every evening in the little top room, where no one, to that late hour, could interrupt him—to an end. His penultimate sentence announces that he intends to take a plate of optical glass to Paris. The final one lets it be understood that he would leave three days later—and, returning to the subject of the plates that, from then on, would cover half of the window behind him, César gives his conclusion a mischievous turn.
When his thrice-great-grandson Charles Christiani read the final sentence of the memoir, that malice reminded him forcefully of the ironic glance that César—or, more accurately, César’s shade—had darted at the window thus equipped: a glance that the young man and the chauffeur Julien had imagined to be directed at them.
As he closed the yellow-and-black lid upon the manuscript, Charles, his head buzzing, looked around, not longer quite knowing which century he was in. Feverishly excited, he was subconsciously subject to a puerile disillusionment, for the discovery of an unknown manuscript, the work of César Christiani, had made him hope vaguely for some sort of revelation concerning the relationship of the corsair and his murderer, Fabius Ortofieri. And however important what he had just learned might be, extraordinary as his wonderment was, it seemed to him that once again, deceptive Destiny—which might have been of service—was stubbornly refusing to do anything for him.
VIII. On the Brink of Misfortune 16
The final tennis matches were being contested on the courts of Saint-Trojan. Outside the wire-netting, among the deflowered rose-bushes, groups of people were sitting on the benches and garden-chairs, watching the players.
They were the semi-finals and finals of the “men’s singles.” When the day was over, there would be a general dispersal. The following day, the ferry to Chapus would disgorge passengers who would be heading back from the pure autumnal light of Oléron to sterner skies.
Luc de Certeuil, who had already qualified for the final, was chatting with Marguerite Ortofieri. He was certain that he would win the cup and was not anxious to know which adversary the semi-final being played in front of him would determine as his final opponent. He was absorbed by a more serious preoccupation. He did not want the season to end without bringing a definitive precision to his situation with respect to Rita.
“In any case,” he said to her, “I think that we might wait several years before knowing one another any better. This time tomorrow I shall have gone my way and you’ll have gone yours. I’ll only see you again at intervals. Don’t you think it’s time to put an end to these preliminaries? Your father and mother are here, and I have every reason to believe that they won’t raise any opposition. Rita, will you authorize me to ask for your hand this evening?”
Rita remained silent for a moment, her eyes distracted by the contest of the two adversaries dancing back and forth on either side of the net. She was visibly troubled, though.
“Forgive me,” she said, effortfully. “I foresaw that you were going to speak to me, but not the effect it would have on me. Things don’t happen as one expects them to. You find me very emotional and—how shall I put it?—devoid of bravery. I’m rather frightened.”
“I shan’t do anything without your permission,” said Luc, with a great deal of softness and a certain understandable resentment.
“Naturally,” said Rita, smiling momentarily.
“I understand your state of mind perfectly well, and I’d be a fool to be offended by it. It’s a sufficiently solemn matter to require reflection. But permit me to insist that we no longer need, I hope, to reflect. Come on, decide whether I shall be happy!”
“Will you give me few minutes more?” implored the young woman. “Truly, I’m…I’m…”
She squeezed her handkerchief in the palms of her moist hands. In her bronzed face, further tanned by the sea air, there was a kind of snowy gleam, and her featured seemed to have lost the ability to relax.
“My dear Rita!” murmured Luc, in a tender voice.
She could no longer hear him more distinctly than the sportive words of the players—their calls of play and ready—mingled with the monotonous announcements of the umpire on his podium. It was only through a fog of anguish that she glimpsed the white or multicolored patches of the silent spectators of either sex. And yet…
And yet, since Charles Christiani’s departure, she had told herself that it was necessary to settle things as soon as possible. The best thing to do was to finish it once and for all, without hesitation—not to linger, vainly and painfully, in superfluous regrets and dreams without foundation. To pass on to the next stage of existence, quickly, quickly, to heap life upon the impossible dream, to retreat precipitately into the depths of a past in which one irreparable event after another might be frantically accumulated to stun herself…
The request that Luc had just made of her, she had promised herself to prompt before their departure, if he had continued to hold back. It was the best solution, the most honest, the most courageous…and the most prudent. In addition, throughout the time she had been in Charles Christiani’s company without making herself known to him, she had maintained a firm resolution to annul those romantic hours, fraudulently stolen, by necessity, immediately afterwards. She had sworn then to take up the thread of her interrupted destiny immediately and to become engaged to Luc de Certeuil the very next day, having made a concession to the dream and to love—the only one she would make in her entire life.
Geneviève Le Tourneur, consulted during the preceding days, had strongly approved of Rita’s decision. Yes, all memory of Charles Christiani should certainly be erased as soon as possible; she encouraged her friend and congratulated her on her wisdom. Rita had felt very strong, stoical, almost content to accomplish a dutiful act of renunciation intrepidly. Renunciation? she had thought. But what is it, then, that I’m renouncing. Nothing, alas, since it’s impossible! With respect to that, Geneviève had suggested that by getting engaged to Luc de Certeuil she would be working for the tranquility and appeasement of Charles Christiani, who was doubtless no happier than she was at present.
Rita, therefore, had wanted Luc to ask for her hand in marriage that day. She had prayed that he would take the initiative. Just now, as they had sat down on the bench, she had thought: If only he will speak! But now that he had spoken, a frightful distress gripped her heart. It seemed to her that the brutal proposition had been made that she should sacrifice the most beautiful chimera of all time. Until now, no action had been taken against her love. Now, she had been offered a dagger with which to stab it. The moment had come to be faithful or unfaithful, to renounce—oh, yes, to renounce—what? She did not know. She only knew that it was necessary to renounce something so beautiful and so great that there had never been a more atrocious sacrifice than that one.
It was necessary—but her distress was begging for a delay. She repeated, as firmly as she could: “A few minutes, all right?”
Geneviève Le Tourneur appeared then, very opportunely. Rita saw her coming toward them, with an indolent stride, and felt a sharp satisfaction. The young woman, suffering from a migraine, had made her excuses to Luc for not being able to watch the tournament; she had intended to spend the afternoon lying down in her room, as she often did. On seeing her, Rita experienced a pleasant surprise as well as joy. She had never been in greater need of having a female friend at her side, to consol
e her and give her assurance in her struggle against the male of the species, the eternal war of the sexes. Geneviève was swinging her hips gently, with an amiable smile.
They made room for her between them, on the bench. Her fearfully pale skin reddened in the cheeks.
“Is your headache better?” asked Rita, affectionately.
“Not entirely,” said Geneviève, placing a finger on her temple. “But sufficiently for me not to miss Monsieur de Certeuil’s victory.”
The said Monsieur de Certeuil did not flinch. Madame Le Tourneur brought out of an immense floral-patterned cretonne bag a sort of table-mat, and phlegmatically set about embroidering it with mauve and orange silk. She heard Rita say to Luc: “Go play your match. I promise to give you an answer immediately afterwards.”
“But…come on…can’t you just say yes?” he said, with a certain vivacity and a suspicion of anxiety.
Rita, reaching out her arm, had placed a hand on one of Geneviève’s hands, which meekly fell idle. “Luc, you’ve asked me if you should speak to my parents now or later, haven’t you? I don’t think there’s any question of anything else? What is there to be alarmed about?”
“Ah! Good, good…”
The activity of the spectacle that was taking place in front of them had just been modified. The players on the court had stopped, mingling with other tennis players who were coming into the wire-netting enclosure. Outside, the groups were on the move.
“It’s Simpson who’s won,” said Luc de Certeuil. “Hey, Simpson! How long before we play?”
“I’d prefer to do it right away,” the American replied.
“Okay.” Luc got up and said to the young woman, laughing: “Chances are this game will be the quickest of my career.”
“Oh…” Rita began, evasively.
“Come on!” Luc persisted, caressing the handle of his racket. “Say yes right now. It’ll help me to win.”
Rita looked at him uncertainly—but just at the moment when she might perhaps have uttered the desired word, the most unexpected, surprising and inconceivable sensation closed her mouth. With a sudden and brief pressure, Geneviève Le Tourneur’s hand had just given her a secret but peremptory warning.
Nothing was visible; the two friends’ hands had not even appeared to tremble. Their faces were impassive.
“After the game!” Rita confirmed. “What’s decided is decided. Go on, my dear—I think Simpson’s waiting for you.”
He remained in front of her for one more second, looking at her profoundly, twisting and whirling his racket.
Two charming young girls approached. “We’re going to study your skill,” one of them proclaimed. Then, addressing herself to Geneviève, she added: “Madame, may we sit down beside you? By squeezing up a little…”
“All right.” Geneviève and Rita cleared half the bench.
“Soon,” said Luc. He drew away. The spectators were more numerous now. All the seats were occupied. Many of the men were standing or sitting on the ground.
Rita interrogated Geneviève with a supremely intrigued gaze, but their two neighbors, whom they knew, had started a general conversation in which it was necessary to take part. They could not think of quitting the spot. The descendant of the Ortofieris was seething with impatience. What had Geneviève wanted to tell her? Why had she asked her to be silent? Her calmness was unbearable! What could she do, in order to find out before the end of the game—the game that it was necessary to follow until the end?
Meanwhile, Geneviève had not abandoned her embroidery. While talking, raising her eyes from time to time to look at Luc or Simpson, who were running madly around their cage, leaping and pirouetting, she never ceased to ply her needle.
Nevertheless, she suddenly declared: “I’ve had enough.” And she opened her immense bag in order to put the table-mat away. “You haven’t complimented me on my work,” she said. “It’s nice, though—how do you like my flowers?” She offered the canvas ornamented with orange flowers and mauve foliage to Rita’s gaze.
“It’s very pretty,” Rita admitted. But she said no more, petrified by what she had just seen.
In large letters, around a flower, Geneviève had traced the seven letters of a name with a few needle-stokes: CHARLES. The name, which seemed from a distance to crown the marvelous flower with a capricious and purely decorative arabesque, burst forth for Rita in sunbeams.
“Bravo! Bravo!” cried one of the girls, because Luc de Certeuil had just retrieved a deep ball with a clever backhand.
Her eyes immeasurably widened, Rita stared at Geneviève. The latter, with a negligent gesture, buried the table-mat in the bag and remarked: “Lord! The things in this bag! It won’t do! No, just look at this mess!”
She held out her huge gaping sack toward Rita. She had plunged a nonchalant and into it, and that delicate, ring-laden hand, as feminine as it could be, brandished the blue rectangle of a telegram for a tenth of a second within the dark depths of the vast pocket. Then, like a curtain falling at the end of a play, the floral cloth of the precious receptacle closed up, with a click of its clasp.
Applause went up in response to a cross-court shot by Luc de Certeuil. His adversary, precipitating himself forwards, could not return it.
“Game!” announced the umpire.
“Two love,” said Geneviève’s neighbor.
As he prepared to serve, Luc darted a glance at the bench. Elegant, mobile and precise, he offered, in the incomparable light of the clear sky, the fine form of a model human being. At a distance, his white silhouette enchanted the eyesight, nullifying what was sometimes displeasing about his overly pale features, his short snub nose and his enigmatic gaze.
Silent, turned into a statue, Rita stared into space, no longer seeing anything. She had run through all the imaginable possibilities, but the explanation of the telegram escaped her, cruelly and delightfully. Charles Christiani was however, back on the scene. Whatever had happened had influenced Geneviève to the point of making her revise her previous opinion. And that was intoxicating, delirious and divine! It carried away all the suppositions of her feverish curiosity on a magnificent wave of joy.
The final was completed in record time. Simpson did not win a single game. Luc de Certeuil had never played so brilliantly. Everything he tried had succeeded. He was, however, a long way from believing that his luck might be linked to the old proverb: “Unlucky in love…” And it was with the most self-satisfied expression in the world that he returned to Rita.
“My compliments!” she said to him.
He bowed, smiling. “The compliments are very welcome—but…the answer?”
“Later,” said Rita, simply.
He was so disconcerted that for a moment, with his arms dangling and his mouth agape, he lost the greater part of his elegance. “Oh!” he said, reproachfully. “What!”
“Patience!” she advised him, softly.
“Oh well,” he let slip, “you really are a woman!”
“Don’t be annoyed. Patience, I tell you!”
“Ah!” proffered Luc, furious and consternated. But he controlled himself immediately. “I’m always obedient to your desires.”
“With a smile?” she said, mischievously.
“With a smile, of course.” And he contrived to put on a countenance so humble and touching, that Rita was able to give him credit for it and sympathize wholeheartedly with his disappointment.
Rita went into Madame La Tourneur’s room behind her. “What’s happened, then?” she asked her, avidly. “Who sent you that telegram?”
“He did, very foolishly!” Geneviève said, shrilly, in her weak and quavering voice. Deep down, she was excited. Things were taking a romantic turn, which could only please the majority of women. Furthermore, Charles’s telegram made her think that the adventure might perhaps terminate in the fashion most in conformity with the laws of society and the dearest desires of her darling Rita. She therefore found it legitimate, and even praiseworthy, to serve the love of which s
he had previously disapproved, inasmuch as, divorced in the prime of life, she nourished—without being fully aware of it—that strange need which affects all human beings and consists of desiring for others the tribulations that have been inflicted on oneself…with the result that she was not displeased, fundamentally, to be working to break a marriage in the making.
Luc and Rita were not even engaged, but no matter! There is a hint of marriage in the vaguest of betrothals—which is to say that there is a hint of divorce in their rupture. And quite unconsciously, the gentle and blonde Madame Le Tourneur would have liked all her female friends to be lodged, as she was, under the sign of separation. That is the way of the world, and no one will ever change it. Thus, the most sincere friendships are sometimes subject to obscure penchants that influence them. This, Geneviève Le Tourneur, without being aware of it, took as much pleasure in burning Luc de Certeuil’s cards as in spinning the wheel of fortune, which now seemed to favor Charles Christiani—according to his telegram.
Rita read and re-read that telegram, in inexpressible mental disorder.
Madame Geneviève Le Tourneur,
Hotel Floria Saint-Trojan (Ile d’Oléron)
(Charente-Inférieure)
Ruffieux, October 2, 1929.
Respectfully beg you to communicate to whoever has the right to know that I envisage possible revision 1835 legal proceedings by virtue of new fact discovered this morning.
Thanks and respects.
Charles Christiani.
“A new fact!” Rita said, passionately. “A new fact! Naturally, it can only be something of capital importance! Something capable of demolishing everything that is known, everything that is imagined, about the murder of César Christiani! A new fact! What new fact? A document discovered among his papers? An unexpected revelation? Of what kind? Ruffieux—yes, I remember. He mentioned a journey to Savoy that he had to make. Is it in Savoy, then, that he has discovered…for discovered is the word…it certainly seems to be him who has discovered something. Oh, my God! But it’s providential! It’s too beautiful!”
The Master of Light Page 12
