Jean Louis, already disconcerted by the newcomers’ arrival, lost countenance entirely on hearing the name of Geneviève. Without quite knowing what he was saying and with the intention of responding to Rénine’s courteous behaviour, he tried in his turn to introduce the two ladies and let fall the astounding words:
“My mother, Madame d’Imbleval; my mother, Madame Vaurois.”
For some time no one spoke. Rénine bowed. Hortense did not know with whom she should shake hands, with Madame d’Imbleval, the mother, or with Madame Vaurois, the mother. But what happened was that Madame d’Imbleval and Madame Vaurois both at the same time attempted to snatch the letter which Rénine was holding out to Jean Louis, while both at the same time mumbled:
“Mlle. Aymard! … She has had the coolness … she has had the audacity … !”
Then Jean Louis, recovering his self-possession, laid hold of his mother d’Imbleval and pushed her out of the room by a door on the left and next of his mother Vaurois and pushed her out of the room by a door on the right. Then, returning to his two visitors, he opened the envelope and read, in an undertone:
“I am to be married in a week, Jean Louis. Come to my rescue, I beseech you. My friend Hortense and Prince Rénine will help you to overcome the obstacles that baffle you. Trust them. I love you.
GENEVIÈVE.”
He was a rather dull-looking young man, whose very swarthy, lean and bony face certainly bore the expression of melancholy and distress described by Geneviève. Indeed, the marks of suffering were visible in all his harassed features, as well as in his sad and anxious eyes.
He repeated Geneviève’s name over and over again, while looking about him with a distracted air. He seemed to be seeking a course of conduct.
He seemed on the point of offering an explanation but could find nothing to say. The sudden intervention had taken him at a disadvantage, like an unforeseen attack which he did not know how to meet.
Rénine felt that the adversary would capitulate at the first summons. The man had been fighting so desperately during the last few months and had suffered so severely in the retirement and obstinate silence in which he had taken refuge that he was not thinking of defending himself. Moreover, how could he do so, now that they had forced their way into the privacy of his odious existence?
“Take my word for it, monsieur,” declared Rénine, “that it is in your best interests to confide in us. We are Geneviève Aymard’s friends. Do not hesitate to speak.”
“I can hardly hesitate,” he said, “after what you have just heard. This is the life I lead, monsieur. I will tell you the whole secret, so that you may tell it to Geneviève. She will then understand why I have not gone back to her … and why I have not the right to do so.”
He pushed a chair forward for Hortense. The two men sat down, and, without any need of further persuasion, rather as though he himself felt a certain relief in unburdening himself, he said:
“You must not be surprised, monsieur, if I tell my story with a certain flippancy, for, as a matter of fact, it is a frankly comical story and cannot fail to make you laugh. Fate often amuses itself by playing these imbecile tricks, these monstrous farces, which seem as though they must have been invented by the brain of a madman or a drunkard. Judge for yourself. Twenty-seven years ago, the Manoir d’Elseven, which at that time consisted only of the main building, was occupied by an old doctor who, to increase his modest means, used to receive one or two paying guests. In this way, Madame d’Imbleval spent the summer here one year and Madame Vaurois the following summer. Now these two ladies did not know each other. One of them was married to a Breton of a merchant vessel and the other to a commercial traveller from the Vendée.
“It so happened that they lost their husbands at the same time, at a period when each of them was expecting a baby. And, as they both lived in the country, at places some distance from any town, they wrote to the old doctor that they intended to come to his house for their confinement … He agreed. They arrived almost on the same day, in the autumn. Two small bedrooms were prepared for them, behind the room in which we are sitting. The doctor had engaged a nurse, who slept in this very room. Everything was perfectly satisfactory. The ladies were putting the finishing touches to their baby clothes and were getting on together splendidly. They were determined that their children should be boys and had chosen the names of Jean and Louis respectively … One evening the doctor was called out to a case and drove off in his gig with the manservant, saying that he would not be back till next day. In her master’s absence, a little girl who served as maid-of-all-work ran out to keep company with her sweetheart. These accidents destiny turned to account with diabolical malignity. At about midnight, Madame d’Imbleval was seized with the first pains. The nurse, Mlle. Boussignol, had had some training as a midwife and did not lose her head. But, an hour later, Madame Vaurois’ turn came; and the tragedy, or I might rather say the tragicomedy, was enacted amid the screams and moans of the two patients and the bewildered agitation of the nurse running from one to the other, bewailing her fate, opening the window to call out for the doctor or falling on her knees to implore the aid of Providence … Madame Vaurois was the first to bring a son into the world. Mlle. Boussignol hurriedly carried him in here, washed and tended him and laid him in the cradle prepared for him … But Madame d’Imbleval was screaming with pain, and the nurse had to attend to her while the newborn child was yelling like a stuck pig and the terrified mother, unable to stir from her bed, fainted … Add to this all the wretchedness of darkness and disorder, the only lamp, without any oil, for the servant had neglected to fill it, the candles burning out, the moaning of the wind, the screeching of the owls, and you will understand that Mlle. Boussignol was scared out of her wits. However, at five o’clock in the morning, after many tragic incidents, she came in here with the d’Imbleval baby, likewise a boy, washed and tended him, laid him in his cradle and went off to help Madame Vaurois, who had come to herself and was crying out, while Madame d’Imbleval had fainted in her turn. And, when Mlle. Boussignol, having settled the two mothers, but half-crazed with fatigue, her brain in a whirl, returned to the newborn children, she realized with horror that she had wrapped them in similar binders, thrust their feet into similar woolen socks and laid them both, side by side, in the same cradle, so that it was impossible to tell Louis d’Imbleval from Jean Vaurois! … To make matters worse, when she lifted one of them out of the cradle, she found that his hands were cold as ice and that he had ceased to breathe. He was dead. What was his name and what the survivor’s? … Three hours later, the doctor found the two women in a condition of frenzied delirium, while the nurse was dragging herself from one bed to the other, entreating the two mothers to forgive her. She held me out first to one, then to the other, to receive their caresses—for I was the surviving child—and they first kissed me and then pushed me away; for, after all, who was I? The son of the widowed Madame d’Imbleval and the late merchant captain or the son of the widowed Madame Vaurois and the late commercial traveller? There was not a clue by which they could tell … The doctor begged each of the two mothers to sacrifice her rights, at least from the legal point of view, so that I might be called either Louis d’Imbleval or Jean Vaurois. They refused absolutely. ‘Why Jean Vaurois, if he’s a d’Imbleval?’ protested the one. ‘Why Louis d’Imbleval, if he’s a Vaurois?’ retorted the other. And I was registered under the name of Jean Louis, the son of an unknown father and mother.”
Prince Rénine had listened in silence. But Hortense, as the story approached its conclusion, had given way to a hilarity which she could no longer restrain and suddenly, in spite of all her efforts, she burst into a fit of the wildest laughter:
“Forgive me,” she said, her eyes filled with tears, “do forgive me; it’s too much for my nerves …”
“Don’t apologize, madame,” said the young man, gently, in a voice free from resentment. “I warned you that my story was laughable; I, better than anyone, know how
absurd, how nonsensical it is. Yes, the whole thing is perfectly grotesque. But believe me when I tell you that it was no fun in reality. It seems a humorous situation, and it remains humorous by the force of circumstances; but it is also horrible. You can see that for yourself, can’t you? The two mothers, neither of whom was certain of being a mother, but neither of whom was certain that she was not one, both clung to Jean Louis. He might be a stranger; on the other hand, he might be their own flesh and blood. They loved him to excess and fought for him furiously. And, above all, they both came to hate each other with a deadly hatred. Differing completely in character and education and obliged to live together because neither was willing to forego the advantage of her possible maternity, they lived the life of irreconcilable enemies who can never lay their weapons aside … I grew up in the midst of this hatred and had it instilled into me by both of them. When my childish heart, hungering for affection, inclined me to one of them, the other would seek to inspire me with loathing and contempt for her. In this manor house, which they bought on the old doctor’s death and to which they added the two wings, I was the involuntary torturer and their daily victim. Tormented as a child, and, as a young man, leading the most hideous of lives, I doubt if anyone on earth ever suffered more than I did.”
“You ought to have left them!” exclaimed Hortense, who had stopped laughing.
“One can’t leave one’s mother, and one of those two women was my mother. And a woman can’t abandon her son, and each of them was entitled to believe that I was her son. We were all three chained together like convicts, with chains of sorrow, compassion, doubt and also of hope that the truth might one day become apparent. And here we still are, all three, insulting one another and blaming one another for our wasted lives. Oh, what a hell! And there was no escaping it. I tried often enough … but in vain. The broken bonds became tied again. Only this summer, under the stimulus of my love for Geneviève, I tried to free myself and did my utmost to persuade the two women whom I call mother. And then … and then! I was up against their complaints, their immediate hatred of the wife, of the stranger, whom I was proposing to force upon them … I gave way. What sort of a life would Geneviève have had here, between Madame d’Imbleval and Madame Vaurois? I had no right to victimize her.”
Jean Louis, who had been gradually becoming excited, uttered these last words in a firm voice, as though he would have wished his conduct to be ascribed to conscientious motives and a sense of duty. In reality, as Rénine and Hortense clearly saw, his was an unusually weak nature, incapable of reacting against a ridiculous position from which he had suffered ever since he was a child and which he had come to look upon as final and irremediable. He endured it as a man bears a cross which he has no right to cast aside; and at the same time he was ashamed of it. He had never spoken of it to Geneviève, from dread of ridicule; and afterwards, on returning to his prison, he had remained there out of habit and weakness.
He sat down to a writing table and quickly wrote a letter, which he handed to Rénine:
“Would you be kind enough to give this note to Mlle. Aymard and beg her once more to forgive me?”
Rénine did not move and, when the other pressed the letter upon him, he took it and tore it up.
“What does this mean?” asked the young man.
“It means that I will not charge myself with any message.”
“Why?”
“Because you are coming with us.”
“I?”
“Yes. You will see Mlle. Aymard tomorrow and ask for her hand in marriage.”
Jean Louis looked at Rénine with a rather disdainful air, as though he were thinking:
“Here’s a man who has not understood a word of what I’ve been explaining to him.”
But Hortense went up to Rénine:
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it will be as I say.”
“But you must have your reasons?”
“One only, but it will be enough, provided this gentleman is so kind as to help me in my enquiries.”
“Enquiries? With what object?” asked the young man.
“With the object of proving that your story is not quite accurate.”
Jean Louis took umbrage at this:
“I must ask you to believe, monsieur, that I have not said a word which is not the exact truth.”
“I expressed myself badly,” said Rénine, with great kindliness. “Certainly you have not said a word that does not agree with what you believe to be the exact truth. But the truth is not, cannot be what you believe it to be.”
The young man folded his arms:
“In any case, monsieur, it seems likely that I should know the truth better than you do.”
“Why better? What happened on that tragic night can obviously be known to you only at secondhand. You have no proofs. Neither have Madame d’Imbleval and Madame Vaurois.”
“No proofs of what?” exclaimed Jean Louis, losing patience.
“No proofs of the confusion that took place.”
“What! Why, it’s an absolute certainty! The two children were laid in the same cradle, with no marks to distinguish one from the other; and the nurse was unable to tell …”
“At least, that’s her version of it,” interrupted Rénine.
“What’s that? Her version? But you’re accusing the woman.”
“I’m accusing her of nothing.”
“Yes, you are: you’re accusing her of lying. And why should she lie? She had no interest in doing so, and her tears and despair are so much evidence of her good faith. For, after all, the two mothers were there … they saw the woman weeping … they questioned her … And then, I repeat, what interest had she …?”
Jean Louis was greatly excited. Close beside him, Madame d’Imbleval and Madame Vaurois, who had no doubt been listening behind the doors and who had stealthily entered the room, stood stammering, in amazement:
“No, no … it’s impossible … We’ve questioned her over and over again. Why should she tell a lie? …”
“Speak, monsieur, speak,” Jean Louis enjoined. “Explain yourself. Give your reasons for trying to cast doubt upon an absolute truth!”
“Because that truth is inadmissible,” declared Rénine, raising his voice and growing excited in turn to the point of punctuating his remarks by thumping the table. “No, things don’t happen like that. No, fate does not display those refinements of cruelty and chance is not added to chance with such reckless extravagance! It was already an unprecedented chance that, on the very night on which the doctor, his manservant and his maid were out of the house, the two ladies should be seized with labour pains at the same hour and should bring two sons into the world at the same time. Don’t let us add a still more exceptional event! Enough of the uncanny! Enough of lamps that go out and candles that refuse to burn! No and again no, it is not admissible that a midwife should become confused in the essential details of her trade. However bewildered she may be by the unforeseen nature of the circumstances, a remnant of instinct is still on the alert, so that there is a place prepared for each child and each is kept distinct from the other. The first child is here, the second is there. Even if they are lying side by side, one is on the left and the other on the right. Even if they are wrapped in the same kind of binders, some little detail differs, a trifle which is recorded by the memory and which is inevitably recalled to the mind without any need of reflection. Confusion? I refuse to believe in it. Impossible to tell one from the other? It isn’t true. In the world of fiction, yes, one can imagine all sorts of fantastic accidents and heap contradiction on contradiction. But, in the world of reality, at the very heart of reality, there is always a fixed point, a solid nucleus, about which the facts group themselves in accordance with a logical order. I therefore declare most positively that Nurse Boussignol could not have mixed up the two children.”
All this he said decisively, as though he had been present during the night in question; and so gr
eat was his power of persuasion that from the very first he shook the certainty of those who for more than a quarter of a century had never doubted.
The two women and their son pressed round him and questioned him with breathless anxiety:
“Then you think that she may know … that she may be able to tell us …?”
He corrected himself:
“I don’t say yes and I don’t say no. All I say is that there was something in her behaviour during those hours that does not tally with her statements and with reality. All the vast and intolerable mystery that has weighed down upon you three arises not from a momentary lack of attention but from something of which we do not know, but of which she does. That is what I maintain; and that is what happened.”
Jean Louis said, in a husky voice:
“She is alive … She lives at Carhaix … We can send for her …”
Hortense at once proposed:
“Would you like me to go for her? I will take the motor and bring her back with me. Where does she live?”
“In the middle of the town, at a little draper’s shop. The chauffeur will show you. Mlle. Boussignol: everybody knows her …”
“And, whatever you do,” added Rénine, “don’t warn her in any way. If she’s uneasy, so much the better. But don’t let her know what we want with her.”
Twenty minutes passed in absolute silence. Rénine paced the room, in which the fine old furniture, the handsome tapestries, the well-bound books and pretty knickknacks denoted a love of art and a seeking after style in Jean Louis. This room was really his. In the adjoining apartments on either side, through the open doors, Rénine was able to note the bad taste of the two mothers.
He went up to Jean Louis and, in a low voice, asked:
“Are they well-off?”
“Yes.”
“And you?”
“They settled the manor house upon me, with all the land around it, which makes me quite independent.”
“Have they any relations?”
The Eight Strokes of the Clock Page 7
