‘I can’t stay here,’ said Renée.
‘Where would you go to?’
‘I don’t know. Anywhere, so long as I get away.’
‘I won’t touch you, I promise… I’ll never speak about the past again.’
He could hear her breathing rapidly. He knew, as he undressed, that she was following every movement.
‘Take that lighter away,’ she cried and her voice was full of horror.
‘Really? Won’t you keep it?’
‘No. I only want to be left in peace. I had a bad enough time during the war. If I’ve now got to…’
She flicked away a tear from the corner of her eye, groped for her handkerchief. Flavières threw her his, but she pretended not to notice.
‘Why are you angry?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t mean to be nasty. Come on, let’s make it up.’
He picked up his handkerchief, sat down on the bed, and wiped her eyes. A brusque tenderness made his movements awkward. Her tears flowed on steadily like blood from a wound that wouldn’t heal.
‘There’s nothing to cry about,’ he kept repeating. ‘There’s nothing to cry about.’
He pressed her head against his breast and rocked her gently.
‘There are times,’ he said softly, ‘when I hardly know what I’m doing. I’m so tortured by memories… I don’t suppose you could ever understand… If she had died peacefully in bed… of course I should have suffered… but I’d have got over it, perhaps even forgotten… The thing is… I may as well tell you now… She killed herself. She threw herself from the top of a tower. What she did it for, what she was trying to escape from… for five years I’ve been racking my brains for an answer to that question.’
A muffled sob was Renée’s only answer.
‘There! It’s all over now. You see, I’ve told you the whole story… I need you, my little one. You must never leave me, for this time I should die. It’s quite true… I’m still in love with her. I’m in love with you too. And it’s one and the same love, a love such as no man has ever known before… It would be perfect if only you could just make that effort… if you could tell me what happened… after that.’
The head he was holding moved but he grasped it the more firmly.
‘No. Let me go on… I’ll tell you something, something which I’ve only realized myself in the last few days.’
He felt for the switch and turned off the light. He was in an uncomfortable position, but didn’t think of changing it. Pressed together, they drifted in the dusk, with vague forms floating around them. They were half-drowned beings seeking to come up into the lost light of day.
‘I’ve always been afraid of dying,’ Flavières went on in a voice that was now no more than a whisper. ‘The death of other people upset me terribly because it foretold my own. And my own… no, I have never been able to resign myself to the idea… I came near to believing in the Christian God because of the promise of the resurrection… That body wrapped in a linen cloth, the great stone rolled to the door of the sepulchre, the soldiers watching… And then, the third day… When I was a boy, how I used to ponder over that third day… I went secretly up to an empty cave and shouted into it. The sound echoed under the ground, but no one rose from the dead… It was too early then… Now… now I believe my shout was answered… I want so desperately to believe it. If it were true… if you could only tell me… you… Ah! What a relief it would be… I would send the doctors about their business. You, you would teach me to…’
He looked down at the dim face whose orbits seemed empty. Only the forehead, cheeks, and chin were touched by a faint light. His heart was full of love; he gazed at her, waiting perhaps for some word from her. Another tram screeched round the bend, and the flashes from the contact flickered on the walls and ceiling. Her eyes, too, flashed for a moment with a weird green sparkle. He started.
‘Shut your eyes,’ he said. ‘You must never look at me like that again.’
His right arm was completely numb. The whole of that side of him seemed to be dead. He thought of the moment when, in the Seine, dragged down by Madeleine’s weight, he had had to struggle for his own life as well as hers. He was being dragged down again now, but he no longer had the wish to struggle. He was tempted to yield, to abandon his role as guide and protector. After all, it was she who knew the secret…
Sleep was already clouding his thoughts. He tried once again to speak. He wanted to promise her something, but what it was was obscured by too many mists. He was vaguely aware that she moved, no doubt to undress. He tried to say to her:
‘Stay with me, Madeleine.’
But his lips scarcely moved. He slept but without any real repose. Only towards dawn did his spirit seem to be at peace, and he was quite unconscious of her when she looked at him for a long time in the grey morning light, her eyes once again slowly filling with tears.
He woke up with a headache, feeling washed out. Sounds of splashing in the bathroom reassured him. When he got out of bed, he felt an absolute wreck.
‘I shan’t be a minute,’ cried Renée.
His mind bereft of thought or any feeling of pleasure, he gazed absently at the blue sky over the roofs opposite. Another day! Life went on: another day as stupid as its predecessors! He dressed listlessly. As on every other morning, he was racked by the longing for a drink. He had a nip. That cleared his mind a bit, but only for him to find all his anxieties intact, all his questions neatly arranged side by side like the cutlery in a canteen. Renée emerged in a magnificent dressing-gown, bought the previous day.
‘There you are. You can have the bathroom now.’
‘No hurry… Did you sleep well?… I’m feeling rotten this morning. Did I talk in my sleep?’
‘No.’
‘I do sometimes. When I have nightmares. There’s nothing in that: I’ve had them all my life.’
He yawned, then studied her. She didn’t look any too good either, but now that she was thinner she troubled his spirit more than ever. She began doing her hair. Once again, Flavières couldn’t restrain himself: he snatched the comb out of her hand.
‘Here! Give that to me.’
He pulled a chair forward in front of the looking-glass.
‘Sit down. I’ll show you… Having your hair on your shoulders doesn’t suit you a bit.’
He tried to pass it off lightly, but his hands trembled with impatience.
‘As a matter of fact, what it really needs is a touch of henna. Some strands are lighter than others. It is neither one thing nor the other.’
Her lustrous hair crackled under the comb. It felt warm to his touch and smelt of burnt prairies, like the fumes of new wine. Flavières held his breath. Renée, her lips slightly retracted, showing her teeth, abandoned herself to the soothing, caressing movements of the comb. Soon he was forming a bun at the back of her neck—with much too many pins, of course, but he didn’t pretend to be an expert. He only wanted to remodel the shape of her head, giving it the noble line, the serenity of a Leonardo. To put it differently, he was painting the portrait of the Madeleine he remembered. And he was succeeding! There was the fine forehead now, the delicate ears revealed. Putting in the last pin, he straightened himself, and looked in the glass to survey his work.
Yes, it was good. There, within the frame of the mirror touched by a slanting ray of sunshine, there, clear and limpid as a water-colour, was the pale, mysterious face, withdrawn and thoughtful.
‘Madeleine!’
He murmured the name, but she didn’t even hear him. Was that really the reflection of a woman that he was staring at in the glass? Or was it some subjective vision like the things seen in a crystal? He crept round the chair to face her. No, he hadn’t deceived himself. It was Madeleine as he had known her. For the slow rhythmic movements of the comb had plunged her into a sort of dream, a mood of grave meditation.
Realizing she was being scrutinized, she heaved a sigh, shook herself, made an effort to smile.
‘If you’d gone on a little longer,’
she said, ‘I’d have fallen fast asleep.’
She looked casually into the glass.
‘Not bad,’ she commented. ‘Yes, it’s perhaps better like that. It’s another matter whether it’ll hold.’
She shook her head, and the pins began falling out. Another shake, and her hair fell down altogether. She burst out laughing. He laughed too, though, with him, it was rather the reaction from the intense fear which had gripped him.
‘Mon pauvre chéri,’ she said.
He went on laughing, holding his hands to his head, but he felt he couldn’t remain in that room any longer. He found it suffocating. He needed the sunshine, the rumbling of the trams, the jostling of the crowd. He needed to forget as quickly as possible what he had seen. He dashed into the bathroom to get ready. His hands fumbled with the taps; when he brushed his teeth, he nearly dropped the tumbler.
‘I’ll go down ahead of you,’ she suggested.
‘No. Wait for me. You can wait a moment, can’t you?’
His voice was so changed that she came to the bathroom door.
‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘Nothing… What makes you think there is?’
He noticed she now had her hair arranged as usual, but couldn’t make up his mind whether to be angry or relieved. He tied his tie anyhow, slipped on his jacket, and took her arm.
‘You needn’t think I’m lost,’ she remarked jokingly.
But he couldn’t bring himself to laugh now.
When they left the hotel, they didn’t know what to do with themselves. Every prospect seemed equally boring. Flavières felt tired already. His headache was hammering at his skull. He had to sit down in a public garden, but they were no sooner installed than he said:
‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid we’ll have to go back… I’m not feeling well at all.’
She pursed her lips and avoided looking at him, but she obediently helped him back to the hotel. There she settled down to darn some stockings, while he tried to pull himself together. How long would she consent to remain shut up with him in that dreary room, as little homely as a waiting-room? He had no right to hold her against her will. He guessed he had not succeeded in reassuring her—not altogether. At lunchtime he tried to get up, but sank back on to the bed again, feeling giddy.
‘Would you like me to put a cold compress on your forehead?’
‘No… no… It’ll pass off… Go and have lunch.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. I mean it. I’ll be all right.’
Yet, when she shut the door behind her, his face was at once distorted by intense anxiety. It was silly, he knew. All her things were there in the wardrobe. She couldn’t run off, she couldn’t disappear…
‘But she might die,’ he thought.
That idea was no less silly. He put both hands to his forehead, trying to banish it. The time passed. Grain by grain he could hear it drop, as through an hour-glass. The waiters were slow, he knew. All the same, she could have skipped a course or two. No doubt she was, on the contrary, taking advantage of being alone to guzzle, choosing all the things she had usually to go without because he didn’t like to see her eating them. The animal side of her—how he hated it!… Already in the little café at Courbevoie, when she had emerged from the kitchen dressed like a skivvy, how he had suffered!
She’d been gone an hour now. One might think she was starving! By the end of an hour and a quarter, worry and anger were added to his headache. Tears of impotent rage welled up into his eyes. When she came back at last, he looked at her balefully.
‘An hour and twenty minutes to swallow down a wretched bit of steak!’
She laughed, sat down on the bed, and took his hand.
‘There were snails,’ she said. ‘I thought the menu was never coming to an end. What about you?’
‘Me! As though—’
‘Now, now! Don’t be childish.’
He clung to her cool hand, and gradually calmed down. Presently he dozed off, still clinging to it as though it was some precious toy. When he woke up a little after four, he felt a little better and wanted to go out.
‘But not far. Tomorrow I’ll go and see a doctor.’
They went down. On the pavement, Flavières pretended to have forgotten something.
‘Wait a moment, will you? I’ve just got to put through a telephone call.’
Dashing into the bar, he ordered a whisky.
‘As quick as you can.’
He was trembling with impatience, like a traveller who fears to miss his train. Perhaps she wouldn’t wait… Perhaps she would have already turned the corner. Perhaps… He took a long draught, relishing the warmth spreading through his chest. His eyes fell on a menu propped up on the bar.
‘Is that the menu for lunch?’
‘Yes, Monsieur.’
‘I don’t see any mention of snails.’
‘There weren’t any snails.’
Deep in thought, Flavières finished his drink and wiped his mouth.
‘Put it down on the bill,’ he said, and hurried out to join her.
He was pleasant; he talked a lot; he could be quite brilliant when he took the trouble. In the evening he took her to a smart restaurant down by the Old Port. Yes, he was amiable, but could she see what was behind it? Probably not. His manner was too unaccountable, their relations too artificial, for her to notice.
They got back late and stayed late in bed next morning. When lunchtime approached, he again complained of a headache.
‘You see what it does to you to keep late hours,’ she said.
‘It doesn’t matter. I’m only sorry on your account. You’ll have to have lunch alone again today.’
‘I shan’t be long this time.’
‘Don’t hurry.’
Flavières listened to her retreating steps, then sneaked down after her. A glance round the hall, another round the dining-room. No sign of her. Going out he spotted her at once some distance down the street.
‘Here we are!’ he said to himself. ‘It’s beginning all over again.’
She was wearing the grey suit. Around her danced the shadows of the lime trees. She walked quickly, looking at the pavement, taking no notice of anything. As before, there were plenty of officers about. On the placards, the news too was much the same: Bombardements… Défaite Imminente… She turned down a side street, and Flavières drew closer. It was a narrow street with shops on either side. Mostly books and antiques. Hadn’t he seen it before? Not it, but another like it, the Rue des Saints-Pères. Renée crossed over to the other side and dived into a little hotel. Flavières couldn’t bring himself to follow. A superstitious fear rooted him to the pavement, staring at the marble plaque on which was written Central Hôtel and at the notice hanging on the handle of the door which said: Complet.
All the same he had to go. His legs felt weak, but he dragged himself across the road and opened the door through which she had disappeared. His eyes took in the poky hall and lighted on the board behind the desk, from which, no doubt, she had just taken her key.
‘Yes?’ asked the man at the desk.
‘That lady?… The lady in grey… Who is she?’
‘The one that just came in?’
‘Yes. What’s her name?’
‘Pauline Lagerlac,’ answered the man with a horrible Marseilles accent.
FIVE
When Renée got back to the hotel, Flavières was lying down.
‘How do you feel?’ she asked.
‘A bit better. I think I’ll get up.’
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘Like what?’
He sat up, trying to smile.
‘You certainly gave me a queer look,’ she insisted. ‘Have I done anything to upset you?’
‘No… Really not.’
He got up, combed his hair, and brushed his jacket. In this small room they were absolutely on top of each other all the time. He couldn’t bring himself to speak, nor could he make up his mind to remain s
ilent. What he really wanted was to be alone, alone with the terrible mystery.
‘I’ve got to go out again,’ said Renée. ‘I’ve a few things to do.’
‘What things?’
‘First of all I must get my hair washed, and I must buy a pair of stockings.’
To get her hair washed, to buy a pair of stockings—that sounded homely and comforting. In any case she was looking at him now with such engaging frankness that it was impossible to suspect her of lying.
‘May I?’ she asked.
He made a gesture of tenderness, but his hand faltered like a blind man’s.
‘You’re not a prisoner,’ he murmured. ‘You know very well which of us is in captivity here.’
Another silence. She powdered her nose in front of the looking-glass, Flavières standing behind her.
‘You get on my nerves, chéri,’ she remarked.
Her hair tumbled playfully over her ears. He gazed at a tiny vein on her temple through which he could almost feel the blood coursing. Yes, this body was full of vitality, and, if his eyes were more penetrating, he would be able to see it, like an aura. He touched her neck; the flesh was smooth and warm. Quickly he withdrew his hand.
‘Really, what is the matter with you?’ she said, adding a touch of red to her lips.
He sighed. Renée… Madeleine… Pauline… What was the good of asking her the same eternal questions?
‘Run along,’ he said gently. ‘Be as quick as you can.’
He handed her her gloves, her bag.
‘I’ll be waiting for you downstairs… You will come back, won’t you?’
‘Don’t be silly! What an idea!’
He forced himself to smile. He was terribly unhappy. He had all the air of a defeated man, and he was conscious of her sudden pity. Yes, she was hesitating to go, like someone ashamed of leaving the bedside of a condemned man. She loved him, yes; but in the expression on her face he could see at the same time great tenderness and great cruelty. She took a step towards him, lifted her head, and kissed him on the lips. What did she mean? Was she saying good-bye to him?… He gently stroked her cheek.
Vertigo Page 14
