It was one bright and peaceful morning, as I was strolling in the Meudon woods, that I caught sight of Bérangère in the company of a man. They were standing at a corner where two roads met and were talking with some vivacity. The man faced me. I saw a type of what would be described as a coxcomb, with regular features, a dark, fan-shaped beard and a broad smile which displayed his teeth. He wore a double eye-glass.
Bérangère heard the sound of my footsteps, as I approached, and turned round. Her attitude denoted hesitation and confusion. But she at once pointed down one of the two roads, as though giving a direction. The fellow raised his hat and walked away. Bérangère joined me and, without much restraint, explained:
“It was somebody asking his way.”
“But you know him, Bérangère?” I objected.
“I never saw him before in my life,” she declared.
“Oh, come, come! Why, from the manner you were speaking to him . . . Look here, Bérangère, will you take your oath on it?”
She started:
“What do you mean? Why should I take an oath to you? I am not accountable to you for my actions.”
“In that case, why did you tell me that he was enquiring his way of you? I asked you no question.”
“I do as I please,” she replied, curtly.
Nevertheless, when we reached the Lodge, she thought better of it and said:
“After all, if it gives you any pleasure, I can swear that I was seeing that gentleman for the first time and that I had never heard of him. I don’t even know his name.”
We parted.
“One word more,” I said. “Did you notice that the man wore glasses?”
“So he did!” she said, with some surprise. “Well, what does that prove?”
“Remember, your uncle found a spectacle-lens in front of the wall in the Yard.”
She stopped to think and then shrugged her shoulders:
“A mere coincidence! Why should you connect the two things?”
Bérangère was right and I did not insist. Nevertheless and though she had answered me in a tone of undeniable candour, the incident left me uneasy and suspicious. I would not admit that so animated a conversation could take place between her and a perfect stranger who was simply asking her the way. The man was well set-up and good-looking. I suffered tortures.
That evening Bérangère was silent. It struck me that she had been crying. My uncle, on the contrary, on returning from the Yard, was talkative and cheerful; and I more than once felt that he was on the point of telling me something. Had anything thrown fresh light on his invention?
Next day, he was just as lively:
“Life is very pleasant, at times,” he said.
And he left us, rubbing his hands.
Bérangère spent all the early part of the afternoon on a bench in the garden, where I could see her from my room. She sat motionless and thoughtful.
At four o’clock, she came in, walked across the hall of the Lodge and went out by the front door.
I went out too, half a minute later.
The street which skirted the house turned and likewise skirted, on the left, the garden and the Yard, whereas on the right the property was bordered by a narrow lane which led to some fields and abandoned quarries. Bérangère often went this way; and I at once saw, by her slow gait, that her only intention was to stroll wherever her dreams might lead her.
She had not put on a hat. The sunlight gleamed in her hair. She picked the stones on which to place her feet, so as not to dirty her shoes with the mud in the road.
Against the stout plank fence which at this point replaced the wall enclosing the Yard stood an old street-lamp, now no longer used, which was fastened to the fence with iron clamps. Bérangère stopped here, all of a sudden, evidently in obedience to a thought which, I confess, had often occurred to myself and which I had had the courage to resist, perhaps because I had not perceived the means of putting it into execution.
Bérangère saw the means. It was only necessary to climb the fence by using the lamp, in order to make her way into the Yard without her uncle’s knowledge and steal a glimpse of one of those sights which he guarded so jealously for himself.
She made up her mind without hesitation; and, when she was on the other side, I too had not the least hesitation in following her example. I was in that state of mind when one is not unduly troubled by idle scruples; and there was no more indelicacy in satisfying my legitimate curiosity than in spying upon Bérangère’s actions. I therefore climbed over also.
My scruples returned when I found myself on the other side, face to face with Bérangère, who had experienced some difficulty in getting down. I said, a little sheepishly:
“This is not a very nice thing we’re doing, Bérangère; and I presume you mean to give it up.”
She began to laugh:
“You can give it up. I intend to go on. If god-father chooses to distrust us, it’s his look-out.”
I did not try to restrain her. She slipped softly between the nearest two sheds. I followed close upon her heels.
In this way we stole to the end of the open ground which occupied the middle of the Yard and we saw Noël Dorgeroux standing by the screen. He had not yet drawn the black-serge curtain.
“Look,” Bérangère whispered, “over there: you see a stack of wood with a tarpaulin over it? We shall be all right behind that.”
“But suppose my uncle looks round while we’re crossing?”
“He won’t.”
She was the first to venture across; and I joined her without any mishap. We were not more than a dozen yards from the screen.
“My heart’s beating so!” said Bérangère. “I’ve seen nothing, you know: only those — sort of eyes. And there’s a lot more, isn’t there?”
Our refuge consisted of two stacks of small short planks, with bags of sand between the stacks. We sat down here, in a position which brought us close together. Nevertheless Bérangère maintained the same distant attitude as before; and I now thought of nothing but what my uncle was doing.
He was holding his watch in his hand and consulting it at intervals, as though waiting for a time which he had fixed beforehand. And that time arrived. The curtain grated on its metal rod. The screen was uncovered.
From where we sat we could see the bare surface as well as my uncle could, for the intervening space fell very far short of the length of an ordinary picture-palace. The first outlines to appear were therefore absolutely plain to us. They were the lines of the three geometrical figures which I knew so well: the same proportions, the same arrangement, the same impassiveness, followed by that same palpitation, coming entirely from within, which animated them and made them live.
“Yes, yes,” whispered Bérangère, “my god-father said so one day: they are alive, the Three Eyes.”
“They are alive,” I declared, “and they gaze at you. Look at the two lower eyes by themselves; think of them as actual eyes; and you will see that they really have an expression. There, they’re smiling now.”
“You’re right, they’re smiling.”
“And see what a soft and gentle look they have now . . . a little serious also. . . . Oh, Bérangère, it’s impossible!”
“What?”
“They have your expression, Bérangère, your expression.”
“What nonsense! It’s ridiculous!”
“The very expression of your eyes. You don’t know it yourself. But I do. They have never looked at me like that; but, all the same, they are your eyes, it’s their expression, their charm. I know, because these make me feel . . . eh, as yours do, Bérangère!”
But the end was approaching. The three geometrical figures began to revolve upon themselves with the same dizzy motion which reduced them to a confused disk which soon vanished.
“They’re your eyes, Bérangère,” I stammered; “there’s not a doubt about it; it was as though you were looking at me.”
Yes, she had the same look; and I could not but remem
ber then that Edith Cavell had also looked in that way at Noël Dorgeroux and me, through the three strange eyes, and that Noël Dorgeroux similarly had recognized the look in his son’s eyes before his son himself appeared to him. That being so, was I to assume that each of the films — there is no other word for them — was preceded by the fabulous vision of three geometrical figures containing, captive and alive, the very expression in the eyes of one of the persons about to come to life upon the screen?
It was a lunatic assumption, as were all those which I was making! I blush to write it down. But, in that case, what were the three geometrical figures? A cinema trade-mark? The trade-mark of the Three Eyes? What an absurdity! What madness! And yet . . .
“Oh,” said Bérangère, making as if to rise, “I oughtn’t to have come! It’s suffocating me. Can you explain?”
“No, Bérangère, I can’t. It’s suffocating me too. Do you want to go?”
“No,” she said, leaning forward. “No, I want to see.”
And we saw. And, at the very moment when a muffled cry escaped our lips, we saw Noël Dorgeroux slowly making a great sign of the cross.
Opposite him, in the middle of the magic space on the wall, was he himself this time, standing not like a frail and shifting phantom, but like a human being full of movement and life. Yes, Noël Dorgeroux went to and fro before us and before himself, wearing his usual skull-cap, dressed in his long frock-coat. And the setting in which he moved was none other than the Yard, the Yard with its shed, its workshops, its disorder, its heaps of scrap-iron, its stacks of wood, its rows of barrels and its wall, with the rectangle of the serge curtain!
I at once noticed one detail: the serge curtain covered the magic space completely. It was therefore impossible to imagine that this scene, at any rate, had been recorded, absorbed by the screen, which, at that actual moment, must have drawn it from its own substance in order to present that sight to us! It was impossible, because Noël Dorgeroux had his back turned to the wall. It was impossible, because we saw the wall itself and the door of the garden, because the gate was open and because I, in my turn, entered the Yard.
“You! It’s you!” gasped Bérangère.
“It’s I on the day when your uncle told me to come here,” I said, astounded, “the day when I first saw a vision on the screen.”
At that moment, on the screen, Noël Dorgeroux beckoned to me from the door of his workshop. We went in together. The Yard remained empty; and then, after an eclipse which lasted only a second or two, the same scene reappeared, the little garden-door opened again and Bérangère, all smiles, put her head through. She seemed to be saying:
“Nobody here. They’re in the office. Upon my word, I’ll risk it!”
And she crept along the wall, towards the serge curtain.
All this happened quickly, without any of the vibration seen in the picture-theatres, and so clearly and plainly that I followed our two images not as the phases of an incident buried in the depths of time, but as the reflection in a mirror of a scene in which we were the immediate actors. To tell the truth, I was confused at seeing myself over there and feeling myself to be where I was. This doubling of my personality made my brain reel.
“Victorien,” said Bérangère, in an almost inaudible voice, “you’re going to come out of your uncle’s workshop as you did the other day, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, “the details of the other day are beginning all over again.”
And they did. Here were my uncle and I coming out of the workshop. Here was Bérangère, surprised, running away and laughing. Here she was, climbing a plank lying across two barrels and dancing, ever so gracefully and lightly! And then, as before, she fell. I darted forward, picked her up, carried her and laid her on the bench. She put her arms round me; our faces almost touched. And, as before, gently at first and then roughly and violently, I kissed her on the lips. And, as on that occasion, she rose to her feet, while I crouched before her.
Oh, how well I remember it all! I remember and I still see myself. I see myself yonder, bending very low not daring to lift my head, and I see Bérangère, standing up, covered with shame, trembling with indignation.
Indignation? Did she really seem indignant? But then why did her dear face, the face on the screen, display such indulgence and gentleness? Why did she smile with that expression of unspeakable gladness? Yes, I swear it was gladness. Yonder, in the magic space where that exciting minute was being reenacted, there stood over me a happy creature who was gazing at me with joy and affection, who was gazing at me thus because she knew that I could not see her and because she could not know that one day I should see her.
“Bérangère! . . . Bérangère! . . .”
But suddenly, while the adorable vision yonder continued, my eyes were covered as with a veil. Bérangère had turned towards me and put her two hands over my eyes, whispering:
“Don’t look. I won’t have you look. Besides, it’s not true. That woman’s lying, it’s not me at all. . . . No, no, I never looked at you like that.”
Her voice grew fainter. Her hands dropped to her sides. And, with all the strength gone out of her, she let herself fall against my shoulder, gently and silently.
Ten minutes later, I went back alone. Bérangère had left me without a word, after her unexpected movement of surrender.
Next morning I received a telegram from the rector of the university, calling me to Grenoble. Bérangère did not appear as I was leaving. But, when my uncle brought me to the station, I saw her, not far from the Lodge, talking with that confounded coxcomb whom she pretended not to know.
CHAPTER VI. ANXIETIES
“YOU SEEM VERY happy, uncle!” said I to Noël Dorgeroux, who walked briskly on the way to the station, whistling one gay tune after another.
“Yes,” he replied, “I am happy as a man is who has come to a decision.”
“You’ve come to a decision, uncle?”
“And a very serious one at that. It has cost me a sleepless night; but it’s worth it.”
“May I ask . . . ?”
“Certainly. In two words, it’s this: I’m going to pull down the sheds in the Yard and build an amphitheatre there.”
“What for?”
“To exploit the thing . . . the thing you know of.”
“How do you mean, to exploit it?”
“Why, it’s a tremendously important discovery; and, if properly worked, it will give me the money which I have always been trying for, not for its own sake, but because of the resources which it will bring me, money with the aid of which I shall be able to continue my labours without being checked by secondary considerations. There are millions to be made, Victorien, millions! And what shall I not accomplish with millions! This brain of mine,” he went on, tapping his forehead, “is simply crammed with ideas, with theories which need verifying. And it all takes money. . . . Money! Money! You know how little I care about money! But I want millions, if I am to carry through my work. And those millions I shall have!”
Mastering his enthusiasm, he took my arm and explained:
“First of all, the Yard cleared of its rubbish and levelled. After that, the amphitheatre, with five stages of benches facing the wall. For of course the wall remains: it is the essential point, the reason for the whole thing. But I shall heighten and widen it; and, when it is quite unobstructed, there will be a clear view of it from every seat. You follow me, don’t you?”
“I follow you, uncle. But do you think people will come?”
“Will they come? What! You, who know, ask me that question! Why, they will pay gold for the worst seat, they’ll give a king’s ransom to get in! I’m so sure of it that I shall put all I have left, the last remnant of my savings, into the business. And within a year I shall have amassed incalculable wealth.”
“The place is quite small, uncle, and you will have only a limited number of seats.”
“A thousand, a thousand seats, comfortably! At two hundred francs a seat to begin with, at a thous
and francs! . . .”
“I say, uncle! Seats in the open air, exposed to the rain, to the cold, to all sorts of weather!”
“I’ve foreseen that objection. The Yard will be closed on rainy days. I want bright daylight, sunshine, the action of the light and other conditions besides, which will still further decrease the number of demonstrations. But that doesn’t matter: each seat will cost two thousand francs, five thousand francs, if necessary! I tell you, there’s no limit! No one will be content to die without having been to Noël Dorgeroux’s Yard! Why, Victorien, you know it as well as I do! When all is said, the reality is more extraordinary than anything that you can imagine, even after what you have seen with your own eyes.”
I could not help asking him:
“Then there are fresh manifestations?”
He replied by nodding his head:
“It’s not so much that they’re new,” he said, “as that, above all, they have enabled me, with the factors which I already possess, to probe the truth to the bottom.”
“Uncle! Uncle!” I cried. “You mean to say that you know the truth?”
“I know the whole truth, my boy,” he declared. “I know how much is my work and how much has nothing to do with me. What was once darkness is now dazzling light.”
And he added, in a very serious tone:
“It is beyond all imagination, my boy. It is beyond the most extravagant dreams; and yet it remains within the province of facts and certainties. Once humanity knows of it, the earth will pass through a thrill of religious awe; and the people who come here as pilgrims will fall upon their knees — as I did — fall upon their knees like children who pray and fold their hands and weep!”
Delphi Collected Works of Maurice Leblanc (Illustrated) (Delphi Series Nine Book 17) Page 350
