‘Forgive me… little Eurydice!’
She seemed to turn a little paler beneath her make-up. She blinked rapidly.
‘Be reasonable, mon chéri. Have a good rest. Stop teasing your poor brain for a little while.’
She paused at the door and waved to him. Then she was gone. He stayed where he was, gazing at the handle, but it didn’t turn. Would it ever?… Yes. She would come back… But when? He felt like rushing out into the corridor and shouting after her:
‘Madeleine! Madeleine!’
But it was true what he had said just now: it was he who was the prisoner. What could he hope for? To keep her with him in that room? To stand guard over her night and day? Even that would never give him access to what was hidden in the depths of her memory. The real Madeleine was free, but she lived elsewhere. This replica of her she had vouchsafed him was merely a sop. A temporary one at that. Their separation sooner or later was inevitable. For their love was something monstrous, foredoomed to death… To death!
Flavières gave a savage kick to the chair in front of the dressing-table. Rubbish! What about that hotel in which she had already taken a room? Nothing mysterious about that. It pointed to one thing and one thing only—flight. After Gévigne there had been Almaryan, with perhaps others in between. Then Flavières—with others after… Was he jealous? And, if so, of whom? Madeleine! Did that make any sense?
He lit a cigarette with the gold lighter and went down to the bar. He wasn’t hungry. He didn’t even want a drink, but ordered a cognac just to give himself the right to occupy one of the easy chairs. The place was practically dead at that hour. A single light lit up the many-coloured bottles; the barman was reading the paper. Leaning back in his chair, with his glass in the hollow of his hand, Flavières could at last shut his eyes. And the first image that rose to his mind was Gévigne’s. He had treated Gévigne disgracefully. It served him right, no doubt, if he was now in the same position himself. In a sense he had become Gévigne. It was his turn now to live with a strange elusive woman. And if, like him, he had had an old friend to turn to, wouldn’t he have done so? Of course; and he would have asked him to keep an eye on Renée; for he had reached that point now… He could see Gévigne sitting in his office; he could hear him saying:
‘She’s queer… I’m worried about her.’
He opened his eyes.
‘Waiter! Bring me another.’
Fortunately Gévigne had never suspected the truth. If he had… what would he have done? The same as Flavières had, no doubt: taken to drink. Or would he have put a bullet through his head? For there are some truths which you can’t dwell on without feeling that giddy nausea of the soul which is a hundred times worse than anything that can happen to the body… And he, Flavières, had been chosen from amongst all mankind to bear the burden of this secret. A secret which brought no joy, which merely made it twice as hard to live.
He felt perfectly calm now and quite extraordinarily clear-headed. He could even delve back into the past without flinching, seeing the crumpled body at the foot of the tower, the blood on the stones. Later, Gévigne had wept over the body of his wife, which the old woman had laid out. Detectives had examined it too and asked all sorts of questions. That didn’t bother him: he was as indifferent as the Roman soldiers playing dice at the foot of the cross. The ordeal started when he thought of Pauline Lagerlac’s suicide, when he thought of Madeleine’s first words to him: ‘It doesn’t hurt’, and above all when he conjured up the scene in the church and her serene resolve… Life had become too much of a strain to her and she was going quite simply to walk out of it… But was Renée’s life any less of a strain? Probably not. In that case… With that thought, Flavières’ head began to swim, and he was assailed by a horrible feeling of emptiness, an emptiness like space itself, limitless, unceasing, and without reprieve.
‘Waiter.’
This time he was genuinely thirsty. He gazed despairingly at the sombre upholstery around him and the row of bottles behind the bar. Was he still in the land of the living himself? Yes. His forehead was perspiring, his hands burning. Yes, he was alive and his mind was imbued with a frightening acuity. He was well aware, with a painful intensity even, of the absurdity of the situation. He would now no longer be able to sleep with Renée, no longer be able even to speak to her. She was too different. A barrier had been raised between them by that visit of hers to the little hotel. She would inevitably fall into the arms of some other man, who would be able to love her in ignorance. That was what she wanted, no doubt; Gévigne had almost found out, and she had killed herself. Now…
He let his glass slip out of his hand and the brandy spilt all over his knee. He wiped it with his handkerchief. With a shame-faced look at the barman, still deep in his newspaper, he picked up the sticky glass. He was furious with himself for not having guessed sooner. Now she was obviously running away. No doubt she had already transported some of her things to the little hotel, taking a few at a time… She might well be planning the next hop, buying a ticket for Africa or America… And that, for him, would be worse than death.
He stood up, tottered, grasped the back of the chair. The barman looked up.
‘Are you feeling queer, Monsieur?’
He came round and took Flavières’ arm.
‘Let go. I’m all right.’
Flavières held on to the chromium rod that ran along the front of the bar, staring stupidly at the white jacket of the barman at his side.
‘Really. I’m better now, thanks.’
‘What about a whisky to put you right?’
‘Yes… Thanks… A whisky.’
He gulped it down. He was disgusted with himself for being so weak, but he knew the whisky would soon pull him together. He would find a way to stop Madeleine going. As a matter of fact it was entirely his fault if she was planning to, with his ceaseless allusions and insinuations. He had, little by little, been recreating Madeleine, without suspecting that, by doing so, he was preparing her departure. How could he undo that work? How could he convince her that they could go on living as before? He couldn’t: it was too late.
He looked at the clock. Half past four.
‘Put it down on my bill.’
He tried letting go of the chromium rod. He staggered slightly, then found his feet. He went out into the hall and beckoned the Buttons.
‘Is there a ladies’ hairdresser’s near here?… A smart one, of course.’
‘Chez Maryse… That’s the nearest.’
‘How far?’
‘Barely five minutes’ walk. You go along the boulevard, then take the third turning on the right. You’ll find it between a café and a florist’s. You can’t miss it.’
‘Thank you.’
Flavières went out looking dazed. He’d made a mistake not having any lunch. The glitter of the sun on the tramlines was almost unbearable. Life flowed through the streets like a river in spate and Flavières had sometimes to hug the walls, not to be swept along by it. He found the hairdresser’s without difficulty and peered in through the window like a beggar. There she was, with a complicated apparatus over her head. Yes, it was Renée. She was there. A respite had been granted them.
‘Merci!’ he muttered. ‘Merci!’
Then he passed on and went into the café next door.
‘A glass of beer and a sandwich, please.’
From now on he was going to take care. Of his health, too, for he needed all his energies. He would have to be strong to prevent her going. He would have to be prudent to allay her misgivings. He must avoid any allusion to the past. He must renounce the attempt to make her confess.
He sighed and gave up trying to finish his sandwich. The beer disgusted him. His mouth was foul from too much smoking. He fidgeted in his seat, trying to find a comfortable position. He had a view of the pavement in front of the hairdresser’s, so she couldn’t give him the slip. She’d go straight back to the hotel, no doubt. How were they then to get through the long evening? Should he ask her fo
rgiveness, beg her to forget their quarrels?… Gazing out of the window, he had the impression he was sitting for a very difficult exam: questions were being fired at him and he couldn’t find the answers. He understood himself well enough to know he would never give up trying to find out. What he loved in her was, not that she was Madeleine, but that she was alive. And it was just that, her bubbling vitality, that she declined to share with him. She was too rich, he too poor. All right; but he would never accept being shut out from the secret… Where was he getting to now?
The time passed slowly. From a distance the proprietor of the café watched the peculiar customer who muttered to himself and who seemed unable to take his eyes off the street. And Flavières’ sombre meditations went on. There was no way out, at least no good one. Madeleine was bound to leave him. He had no means of preventing her. The first suitable opportunity, and it would be all over. He would no longer be able to afford a headache and stay in bed for half a day… Perhaps it was already too late. Perhaps, instead of going back to the hotel, she would go to the station or to some ship on the point of sailing. Leaving him with nothing to do but die.
Suddenly Madeleine came out. She appeared as suddenly as if she had risen from the pavement. She was bare-headed. Her hair, done in a bun at the back, was lightly tinted with henna.
Flavières dashed out. She walked in front of him with a leisurely step, her black bag under her arm. She wore the grey suit he had bought her. She was just as he had conjured her up in his dreams. He gained on her a little. It was all exactly like that day on the banks of the Seine, even to the point of his catching a whiff of her perfume, which smelt of the autumn, of the earth, of dead leaves. Flavières walked like a sleep-walker. One hand was pressed to his heart; his mouth was open. It was altogether too much for him. He stumbled; he brushed past people, who stared at him in astonishment. Was he going to fall down? Or burst into tears?
She walked down, rather aimlessly to all appearances, towards the ruins of the Old Port. She certainly wasn’t making for the hotel. How right he had been to keep her under observation. Was she going to meet someone? Or just taking a walk—enjoying a last half-hour of peace before plunging back into the torments of a relationship that had become impossible? Or was she already elsewhere, a stranger in a strange town?
The growl of bulldozers could be heard behind blackened mutilated walls, plastered with posters. Children played among the ruins. With her easy, swinging walk, Madeleine reached the Quai des Beiges. She stopped for a moment to look at the wreckage of the transporter-bridge. The grey water reflected the yellow hulls of sailing-boats, moored up side by side and sleeping peacefully. A boy standing astride in the stern-sheets of a boat was sculling with an oar over the transom. Here and there a disused lighter was rotting against the wall. This was Marseilles, but it was also Courbevoie. The past merged into the incomprehensible present. Flavières had the feeling he had stepped out of time altogether. And those ripples on which bits of wood and orange peel bobbed up and down—perhaps they didn’t really exist at all. Nor Madeleine either… All the same there was that scent which the smells of the port couldn’t altogether obliterate.
Madeleine followed the quays towards the tidal basins. Was she going to board a liner? Or had she merely come to gaze at the ships, dreaming of some country she hankered after? Men of nondescript race, dressed in American jumpers and trousers with enormous pockets, wandered casually about the quays and warehouses, but Madeleine seemed not to notice anyone. She studied the water shimmering here and there with a film of oil, then, lifting her head, looked through the forests of masts and spars over to the black walls of Fort Saint-Jean. Here and there a sentry, his rifle at the slope, stood guard over a dump of military stores. Tired as he was, Flavières didn’t even think of stopping. He was waiting for the inevitable.
It was on the Quai de la Joliette that the inevitable happened. There, Madeleine sat down at the one and only table in front of a sort of café. Inevitable, too, were the barrels for him to hide behind. And, as the lights in the ships and warehouses went on one by one, she once again began writing. Her pen moved quickly. This time, it was to him that she was writing. She was trying gently to explain things to him as formerly she had to Gévigne. And Flavières was sick with fear and misery. Now she folded the letter, licked the flap of the envelope, left some money on the table, and walked away.
Flavières followed with horror in his heart. Was the other thing inevitable too? Was she going to… No. Not here at any rate. He felt sure she would seek a more deserted spot. Anyhow, she was walking between the railway lines, some distance from the edge of the quay, so there was no immediate danger… One behind the other they passed the bows of huge ships whose hawsepipes watched them like eyes. High up above them, a sailor leant over the side-rails and flicked the ash off his cigarette. Huge hawsers looped down in all directions from the fairleads. Insects buzzed in the halos round the lights on the quay. Madeleine was hurrying now, one hand holding her skirt which was flying about in the wind. She approached the edge, ducked under a hawser. Here there was no one about. At the bottom of some steps, two dinghies were rubbing against each other. Flavières crept up to her on tip-toe. As soon as he was within reach of her, he seized her by the shoulders and pulled her back. She uttered a cry and struggled.
‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘Give me that letter.’
They each tugged at her bag which suddenly flew open. The letter fell to the ground and was instantly caught by the wind. Flavières tried to put his foot on it, but was a second too late. A stronger gust took it over the edge of the quay, and a moment later it was floating, out of reach in the water. Flavières still held her fast.
‘Look what you’ve done!’
‘Let me go.’
He stuffed her bag in his pocket and dragged her away.
‘I’ve been following you all the way from the hairdresser’s. What made you come here? And what was in that letter? Were you saying good-bye? Answer me.’
‘Yes.’
He shook her.
‘And then… What were you intending to do?’
‘Go away… Tomorrow, perhaps… I can’t stand this any longer.’
‘And what about me?’
He felt empty and shrivelled up. His shoulders drooped with fatigue.
‘Come on. Let’s get back.’
They dived through narrow slummy streets, peopled by dubious types. But Flavières had no fear of them, for the simple reason he was unconscious of them. His fingers firmly gripped her elbow. He had the impression he had brought her back from some distant country, from the pastures of the dead.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘I’ve a right to know. You’re Madeleine, aren’t you?’
‘No.’
‘Then who are you?’
‘Renée Sourange.’
‘It’s not true.’
‘It is.’
He looked up at the thin band of sky between the tall blind houses. He wanted to hit her, even to kill her.
‘You are Madeleine,’ he continued angrily. ‘The proof is that when you went to the little hotel you gave your name as Pauline Lagerlac.’
‘That was just to throw you off the scent, when you tried to find me.’
‘To throw me off the scent?’
‘Yes… Since you’re so determined that I’m this Pauline… I was pretty sure you’d make enquiries and fetch up there sooner or later… I wanted you to conserve the memory… of the other… and forget Renée Sourange.’
‘And why have you done your hair like that and tinted it with henna?’
‘Same idea. To wipe Renée Sourange off the slate. So that you’re left with nothing but your Madeleine.’
‘It’s you I want to keep.’
In despair, he squeezed her arm. In the murky twilight he could now identify her with absolute certainty, by her step, her scent, and the hundred and one other details that love can interpret so unerringly. Vague snatches of music, an accordion, a mandolin, came to them from somewhe
re or other. Behind them, an occasional blast of a siren sounded like some wild nocturnal beast.
‘What made you want to run away?’ he asked. ‘Weren’t you happy with me?’
‘No.’
‘Because of all those questions?’
‘Yes… That… and other things.’
‘And if I promised to drop the subject, never to pester you with questions again?’
‘Poor dear! As though you could keep such a promise!’
‘Listen… It’s really very simple: confess that you’re Madeleine and we’ll never refer to it again… We’ll go right away from here and start all over afresh. We could have a wonderful life together.’
‘I’m not Madeleine.’
Again! This incredible obstinacy!
‘You’re so completely Madeleine that you’ve even got back that way of looking at nothing, as though you had floated off into another world.’
‘I’ve got worries enough.’
‘What worries?’
‘Worries of my own that I can’t share with anybody.’
He was aware she was crying. They were coming to a well-lit boulevard. There they would get a foothold again in the world of the living. Flavières took out his handkerchief.
‘Here. Let me have a go at that face.’
He wiped her cheeks tenderly and kissed her eyes. He took her by the hand.
‘Come on. Don’t be afraid.’
They turned into the boulevard, jostled with the crowd. Bands were playing in the big cafés. Jeeps dashed past at full speed manned by soldiers in white helmets. On the kerb were hawkers, men selling monkey-nuts; spivs asked for a light, then offered packets of Lucky Strike. Whenever Flavières looked at Madeleine, she turned her head away. She was unbending, her lips set resentfully. But Flavières was too unhappy himself to have much pity for her.
‘Let me go,’ she said. ‘I want to buy some aspirin. It’s my turn to have a headache now.’
Vertigo Page 15
