The Master of Light

by Maurice Renard

  “But Cousin, Cousin,” said Charles, “you don’t know…what he’s just repeated…have you never suspected what it is? That name: Jean Cartoux…”

  “Oh, he’s always said that, along with a heap of other things we can no longer comprehend.”

  “And it never occurred to you to look for an explanation?”

  “Certainly not! I’ve never attached any importance to it. Is it important? You’re making me think so.”

  The parrot found its memory again, excited by the din of the people and the march-past. It was singing now, bobbing its little bald head:

  “When I drink the claret wine,

  “Everything goes round and round,

  “When I drink the claret wine,

  “The whole inn whirls around!”

  “I should think that it is important!” Charles exclaimed. “Hold on to yourself, Cousin! It’s the name of César’s murderer that Pit has just revealed to us. Jean Cartoux!”

  “It wasn’t Fabius Ortofieri, then?”

  “Eh? No. Fortunately, Cousin, fortunately.”

  The good lady, looking alternately at the exultantly joyful faces that were offered to her, seemed to be doubting many things, beginning with her own good sense.

  “Jean Cartoux,” said Bertrand. “Does that name remind you of anything?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “Come on! The Ortofieri case? Your father or your grandmother must have talked to you about the case. Don’t you remember that a policeman played a crucial role in the investigation, by attesting that he recognized Fabius Ortofieri as a certain man?”

  “Yes…I was told that a police inspector had formally accused Fabius. He affirmed that he had seen him lurking around the house in the Boulevard du Temple and going into it.”

  “Well, that inspector was named Jean Cartoux!”

  “No one told me that.”

  “It’s quite natural,” Charles remarked, addressing himself to Bertrand. “When my cousin was old enough to understand the drama—a subject of conversation scarcely suitable for a child—she was doubtless about 16 or 18 years of age. That was in 1862, at the earliest; the case was already a matter of ancient history; nearly 30 years had gone by since the murder. The names of witnesses were no longer of any importance, especially the name of a functionary who had made his disposition in his capacity as a functionary.”

  “Indeed,” said Colomba. “But Cousin, how is it that Pitt, in repeating the name ‘Jean Cartoux,’ didn’t attract the attention of your parents? It seems to me that it ought to have done so, especially given that the bird pronounced the name in César’s voice—which proves that he had heard it pronounced by is master, in response to a rather bizarre remark , and that…”

  “Pardon me,” said Cousin Drouet, “but couldn’t you give me some explanation of what this is all about? My word, I’m utterly lost!”

  “That’s true,” Charles admitted, cheerfully. “You won’t be able to find your way through it if we neglect to tell you the whole story as we know it.”

  He did what was necessary in this regard—after which, Cousin Drouet clarified the matter that had troubled Colomba. Immediately after César’s death, the parrot Pitt had been entrusted to an old lady who did Madame Leboulard’s sewing and darning, for Monsieur Leboulard had a horror of parrots. César’s little comrade had remained with that woman’s family until one day when, quite by chance, Amélie Drouet recalled its existence and succeeded in recovering it, in her passion for everything that had belonged to the old corsair, her great ancestor.

  The excellent woman had not been able to get her fill of the spectacle of the review in peace. It was from the corner of her eye that she had admired the grenadiers and the fusiliers, then the zouaves, the turcos, the spahis and, to finish up, the oriental cavalcade of the agas and bachagas.34 But she consoled herself, having understood that, thanks to the parrot, Charles had found an extraordinary joy under her roof, of which she discreetly awaited a more precise revelation.

  She had positioned herself on a Restoration sofa and was caressing the two tubby dogs on her lap. Charles knew what it was she wanted to know, and was on the point of telling her that, now Pitt had proved the innocence of Fabius Ortofieri, his rehabilitation would authorize a certain marriage, when he realized disagreeably that his troubles were not over. For, even if the truth was obvious to him, and to Bertrand and Colomba, would Rita’s parents be content with testimony as fragile as that…of a parrot?

  In truth, the luminite was there to prove to anyone that Pitt had been in César’s study at the moment of the murder; the cinematographic films had also, like the second plate, registered his presence and his emotion—which had appeared utterly irrelevant to the spectators of so terrible a drama, a parrot being an insignificant object, virtually non-existent, in a room in which a murder had been committed. But would that suffice? No. Certain minds, incredulous or finicky by nature, might refuse to admit the necessary relationship between the presence of the bird and the fact that he had cried today, 95 years later: “Jean Cartoux!” and “Long live the Emperor!” in a southern accent. A detractor might deny Pitt’s authenticity.

  No, no—the testimony of the centenarian animal was insufficient, or, at least, might be insufficient. It had revealed the truth, but had not proved it in a sufficiently irrefutable manner.

  The road, however, had fortunately been traveled! The most important thing had been achieved. Charles knew. The doubt that had shackled him thus far had now dissipated completely. And since the truth was known to him—known with a remarkable precision—it ought to be relatively easy to trace its origins. Those origins were now in his possession. He was no longer wandering at hazard in the unknown immensity of the past and the human multitude. What he had was better than a trail; it was the murderer himself, indemnified by his victim among the millions of men of his time, in so many words! In words that a living phonograph had captured and conserved, and which it repeated from time to time, at the behest of its caprice!

  Knowing the murderer’s name, Charles now felt very well-equipped to seek, even after a century, proofs of his culpability attached to his memory. He had to work quickly, though. Were not the notaries of the banker Ortofieri and Luc de Certeuil conferring that very morning in the Avenue Hoche, in the presence of the interested parties?

  Noon chimed. The housemaid poked an anxious face around the door.

  “That’s all right, Delphine,” said Cousin Drouet. “I’ll eat later.”

  Bertrand was striding back and forth with his hands in his pockets, his mind working hard. “Jean Cartoux!” he said. “Of all the people of yesteryear, of whose existence we’re aware, he’s the last one that I would have suspected! Why the Devil did that man kill César? And why did he kill him at the exact moment when Fieschi set off his infernal machine? It’s a real detective story, that business!”

  “Hmm!” said Charles. “Take note that César knew Cartoux, since the other asked him if he ‘recognized’ him. Now, we know—or think we know—that César had never done anything that might legitimate the intervention of the law. It can’t therefore, have been as a policeman that he knew Jean Cartoux…”

  Colomba observed: “In addition, what strange sort of inspector must this Cartoux have been, not to baulk at the most abject of false testimony in order to mislead the investigation? He would have allowed an innocent man to be convicted in his stead! He would have had Fabius Ortofieri guillotined!”

  And Bertrand added: “I understand why he asked for a leave on the evening of July 28. The real reason was not that he was fatigued, as he said, but that he dreaded being involved in the examinations in César’s apartment. He was afraid of being brought face to face with his victim in that fashion. And that’s why we didn’t see the murderer again—it’s because he wasn’t among the policemen on duty in César’s apartment!”

  “I think that Jean Cartoux was taking revenge,” said Charles. “His attitude when he came in seemed to indicate a cold, tri
umphant anger…”

  “That’s true,” Bertrand went on. “But that expression was transformed immediately, when he realized that an assassination had just been attempted against the royal procession.”

  “That’s understandable! Hadn’t he neglected his duty and abandoned his post in order to climb the stairway of number 53 and shot César! Oh, the more I think about it, the more I believe that it was a premeditated vengeance. That duty, that obligation to be on the public highway at the moment when the king and the princes passed by—what an alibi for a policeman! Hang on, hang on… ‘Jean Cartoux’ Is that a matter of chance?”

  The aged parrot, amid the cackles of parakeets and the deafening twittering of songbirds, was murmuring, to a well-known tune:

  “Tack for tack, we’ve got them now,

  “We’ll attack them from the bow.

  “With thrusts of the grappling hook…”

  “Shut up, Pitt!” exclaimed the cousin. “Oh, there he goes again, singing that nasty song that finishes with a swear-word addressed to the King of England!”

  Charles smiled. “The song isn’t inappropriate, Cousin. I was just thinking about the mariners who made up the crew of the Finette, which César commanded. And I recall that his memoirs, as well as his secret memoir, mention the habitual insubordination of a small number of sailors who were aboard his ship during the famous voyage in which the unknown island was discovered…”

  “Well?” Bertrand prompted.

  “César had those diabolical fellows clapped in irons readily enough, or ordered that they receive a few vigorous strokes of the lash. Now, one of them was named, if I’m not mistaken, Jean Carton. At least, as he didn’t write very legibly, I read it as Jean Carton. Today, though, everything leads me to believe that our corsair had formed a u like an n—a negligence quite frequent everywhere—and that, simplifying the orthography according to the custom of his time, he had simply ignored the x terminating the name Cartoux.”

  “And in time,” said Cousin Drouet, “Jean Cartoux had become a policeman?”

  “Nothing more plausible. Consider, Cousin, that Fieschi himself, a former sergeant in the Napoleonic army, had been a policeman after the revolution of 1830.”

  “How do we know, then,” Colomba said, “that Jean Cartoux didn’t know Fieschi, sine they had been colleagues?”

  “My word, that’s quite possible! But I confess that I can’t see, for the moment, any connection between that possibility and what happened on July 28, 1835. On the other hand, it seems that we’ve established the origin of the hatred that directed Cartoux’s pistol at César’s breast. The former sailor wanted to pay his captain back for the harsh treatment to which he had been subjected aboard the Finette.”

  “All that’s very well,” said Bertrand, responding to his brother-in-law’s preoccupation, “but we need confirmation of that, proof…”

  “Yes, but how? That’s what I’m asking myself. At the end of the day, what use are hypotheses relating to the motive for the crime? What we need, and what will suffice for our purpose, is to possess proof that Jean Cartoux is the murder: one proof, at least, that we can put forward without any possible contradiction. To carry out research on the subject of Jean Cartoux in the archives of the Sûreté, to know what became of him…yes. that’s very good. But it’s one more thing to do—and time’s pressing!”

  “And it’s getting late,” Colomba remarked. “We must let our cousin eat her meal.”

  “If I had been able to foresee this,” she said, “I would have had places set for you.”

  They refused politely—but Charles, being anxious only deployed a distracted gallantry.

  “Excuse him, Cousin,” said Bertrand, good-humouredly. “He’s in love—but he’s wrong to be in a bad mood, for now, I’m sure, he’s won his cause.”

  “Really?” murmured Charles, who smiled anyway.

  “In love! A beautiful situation!” said Cousin Drouet, ecstatically. “And might one know…?”

  The moon might have fallen on her head and left her less bewildered. The name of Ortofieri had the effect of a sledgehammer blow. The two families had been enemies for so long that she could not imagine a reconciliation, even in the case that the ancient hatred lost all of its raison d’être. It seemed to her that they had hated one another for centuries, especially for the last hundred years. However, she soon yielded to the force of reason, and she was of a time when love had been too enthusiastically cultivated not to range herself willingly on the side of lovers.

  “Hurrah for Magna Carta!” cried Pitt, mutedly. “All hands on deck! Lower the topsail!” A risible and yet troubling buffoonery! César’s own voice, warm and musical, still surviving!

  Bertrand approached the little creature, who moved from one end of his perch to the other, bobbing his head up and down. He spoke to the bird, prompting him with the sentence: “You recognize me, don’t you, Captain? Come on, Pitt, what’s next? You recognize me…”

  The bird said no more. He gave voice to abominable inarticulate screeches, and that was all.

  “Oh!” said the cousin. “When he doesn’t want to talk, nothing will make him do it. Sometimes he goes for weeks now, without saying a word.”

  “Dash it!” said Bertrand, darting a glance at Charles.

  XIX. Cartoux

  As Charles left the house in which enlightenment had come in such a strangely unexpected fashion, he hailed a taxi. All three of them got into it. Bertrand and Colomba were deposited at their door. A little before 1 p.m., the historian got down from the car in the Rue de Tournon.

  In the courtyard, on raising his eyes, he saw a valet who seemed to be stationed at an upstairs window, on the lookout for his return—a perfectly normal thing, at meal-times. But he found the servant on the threshold of the apartment, waiting for him with the door ajar. “Monsieur de Certeuil is in the drawing-room,” he said in a low voice.

  “What?” said Charles, sure that he had misheard.

  “Monsieur de Certeuil had been there since noon. As I told him that Monsieur would surely be back for lunch, he decided to wait.”

  What does this mean? Charles wondered, extremely intrigued. Certeuil here? Today? At this hour? Certeuil, who absolutely must see me? How is it that the Ortofieris have not retained him in the Avenue Hoche, for lunch with the notaries? Quite bizarre!

  He hurried to the drawing-room. Luc de Certeuil got up from his chair, smiling. Unusually, he was holding a leather briefcase in his hand, which gave him the new appearance of a businessman.

  “Pardon me, my dear Christiani, for having myself introduced at an inappropriate hour, but I have a proposition to make that will certainly not fail to interest you.”

  The man was speaking with his customary straightforwardness, but that frankness, always artificial, was perhaps less skillfully contrived than usual.

  Charles, very cold and distant, remained on his guard. “Please sit down,” he said, tonelessly.

  Still smiling and wan, with a chalky pallor that was even more obvious today, Luc sat down again and stood the large leather briefcase on his knees. His strong hand, sporting a signet-ring with his coat-of-arms and clutching cream-colored gloves, maintained it in position placidly. He sketched a gesture with the other hand, by way of introducing his subject. “This is what brought me here, my dear Christiani. I want to make you a business proposition. Can you imagine that I have had in my possession, for a long time, papers…documents…which, I presume, are of great value…historically? And, my God, I would gladly release them to you. I repeat, though, to avoid any misunderstanding from the start: it’s a matter of business. One thing for another.”

  There was a brief silence. Charles, a trifle stunned, tried to overcome his amazement. “So,” he said, “you’re offering to sell me historical documents? That’s it, isn’t it? You—to me. I beg your pardon, Certeuil, if I insist. I confess to you that your offer is so unexpected, not to say…astonishing. For, after all, in order for you to take this step, you mus
t be constrained by some imperious necessity. Let’s be clear: you’re in desperate need of money.”

  “That’s right!” said Luc, with a sprightly familiarity. “And I thought…continuing to speak frankly…that you might give me a good price for my documents.”

  “But after all,” Charles went on, nonplussed, “given the present circumstances—of which I don’t have to remind you, Certeuil—I have to conclude that, in order to come to me, you must be in a situation that is not only very precarious, but also…special. For, even if you can’t offer personal guarantees that might satisfy a money-lender….that hardly matters, damn it, when one considers you as the fiancé of Mademoiselle Ortofieri, the banker’s daughter! That’s a title that would open the doors of all the strongboxes of all the money-lenders in the world to you! Why not go knocking at the door of one of them? Have you not, among all your relatives and friends, a hundred people who would advance you any sum you care to name, against Mademoiselle Ortofieri’ s dowry? Why do you prefer this petty commerce? There must be a reason?”

  “The fact is,” replied Luc, smiling even more broadly, “that I’m no longer the future husband of Mademoiselle Ortofieri.”

  “What? Your engagement has been broken off?”

  “One couldn’t put it better.”

  “Well, well!” said Charles, who could not help staring at Luc Certeuil with an investigative irony.

  A suspicion of embarrassment was visible in the pale features of the young sportsman. “Since a little while ago,” he said, “Mademoiselle Ortofieri is free. I recalled that she had the good fortune to please you. Although, I said to myself, it’s not sufficient for her to be free for that charming fellow to marry her. It’s still necessary for certain obstacles, which oppose that union, to be removed… Do you get my drift, my dear friend?”

  “So what?” said Charles, his curiosity and his scorn increasing.

  “Well, it’s quite simple. The papers that I’ve brought you, which are here, in my briefcase, have the power to smooth away any difficulty…”