From the window overlooking the garden, there was nothing to be seen…nothing but the plane-tree and the other torpid trees, in the moonlight…
The howling began again, however, over to the left—and from the other window, I saw something that seemed to me, momentarily, to explain everything. One thing that was certain was that it was reality that had nourished my dream in an auditory sense, actual sounds having suggested the vision of imaginary screamers in my sleep.
There was a huge but emaciated dog out there, with its back to me. It had placed its forepaws on the closed shutters of my old room and was uttering long wails at intervals, with all its might. The other barking sounds—the stifled ones—were replying to it from inside the house. Was the latter really barking, though? What if my hearing, now suspect, were still deceiving me? One might have thought that it was, in fact, the voice of a man imitating a dog. The harder I listened, the more convincing that conclusion became. Yes, certainly, it was impossible to mistake it—how had I been able to hesitate? It leapt to the ears: some joker, installed in my room, was amusing himself by tormenting the poor dog. Furthermore, he had succeeded; the animal was giving signs of increasing exasperation. It modulated its clamor terribly, giving it a more extraordinary intonation every time, as if in desperation.
In the end, it scratched the shutters furiously, and bit them. I could hear the wood cracking between its jaws.
Suddenly, the beast froze, its hackles raised. A storm of abuse abruptly broke out inside the apartment. I recognized my uncle’s voice, without being able to grasp the meaning of the reprimand.
The admonished joker immediately fell silent. But the dog, unaccountably, whose frenzy ought to have diminished, was now beside itself. Its back bristled like a wild boar’s. Growling, it began to run along the wall of the château, toward the middle door. Just as it got there, Lerne opened the door.
Fortunately for me, I had taken the precaution of not drawing back my curtains. His first glance was at my window.
In a low voice, with suppressed anger, the professor scolded the dog. He did not move forward, though, and I realized that he was afraid. The other drew nearer, still growling, its eyes glinting within its vast head.
Lerne spoke louder: “To your kennel, vile beast!” A few foreign words followed; then he went on in French as the animal kept coming: “Go away! Do you want me to beat you? Do you?”
My uncle seemed to be going crazy. The moonlight exaggerated his pallor.
He’ll be torn apart, I thought. He doesn’t even have a riding-crop.
“Back, Nelly! Back!”
Nelly? This was expelled student’s bitch, then—the Scotsman’s Saint-Bernard.
Indeed, the foreign words that poured forth then informed me, to my utter astonishment, that my uncle also spoke English. His guttural invective resonated in the nocturnal silence.
The dog gathered herself, about to pounce—whereupon Lerne, at the end of his tether, threatened her with a revolver, while using the other hand to indicate the direction in which she was to go. While out shooting, I had had the opportunity to see a dog put to flight by a rifle, the murderous power of which it knew. Facing a pistol, the thing seemed to me less banal. Had Nelly experienced the effect of that weapon before? It was plausible, but I thought it more likely that she had a better understanding of English—MacBell’s language—than my uncle’s revolver. She was gentled as if by the voice of Orpheus, crouched down, and took the path toward the grey buildings, as indicated by Lerne, with her tail between her legs. He ran after the dog, and the darkness swallowed them both.
From the depths of my clock, the imperishable Reaper mowed down a few more minutes. In the distance, doors slammed. Then Lerne came back. There was nothing more.
There were, therefore, two unsuspected individuals at Fonval: Nelly, doubtless abandoned by her master in the course of his precipitate flight, whose lamentable appearance scarcely suggested that she was happy there, and the practical joker. For the latter, logically, could not be either of the two women or any of the three Germans; the nature of the buffoonery betrayed the age of its author: only a child cold amuse himself at the expense of a dog. But no one, so far as I knew, was lodged in that wing…
Ah! Lerne had told me that he was using my room. Who, then, was living in it?
I would find out.
If the hidden presence of Nelly in the grey buildings invested that already-intriguing location with new interest, the closed apartments of the château were becoming a supplementary target. My objectives were finally becoming clearer!
As the prospect of the mystery-hunt excited me, a presentiment warned me that I would be wise to follow it to the death, and break Lerne’s first commandment before violating the second. “Let’s get to the bottom of things first,” said the voice of reason. “They’re complicated. Afterwards, we can make provision for the bagatelle in peace.”
If only I had heeded my own advice! But the voice of reason speaks softly, and who, I ask you, can hear it, when passion starts bawling?
V. The Madman
A week later, I was lying in ambush behind the door of my old room—the Yellow Room—with my eye to the keyhole. I had been there already, two days before, but had not had time to observe…
Oh, it wasn’t easy, at least in appearance! Fonval’s left wing had never been so jealously guarded since the days when the monks were cloistered there.
How had I got into it? In the simplest possible manner. The Yellow Room is connected to the central vestibule—through which anyone could pass freely—by a sequence of three rooms; the vestibule connects to the large drawing-room, which connects to the billiard-room, which itself opens into a boudoir, which has the Yellow Room as the next room on the right, going in the direction of the grounds. Now, two days before, taking advantage of a moment of independence, I had tried keys that I had stolen from various other doors in the lock of the drawing-room, one by one. I was not confident, but the tongue of the lock suddenly yielded. I opened it and perceived the entire sequence of rooms, unimpeded, in the half-light of closed shutters.
As I went from one threshold to the next, I recognized the particular odor of each room, all a little mustier than of old—odors that the past would exhale if one could travel into it. There was dust everywhere. On tiptoe, I followed a trail that many boots had left behind in their dry mud. A mouse ran across the drawing-room carpet. On the billiard table, the black, red and white spheres described an isosceles triangle; mentally, I calculated the shot, the impulse required and the angle of the second ball. And the boudoir surrounded me; the hands of its stopped clock indicated noon, or midnight. I felt marvelously receptive.
Scarcely had I had time to see the closed door of the Yellow Room, though, when a noise made me return precipitately to the vestibule….
It was no joking matter! Lerne was working in the grey buildings, but he knew that I was in the château, and on such occasions, he had a habit of returning frequently without warning, to keep watch on me. A postponement of the enterprise seemed prudent.
An hour of liberty was indispensable. I formulated a plan. The next day, I took the automobile to Grey-l’Abbaye and bought various items of clothing, which I hid beneath a bush in the forest, not far from the grounds. The day after that, at lunch, I told Emma and Lerne: “I’m going to Grey this afternoon. I hope to find certain items there of which I’m in considerable need. If I can’t, I’ll go on as far as Nanthel. Is there anything you’d like me to do?”
Fortunately, there wasn’t; otherwise it would all have come unstuck.
By that means, a fifteen minute run would permit me to recover my purchases from the bush, as if I had gone to the village for them. The duration of the journey from Fonval to Grey and back could be reckoned at an hour and a quarter, with time added on to visit the grocer and the haberdasher’s, so I had an hour at my disposal—Q.E.D.
I went out, left my car in a thicket not far from the bush where the things were hidden, then climbed over t
he wall into the garden; the ivy on one side and a trellis on the other simplified the task. Creeping along the wall of the château, I reached the vestibule.
So here I am in the drawing-room, with the door carefully closed behind me. In case I have to cut and run, though, I thought it prudent not to lock it. The keyhole is broad. With respect to what I can see through it, it forms a frame in the shape of a loophole, through which a keen draught is blowing. And what can I see?
The room is dark. Cutting laterally through the shutters, a slanting sunbeam seems to be propping up the window with its dazzling spray, in which particles of dust float like orbiting planets. On the carpet, the shutter’s laths are designed in shadow. In the gloom: a hovel, a bohemian’s lair; a few cloths scattered here and there. On the floor, a plate with leftovers, and next to it, something filthy. One might think it a hermit’s den. The bed….Ah! What’s that moving?
There he is: the prisoner!
A man. He’s lying on his belly amid a mess of pillows, a bolster and a quilt, his head resting on his folded arms. He’s wearing nothing but a nightshirt and trousers. His beard, several weeks long, and his rather short hair are pale blond, almost white.
I’ve seen that face before…
No. Since I heard that cry the other night I’ve been a little crazy. I’ve never seen that swollen bearded face, that stout body. I’ve never met this plump young man…never. His eyes seem quite benevolent, though, stupid but benevolent…hmm! Especially that indifferent face He must be a lazy fellow!
The prisoner is taking a nap—rather uncomfortably. Flies are annoying him. He swats them away with a sudden clumsy hand-gesture. His indolent eyes follow their flight, between two intervals of drowsiness. Sometimes, in a sudden fit of anger, smacking his lips with a sudden thrust of the head, he tries to snap up the annoying insects as they pass by.
A madman!
There’s a madman in my uncle’s house! Who is he?
My eyelid touches the keyhole. My eye is cold. The other, brought to bear in its turn, is slightly myopic. My vision is unclear. The peep-hole is too narrow! Damn it! I’ve bumped into the door, noisily!
The madman has leapt to his feet. How small he is! He’s coming toward me…what if he tries to open the door? Good, he’s thrown himself down next to the door, sniffing, growling…poor fellow! It’s a painful sight…
He hasn’t divined anything. Crouching in the sunbeams now, striped by the shadow of the shutters, he’s more open to inspection.
His hands and face are speckled with little red marks, like old grazes. One would think that he’s been in a fight. More seriously, there’s a long purple streak beneath his hairline, extending from one temple to the other and around the back of the head. It bears a singular resemblance to a scar. This man has been martyrized! I don’t know what treatment Lerne has subjected him to, or what vengeance he’s exacting upon him… Oh, the torturer!
An association of ideas is instantly formed: I compare my uncle’s Indian profile, Emma’s unusual hair, that of the madman—so blond—and the green pelt of the rat. Can Lerne be seeking a means of grafting hairy scalps on to bald heads? Might that be his enterprise?
I immediately realize how stupid my hypothesis is. There’s certainly nothing to corroborate it. Then again—and this is the decisive argument—this madman hasn’t been scalped; were that the case, the scar would describe a complete circle. Why shouldn’t he have gone mad in the aftermath of an accident, a perfectly simple backward fall?
Mad—but not raging. Inoffensive. He has a decidedly pleasant expression. His eyes, in fact, sometimes light up with a sort of intelligence. He must know something. I’m sure that if I question him softly, he’ll reply. Should I take the chance?
The door is only secured by a bolt on my side. I draw it back with my thumb, carefully. But I’m not yet inside the Yellow Room when the recluse hurtles forward, head down, goes through my legs, knocks me over, gets up and runs away, making the canine yelps that caused me to mistake him for a practical joker the other night…
His agility surprises me. How was he able to make a fool of me like that? What an idea, to go between my legs! In spite of the brevity of the adventure, I stand up as quickly as I fell down, dazed and confused. That lunatic released by an idiot, whom he’ll ruin! Toasted, Nicolas! Toasted! There’s not a shadow of doubt about it! Wouldn’t it be better to make oneself scarce rather than run after the fugitive? What good will that do now? Yes, but what about Emma? And the secret? Good God! Let’s try to capture him, damn it!”
And here I am, hot on the unknown man’s heels.
Just as long as he doesn’t go near the grey buildings! Fortunately, he’s gone in the opposite direction. It doesn’t matter! Someone might see us at any moment. My deserter is drawing away in leaps and bounds, quite merrily. He plunges into the wood. God be praised! The animal’s no longer crying—that’s something! Is someone there? No—it’s a statue. I must catch up as quickly as possible. If he takes an unfortunate turn, we’ll be seen, and I’ll be done for…
How joyful he seems, the cur! Damn! If he continues along his path, we’ll make a tour of the grounds and the pursuit will pass in front of the grey buildings, under Lerne’s windows! Bless the trees that are still hiding us! Quickly! And what about the drawing-room door, which I’ve left open? Quickly, quickly! The man doesn’t know he’s being chased; he isn’t looking behind him. His feet, hurting by virtue of being bare, are slowing him down. I’m gaining on him…
He stops, sniffs the air, sets off again. But I’m much closer. He jumps into the undergrowth on the left, toward the cliff…me too. I’m ten meters behind him. He charges through the brambles, heedless of the thorns. I follow in his wake. The lashes of the stems are flagellating him; the thorns are hurting him; he cries out in pain as they dig into him. Why not push them aside, then? He could easily avoid their talons…
The cliff isn’t far away. We’re heading straight for it. Word of honor, my prey seems to know exactly where he wants to go…I can see his back…but not always…I have to track him by means of the crackling of branches…
Finally, his narrow head stands out against the rocky wall, unmoving.
Silently, I glide forward… Another second and I’ll throw myself upon him…
But his unexpected action stops me on the edge of the clearing that encircles him, bordered on one side by the cliff.
He’s on his knees, scraping the soil furiously. The work is tormenting his fingernails, to the point at which he whines, as he did a little while ago among the sharp points of the hawthorns and mulberries. Earth flies up behind him, as far as me; his clenched hands work obstinately, with rapid and regular thrusts. He digs while moaning in pain, then, from time to time, plunges his nose into the hole as deeply as he can, snuffling and jerking his head back and forth, and then resumes the absurd task. The scar is clearly visible, like a livid crown. Hey! I don’t care about his nonsensical behavior—it’s the propitious moment to jump on him and carry him off!
I emerge from the thicket stealthily. Hold on! Someone’s been digging here already: a heap of overturned earth testifies to that; the blond man is only taking up some old abandoned task. Bah!
My heels flex; I get ready to pounce.
The man releases a groan of pleasure then—but what’s that I see in the depths of the cavity? An old shoe, that he’s just laid bare! Oh, wretched humanity!
Ha! I’ve jumped, I have him, the rascal! Good Lord! He’s turned round, pushing me away, but I’m not letting go! Bizarre…how awkward he is with his hands! Aargh! So you bite, cretin!
I wrap my arms around him, bone-crushingly. He’s never done any wrestling, that’s evident. I haven’t got the upper hand yet, though…
What have I done? A false step—it’s the hole…I’m treading on the old boot. Horror! There’s something inside it! Something holding it to the ground! I draw breath. Nothing fits a shoe better than a foot…
I have to finish it, once and for all. The minutes ar
e priceless…
My adversary and I are face to face, with our arms wrapped round one another, pressed against the rock, panting, equally strong…I’ve got an idea!
I open my eyes terribly wide, as if it were a matter of intimidating a child or subduing an animal; I adopt the domineering expression of a master. And the other loosens his grip, subjugated and repentant. Look how he’s licking my hands as a sign of obedience!
“Let’s go—come along!”
I drag him away. The shoe—an elastic-sided slip-on—stands up, its toe in the air. It doesn’t have the lamentable appearance of dead shoes abandoned on the highway, but it’s even more repulsive. Whatever is fixing it in the soil is partly disengaged. All that’s visible is the end of something knitted. A sock? The madman also turns to look at it.
“At the double, my friend!”
My companion remains docile, thanks to my magical stare, and we run off at top speed.
Oh Lord! What’s been happening at the château during this escapade?
Nothing at all.
As we went into the vestibule, however, I heard Emma and Barbe in conversation on the floor above. They were beginning to come down the staircase when the famous drawing-room door closed behind us, putting an end to my anxieties—only to give rise to new ones.
Once the unknown man was back in his room, how was I to get out again without being seen by either of the women?
Having returned furtively to the drawing-room, I put my ear to the door and listened, in order to make out which way the two worrisome individuals were heading. Suddenly, though, I retreated to the middle of the room in alarm, searching for a hiding-place, a screen, making the gestures of a drowning man, my throat swollen with suppressed cries….
A key had been inserted into the lock.
Was it mine? My key, left behind in the door and filched during my absence? No, that one was still there, making a bulge in my waistcoat pocket. I’d put it there as I came back in.
Doctor Lerne Page 15
