“When? When can you see me?”
Tornada consulted his schedule. “How about the day after tomorrow?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Eleven o’clock in the morning, at my Beauty Institute in the Parc des Princes.”
With that disquieting warning, Tornada left. Betty swiftly went to confirm her friend’s prognosis, in front of a mirror that did not spare any of the insults of time. Indeed, the tiny wrinkles that she knew so well, to the right and left of her gaze, seemed to have hollowed out a little more in recent days. She was annoyed by that. But sadness rapidly got the upper hand. What did those esthetic ravages matter by comparison with the dilapidation of her heart. Was there not a much more pathetic excavation out there, in the cemetery?
She went back to bed. Serious steps could be put off until tomorrow. Today would be devoted to the adoration of the dear departed.
Chapter V
Baronne Sasoitsu could not retain her surprise when, two days later, she went into Professor Tornada’s laboratory.
“What, Master—this is what you described to me as your Institute of Beauty?”
The place was, in fact, very different from the elegant premises in which she was accustomed to confide herself to the laborers of esthetics. There, where faces were plastered with special essentially anhydrous creams, rigorously clean porcelain equipment was lined up on varnished shelves, and from neighboring booths the echoes arrived of treatments similar to the one to which she was being subjected, the recommendations of masseuses, and the purr of dryers for setting permanent waves. Here, there was the severe décor of science, miscellaneous metallic objects heaped up pell-mell on whitewood tables: microscopes, Bunsen burners and scales along with pipettes, and, more impressive still, bottles filled with murky liquid, in which anatomical specimens extracted from humans by the master of the clinic were stagnating. There was no other furniture than the stool on which Félix Von had found the scientist subjecting the marmoset to inexplicable luminous emissions—and that stool was still set next to a screen, which must be hiding yet more apparatus.
“This is your Institute!”
“You were expecting to find me in a manicurist’s boutique?”
“No, but…everything that I can see lying around here alarms me slightly. What are you going to do to me?”
“Return you to spring, as I promised you.”
“I know—but how? By instilling me with something?”
“By inundating you with a Fluid of Youth.”
“A fluid? Explain.”
“I don’t want to give you a lecture in physics that would surpass your knowledge. But you must know that there exist throughout Creation a multitude of unknown forces that act on our organism without our suspecting it. Some of those forces scientific genius has captured, and applied to the improvement of life. Thanks to them, you can obtain light by pressing an electric switch; you can cook your beefsteak with invisible heat; you can listen in bed to what is being said in Yokohama; you can call the police for help when you are being murdered; you can repair your health with ultra-violet radiation; you can destroy nascent cancers, etc., etc...”
“I know all that.”
“Good. Well I, Tornada, said to myself that, given the fashion in which we are born, the fashion in which we grow old and die, there must exist among that infinity of energies one that is capable of regenerating our tissues, of slowing down decrepitude, if not of prolonging it ad aeternum. So I searched for it—and I’ve found it.”
“That’s admirable!”
“Let’s not exaggerate. I have, therefore, unearthed and domesticated one of those secret factors. Let’s give it its sex: a wave, which posterity will baptize the Tornadian wave, as it has baptized one discovered by another seeker of the forces of nature the Hertzian wave.”
“Hertz can’t hold a candle to you, Master.”
“Perhaps. But let’s pass on. Let’s get back to my ultra-green rays. That’s what I call these agents of the second cosmic bureau. Where do they come from? I don’t know. Perhaps from the sun. Perhaps from one of the stars that shines in the firmament, less brightly than you when you were resplendent in Hollywood. No matter—I have them. And I’m only too happy to offer them to you, first of all. Thanks to them, those inconvenient little grooves that age and misfortune have designed on your forehead will first be blurred, and then will disappear entirely from your appetizing flesh.”
“And I’ll be all the more delighted, Master, because I’m caressing a project about which I’ll tell you, if it takes form. At any rate, thank you, my great friend.”
Her gratitude was accompanied by a kiss, which she blew from the tips of her black-gloved fingers. Tornada indicated that she should take off her hat, buried under large veils but pretty even so, and her Astrakhan coat.
When she had done that he added: “And the tinsel too,” pointing at the pendant ear-rings that Betty had had the good fortune to rediscover in the jeweler’s shop in the Avenue de l’Opéra. “In order for my rays to act it’s necessary that no solid body intercepts them. That’s perfect. One more recommendation: you mustn’t, for as long as the emission lasts, allow yourself to be assailed by any dark thoughts. Buck up, damn it! You have too many of them. Even if you had your head beneath the blade of the guillotine I’d still be telling you that. My practice confirms the effect of the mental on the physical. I shall, at any rate, contribute to the dissipation of your melancholy with cheerful remarks. If they choke you, tell yourself that I’m acting in the cause of your splendor. You have nothing to fear. You won’t feel a thing. Now take your place on the stool. It’s an insulating seat; it’s indispensable to isolate oneself occasionally...”
He installed Betty on the platform that the marmoset had occupied for a similar operation. He directed her head toward the screen with a delicate pressure, in order that it should be in front of her eyes. Then he went to close the curtains over the window.
“How dark it is, Doctor!”
“Required by my therapeutics. Wait—you’ll be able to see.”
Indeed, under the action of a switch, the screen suddenly lit up. An image appeared there, as in the cinema, which amazed Betty. She saw the reproduction there, in color, of a photograph that had appeared in an illustrated periodical three years ago. It depicted a couple newly married by the parish priest coming down the steps of a village church. The groom, in a frock-coat, was smiling with total happiness. Beneath her long white veils, the bride, was lowering her eyes virginally. A plumed beadle was preceding them; an imposing cortege as following the; peasants were forming an audience, waving their hats; Abrovici was among them. And music was not lacking; Tornada had just activated a phonograph that was playing the wedding march from Lohengrin.
“But that’s us!” Betty exclaimed.
“Yes, it’s you on the day when, ever modest, the poor Baron, fleeing the tra-la-la of Paris, preferred to lead you to the altar of the birthplace where you’ll inherit his château and his thousand-hectare estate. Sadly, retained by some Maharajah on whom I had just operated, I missed the beautiful ceremony of your marriage. Fortunately, reporters and photographers have left me the image of it, which I offer to you again.”
“But why bring my Tani back to me at the moment when you’re demanding a good mood of me? You’ll only succeed in making me weep, Doctor!”
“Oh no! No tears, above all! Quickly, think about something else! My waves are ready—you’ll spoil the result. Think…hold on, since we’re remembering your marriage…does every dolorous event not have its amusing side? Think about what that imbecile policeman imagined when he wondered whether your Tani had committed hara-kiri!”
“Again!”
“But yes! It’s very droll! Laugh! Laugh internally, of course, without creasing our cheeks.”
“You’ll admit that as cheerful ideas go...”
“Silence!” Tornada said, cutting her off. He had directed the current into the projector that he was brandishing. Sparks sprang from it
, which he directed toward Betty’s face. “It’s started! Don’t move anymore! I’m inundating you!”
What one expects of a treatment is bound to command the interior sentiments. In spite of the psychological clumsiness of her experimenter, Betty therefore remained tranquil. She accepted the embellishing effluvia passively, with her features relaxed, without removing her gaze from the image reanimated by the bright light, or her ear from the harmonies that were celebrating it.
Meanwhile, Tornada measured aloud the time necessary for the passage of his fluid:
“One…two…three... Good, you’re conserving an immobility that I could describe as cadaveric…four, five, six…laugh in your inner depths…seven, eight, nine…think about the Commissaire of Police…ten, eleven, twelve…the stupidity of the law…thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…how beautiful you’re going to be…sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…as beautiful as at the party on which Félix and Tani are the victims…nineteen, twenty, twenty-one...as admired as on the day of the funeral…twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four…it’s over!”
He stopped his machine. At the same time, Betty heard a click behind the screen. That isochronic sound did not surprise her; it must have been the cessation of the electricity, which went off as the conjugal image vanished.
Tornada carefully tidied up his apparatus. He went to draw the curtain that prevented the powerful external light from penetrating. Gallantly, he helped his patient to her feet. She displayed no resentment of all the untimely remarks he had made.
“What a curious procedure, Master! Others, who haven’t passed through the studio, as I have, might be frightened by it. Fortunately, I have a strength of character that reckoned with what you caused me to see…and hear.”
“I’ll try a different kind of badinage the next time.”
“How many sessions?”
“Two or three should suffice. It depends on the progress that you observe yourself.”
While putting on her outer garments and black jewels she informed Tornada of the inefficacy of the steps she had taken to have Félix Vion set free provisionally. The examining magistrate was obstinate. The prosecutor was retrenching behind the power of the man he had appointed. A former prime minister and two ministers similarly solicited by her had remained deaf to her pleas. Betty did not seek to hide her indignation. But she was in a hurry.
“Appointments to keep, when I would so much have liked to isolate myself, to meditate. Appointments! I should flee Paris! Appointments with the hairdresser, the milliner, the dressmaker…and I have to go to the bank too. And in that regard, Master...” She put her hand on her bag. “Close as we are, every service merits recompense. What do I owe you?”
“You’re joking!”
“I insist.”
“I’ll send you my bill. It will only demand an affectionate gaze from your renovated eyes.”
“You’re spoiling me, Master!”
He escorted her back to her auto. Abrovici was there, reading a newspaper. Tornada, who generally paid no attention to the individual in question, seemed to notice the birthmark that aggravated his ugliness for the first time. The other, seeing that he was being observed, rubbed his rubicund face. The natural discoloration was exasperated by it. He grabbed the steering-wheel angrily and pulled away, without waiting until his observer had kissed his employer’s hand one final time.
“To the bank!” Betty shouted, when they were some distance away.
The Tokyo Bank in the Boulevard Malesherbes was a building whose stone façade advertised its importance. One could not go in as one liked. A porter, a crippled veteran of the war, braided on the one arm he still had, looked people up and down before activating the rotating door. He bowed deeply to the aristocratic lady, whom he knew, and whose presence after the drama was about to cause a sensation. Betty did not go to the counter where her personal account was held. She headed for an elevator that went up to the second floor. There, in a vast antechamber, an office boy was dozing. She had him announce her presence to Monsieur Dittelin, the deputy director.
She had scarcely been waiting a minute when the latter came running.
The thin little man with sturdily-rimmed spectacles and an expression of chronic resignation had felt overwhelmed, since the death of one of his superiors and the imprisonment of the other, at being nominated as interim director by the board of administration. What could have brought Madame la Baronne here? What emotion she must feel at finding herself in the place where Monsieur le Directeur had worked so hard!
Indeed, he found a Baronne so prostrate that he would have knelt down to testify as much to her. He contented himself with expressing it, and broaching other concerns.
“Well, Madame la Baronne, what a story! In the pace of a fortnight, your husband in Heaven and Monsieur Vion in jail! An error, obviously. I retain all my esteem for Monsieur Vion, but who would have thought it? So, what difficulties for us now! Our counters are besieged! People are demanding reimbursements! They’re taking away all their deposits! They’re fearful for their money. If it continues, we’ll scarcely be able to satisfy them! It will calm down, of course, when Monsieur Vion comes back! Our reserves won’t suffer! But for the moment, it’s a hard blow!”
“Even so, I need a rather large sum immediately, Monsieur Dittelin. You know that I’ve inherited all my husband’s shares?”
“The notary has informed me of that. You thus become the principal shareholder in the bank, and entitled by that fact to a seat on the board.”
“I don’t know anything about business. What do my shares represent, in total?”
“At the present price, after this fuss, I can make the calculation instantly: exactly ninety million six hundred thousand,” Monsieur Dittelin estimated, benevolently.
“And later?”
“Later, when order is restored by a judgment favorable to Monsieur Vion, the shares will recover their previous value.”
“Which is to say?”
“Well in excess of a hundred, Madame la Baronne.”
Money! One might be leaning over the edge of a grave, but the confirmation of such a figure brings out the sun! Betty relaxed momentarily.
“Negotiable advantageously when?”
“Oh, not immediately.”
“It’s just that I probably won’t be waiting too long to liquidate a part of it in order to fund a certain project. I need a change, Monsieur Dittelin. I won’t do anything, of course, without seeking your advice. For the present, how much is there in my personal account?”
Monsieur Dittelin telephoned the services in the hall. “Twenty thousand six hundred and three francs,” he informed her.
“I need five hundred thousand as the initial outlay of the enterprise I’m meditating. Given that a loan would be guaranteed by my shares, would the Bank advance me that sum?”
“Obviously, but...”
“Procure it for me without delay, in dollars.”
“The dollar is going down, Madame la Baronne.”
“In pounds, then. I want to collect the amount next Wednesday.”
“That will be quite a parcel. Wouldn’t you prefer a check?”
“No, no, pounds, in cash. I’ve given the order.”
“It will be carried out, Madame la Baronne.”
The sky, sullen thus far, had begun to weep when Betty went back to her auto. She wrapped herself up warmly, covering her sensitive legs with a blanket. Before giving the address of her dressmaker through the sliding window she exchanged a few words with her chauffeur.
He was informed as to what she had come to do. She was able to confide in that ancient companion of her former career, fruitful for the star but ingrate for the cameraman.
“It’s arranged, Abro.”
“Madame la Baronne is content, then?”
“Very, my good man. We’ll be able to leave.”
“When?”
“Wednesday, I think.”
His face lit up. He too was caressing the hope of an escape, clutching a well-s
tuffed wallet.
Money! A diadem with which Betty magnified herself wherever she went: at the dressmaker’s where she ordered a coat and three traveling costumes appropriate to her widowhood; in the stories where she bought supplementary trunks; at the perfumers, where she was provisioned with a rare essence, a certain carnation more discreet that the violent chypre of happier days; and finally, at the doctor’s, where she was advised to resume immediately the physical culture that she had neglected for too long.
She was welcomed everywhere as a prestigious woman, and was not kept waiting anywhere. The universal humility was more eloquent than the claims of participation in her melancholy. If they knew the infinity of her grief, her soubrette Marie thought, the humility would be converted into pity.
When she returned to the Avenue de l’Alma at about seven o’clock in the evening, the concierge told her that the Law was on the first floor, carrying out a further investigation. She hastened to go up. She found Monsieur de Clair, accompanied by a municipal expert, in ecstasy before the panoply in her dressing-room.
“You again, Monsieur le Juge?”
“A painful mission, Madame la Baronne, to inconvenience you yet again, but we need to take every precaution in such a serious affair. Now, I’ve learned that you possess here a weapon that is the replica of the one that appears to have been used in the crime.”
“Indeed. Who gave you that information?”
Monsieur de Clair did not reply. Betty concluded from his silence that Tornada might not be unconnected with the tip.
“Take it,” she approved. “Take anything that might serve the truth, Monsieur le Juge. But I suspect that nothing more will be learned from the examination of that weapon than the other.”
“Me too, Madame.” He made a sign to his collaborator. The latter put on his gloves to take away the dagger, in order not to leave any of his own fingerprints. He wrapped it in a piece of cloth, tied it up with string and slipped it under his arm. After which, the two inquisitors were obliged to console Betty for reminding her once again about the frightful mystery by her visit.
The Exploits of Professor Tornada (Vol. 3) Page 19
