Then, gripped by a great emotion, suddenly understanding how the facts were connected, Charles seized that frame and set about examining it—and then, very carefully, manipulating it.
It was a frame of varnished fir-wood with a black thread, something quite simple, which had been quite banal in its time—but those frames have a “good old times” charm that makes the collectible today. Immediately, under the pressure of the chain of events, Charles noticed the analogy between the frame and the piece of slate that the painter Lami had depicted above the roll-top desk. Evidently, it was the same. For some reason, César had taken it into his head to hang a plate of virgin luminite, which he had brought to Paris from Silaz, on the wall of his study—and in order that the plate, similar to a piece of slate, should pass unnoticed, he had, so to speak, “disguised” it as a real slate, placing it in a valueless frame and writing a few figures—which probably had no significance—in chalk in a corner of the fake blackboard.
These prudent measures on his part were indispensable. The presence above the desk of a frame containing nothing but a black surface would, in fact, have seemed quite strange. Thus made-up, the plate had not been able to provoke any curiosity or any indiscreet question.
Charles separated it from the fir-wood rectangle easily. It was precisely fitted, like the backboard of a painting or a mirror, but not secured by tacks. The customary tacks had been replaced by eight tiny flat copper latches, which pivoted, analogous to those that you see fitted to the back of photograph-frames to retain the cardboard backing. The exactitude of the framing prevented the luminosity of edges from being perceived from without.
It was easy to guess why César had wanted the plate to be removable and easily separable from its frame. He had made it into a witness and wanted to be able to split it easily every time he needed to know what had happened in his home while he was absent. Further evidence of that was that the plate did not constitute a compact sheet like those in the high window when Charles had removed them from their frames; over a certain small thickness it was divided into a large number of exceedingly thin leaves, exactly like an unbound book; it required careful manipulation to maintain these divisions in juxtaposition and to prevent them from becoming disjointed, like a deck of playing-cards when the fingers holding them neglect to align them properly. César had, therefore, once done to this plate what Charles had done to the ones from the high window. He had read them many times.
Isolated, the plate was rid of Grandmother Estelle’s ink drawing, and that side showed, in a softer light, blurred by a darkness that thickened toward the bottom, the wallpaper: the cream Empire paper with gilded palm-leaves. Without any possible doubt, the framed plate had become part of the inheritance handed on to Napoléon Christiani, who was to marry grandmother Estelle in 1842, seven years after César’s death. Much later, Grandmother Estelle, searching for a frame for her copy of The Declaration of Love, had retrieved that fir-wood frame from some attic, doubtless thinking that it had once contained an engraving that had since disappeared. She had made use of it to frame her work, utilizing the luminite plate as a backboard. Then, later still, The Declaration of Love had ended up, along with many other family heirlooms, at the Château de Silaz, in this bedroom.
For years the frame, the drawing and the plate had remained there, a mysterious hybrid assembly. On all the occasions he had stayed in the room, Charles had not noticed anything. The dark plate, with the light that was slowly making it ay through it in both directions, had remained hidden from all eyes. The plate’s thickness was almost identical to the thickness of those that Charles had removed from the high window; in consequence, it had required about a century for light to pass through it, finally emerging from each face; that had certainly occurred since Charles had last stayed at Silaz.
As he looked at the face on which, by some freak of chance, he had found old César in his study in Paris, he observed that the living image was obliterated in one corner by an opaque inscription that seemed to be traced on the plate itself: the chalk figures; the insidious chalk figures that had “disguised” the plate as a writing-slate. On the other face, examining the plate from the other side, he found slight traces of erasure, and having rubbed them with his finger he saw that his finger had been whitened by a slight residue of chalk. Grandmother Estelle, renowned for her shoulders and no less for her “artistic temperament,” had not taken the trouble to wash the slate that she had used as a backboard for her Declaration of Love. The good lady, confused and distracted, had obviously paid no attention to the luminous streaks on the edge. To tell the truth, seen in broad daylight, those extremely fine lines might have been mistaken for reflections, and Grandmother Estelle had not cared overmuch whether there might be some slates that were not as dull as others.
How feverishly Charles Christiani’s eyes devoured César’s study, which was revealed to him as if through an opening pierced in the wall above the roll-top desk, like a secret spy-hole fabricated between the 19th and 20th centuries! And what fantastic hopes developed within him! For Lami’s water-color testified to the presence of luminite in the study on the day after the crime, and on the very day of the crime! This plate, therefore, had witnessed César’s death, had filmed all its phases in color! And, in consequence, he had only to divide it judiciously into sheets to proceed from one sheet to the next through the period preceding the murder to the day in July 1835 when the murder had been committed, to the very moment when the assassin had fired the mortal pistol-shot at his victim! César’s murderer was photographed in the heart of the plate! Was it Fabius Ortofieri? Charles had the ability to ascertain that!
The day of July 28, 1835, marvelously conserved within the mass of the luminite, was advancing within it slowly toward one of the two surfaces, and one cut, one “cleavage” made at the required distance along the edge, would cause it to appear immediately.
Charles Christiani, as you can imagine, did nothing about it. He had immediately perceived all the precautions with which it was necessary to surround such an operation. Long reflection was necessary before attempting anything. Nothing must be neglected, from any point of view, and the points of view were numerous. He envisaged them, without quitting the incomparable observation-post that placed him in the past.
In the past, to be sure—but on what date?
He discovered that with a facility that enchanted him and revived in his mind the happy presumption that fate was on his side.
On the mantelpiece of César’s study there was, as we know, a bust of the Emperor. There was no mirror there—a rather unfortunate circumstance, as we shall see later—but higher up, immense by comparison with the smallness of the room, and furled in order to take up less space, was the corsair’s rutilant guidon: the red strip of muslin with the golden Christ. Beneath it, an Empire clock of the “bull’s eye” variety, with an eight-part corolla, was fixed to the wall directly above the center of the mantelpiece, and below that, among a profusion of suspended weapons, between a sextant and a barometer, not far from colored engravings representing ships with all sails aloft, was a calendar, bordered by a ribbon of yellow paper, on which the six columns of a half-year were aligned.
This placard was too far away for Charles to be able to make out even the largest characters. He went down to the study on the ground floor of the tower to fetch a magnifying-glass and a pair of binoculars.
As he had expected, the magnifying glass produced no result, since the vision emitted by the luminite had nothing in common with an image drawn on a surface, but was, on the contrary, situated in space, like the reality that it was: a delayed reality; a reality similar to that of stars that disappeared a long time ago, whose image remains visible in the firmament because of the time required for light to cross the distance between their position and ours. In those conditions, however, the binoculars worked marvelously. They brought everything in the study in the Boulevard du Temple closer, as easily as if it had been a matter of ordinary vision.
Thus, Char
les was able to read the year on the calendar: 1833.
He lowered his optical instrument toward the old corsair seated at his desk. He could have counted his wrinkles, and the hairs in his bushy eyebrows. He could see the nostrils moving imperceptibly with the breath of respiration. It was almost frightening: the life of that man of yesteryear, who, for nearly a century, had been no more than a corpse in a tomb in Père-Lachaise; that detailed life of which Charles sensed the rhythm and the warmth.
César was wearing horn-rimmed spectacles now. He leaned forward to write a new letter, which he had just dated at the top of the piece of paper: May 12, 1833. Charles deciphered that by placing the luminite plate upside-down, for, positioned as he was, facing César, he saw the letter that César was writing the wrong way up.
More than two years to live, my poor César!
May 12. Indeed, through the window with small panes, the four bushy rows of trees in the Boulevard du Temple had their young spring foliage.
At that moment, Charles experienced one of the strongest emotions of his life as a historian. The situation of the luminite plate was such that, from the place where César had suspended it like a painting or a mirror—as, we repeat, he had intended—it embraced a view of the boulevard toward the right, to the east. And by virtue of that, between the house of the Estaminet Rustique and the modest Café des Mille Colonnes, which displayed the enormous projection of the dropped roof of its four-floored hall at mezzanine height, a tall three-story building could be seen, each story of which had a single casement window, the first of which was painted—already—blood red, and the third of which, beneath an oblique roof like an arched eyebrow, opened a crafty eye upon a broad Parisian thoroughfare: a window crammed with panes, fitted with a Venetian blind.
With the aid of the binoculars, which trembled between his fingers, Charles read, on the right-hand sight of the first-floor window, on a white patch contrived in the scarlet paint, the figure 50. Higher up, above that same window, inscribed in white letters on the reed background, was: WINE-MERCHANT. Further up, crowning the second-floor window, was a kind of painted sign:
Four francs per year
JOURNAL DES CONNAISSANCES UTILES
18 Rue des Moulins
The house of the infernal machine!
In two years’ time—two years, two months and 16 days, to be exact—the murderous salvo would be fired from that window with the Venetian blind! And that paved thoroughfare would be littered with the dead and the wounded! And one of the most sadly celebrated assassination attempts in world history would have taken place!
No stranger sensation had ever overtaken the soul of a historian than that of standing behind his binoculars, visiting Fieschi’s fatal, accused, abominable house with his eyes, at his leisure, stone by stone, in telescopically-enlarged detail, with its wooden shelter, its lantern, its three disparate windows, its tiles and the aggregated group of chimneys the loomed over it to the left.
There was a movement in César’s study.
Emerging from the door to the right of the mantelpiece, which put that room in communication with the drawing-room, the monkey Coburg precipitated himself forward, waving his disproportionately long arms, chasing Pitt, the favorite parrot. He had presumably escaped; a fragment of chain hung from his leather belt.
The bicolored bird having regained César’s shoulder, the latter scolded the chimpanzee roundly and dragged him into the drawing-room, which must have constituted a rather bizarre locale, given the guests that dwelt there. Charles, having moved to the left of the plate, was thus able to glimpse, in a mirror in the second room, the aviary filled with fluttering wings. By the same means, he discovered the study door giving access to the main entrance, against which Lami had sat to paint his water-color. That was, however, the limit of his visual field.
At any rate, the spectator had before him the very theater of the murder. That murder had been committed in broad daylight, the murderer certainly having not the slightest suspicion of any espionage. As the plate had definitely been in the study at the time of the murder, the conclusion that emerged in all evidence was admirably clear. It would be possible to remount, after 94 years, the examination of the Ortofieri case, with new means that would permit the interested parties to witness, in person, not a reconstruction of the crime but the crime itself. And that prodigious counter-inquiry would finally bring out the truth as to the innocence or guilt of Fabius Ortofieri.
There was, of course, no question of interesting the law in this new inquiry. It had made its decision a long time ago—and since no judgment had been reached, there could be no possibility of rehabilitation. Fabius, having died in prison, had not been convicted. It was, therefore, merely a matter of obtaining certainty by means of new information. If the result were favorable to Fabius, that could be loudly publicized; Charles, knowing his mother’s rectitude, did not doubt that she would then extend her hand to Rita’s father and express her sincere regrets regarding an ancient accusation, justified at the time by damning depositions. And if the result confirmed the opinion of the 1835 court, if Fabius’ guilt were irrefutably established—and luminite was irrefutable!—there would be silence, in favor of Rita…in favor, alas, of the person who would then become Madame de Certeuil. The old affair would remain, for the public at large, a forgotten, distant and uncertain story.
Progressively, one by one, Charles perceived all the dispositions that the counter-inquiry would necessitate. He had immediately decided to ask Bertrand Valois for his close collaboration. He remembered the detective-story deductions that the young author had made, in his presence, with respect to the 17th century cane. Bertrand would be glad to participate in the extraordinary investigation, and Charles would have in him the most precious and most discreet of auxiliaries.
But all that was merely projects and cogitations; one action was immediately necessary, and Charles prayed to God that there was still time to do it without fear of serious complications. The most urgent thing to be done was to alert Rita.
She was due to leave Saint-Trojan the following day. Was her engagement to Luc de Certeuil an accomplished fact? It was necessary to hope that no firm promise had yet been exchanged. It might be, however, at any moment. Perhaps the next day’s departure would be the occasion.
Get going! There’s no time to lose!
Yes, but what means was there of communicating rapidly with Rita? Via the intermediary of Madame Le Tourneur? Hmm! Charles did not much like that sort of stratagem. He did not doubt, however, that it could be successfully employed. Geneviève Le Tourneur’s friendship for Marguerite Ortofieri would ensure that his message would be transmitted to its intended recipient with the briefest delay. There was no embarrassment of choices, and urgency spurred him on.
Bah! he said to himself. The end justifies the means!
And from that resulted the telegram that had plunged Rita into great delight, mingled with ardent curiosity.
X. Telegraphic Response
Geneviève Le Tourneur had recovered the telegram in question from Rita’s hands.
“Prudence is the mother of security,” she said, professorially. “Let’s burn this compromising evidence.” She picked up a match-box, which she opened with the tips of her long manicured fingers.
“No,” said Rita. “Give it to me, would you? It might be the first of a whole sequence of souvenirs…I’d like that very much! Who knows? Who knows how many other telegrams, how many letters, how many faded flowers and trivia of that sort might keep it company, wrapped in fine ribbons, in a drawer in my writing-desk? Don’t burn it…”
“It’s imprudent. If your mother or your father…”
“I’m free to do as I please!” the young woman retorted, proudly, raising her brunette head abruptly.
“Agreed, my child—but I confess to you quite frankly that I was thinking of myself. If your mother or your father learned of my complicity…”
“You’ve nothing to fear.”
“Oh well! Here’s y
our souvenir number one. I hope it inaugurates a brilliant collection! But please, don’t let it go astray. Farewell, message of hope! There are times when telegrams ought to be green.”
“No one will ever read it, and your reputation is in no danger,” affirmed Rita, grabbing the thin piece of paper.
“I certainly hope so. Tell me—Luc de Certeuil will certainly give some thought to what has just happened. He’s taken your answer to heart, and will certainly wonder why you’ve asked him to wait longer. Don’t you think it will occur to him to make a connection between my arrival at the tennis game and the fashion in which you’ve modified your impatience to be his?”
“Certainly not. I’d already manifested a good deal of uncertainty before your arrival…”
“Hmm! Of course—but a good deal of emotional, fearful uncertainty; while, in the latter instance, you didn’t have the same attitude at all! You seemed content, excited, with your eyes shining, beautiful Rita!”
“I tried to control myself—but it was so difficult!”
“I think, my dear, that the imminent future will provide you with more than one opportunity to master your pretty face,” said Madame Le Tourneur, in a gently mocking fashion.
“We have to send him a reply!” Rita realized, suddenly. “We have to reassure him. The poor boy doesn’t know how things stand here. At the very least, we should let him know that his telegram reached me. Please, Geneviève!”
She pleaded.
The match-box had not been opened needlessly. Geneviève smoked a slender cigarette of Turkish tobacco. She sat down, placing a notepad on her knees with affected docility. “Dictate,” she said, taking the top off a mauve-enameled fountain-pen.
“Monsieur Charles Christiani…”
“That’s quite a mouthful. Monsieur who? Say it again.”
The Master of Light Page 14
