The train! Here comes the train!
Indeed, tall and dark, coiffed with a plume of white smoke, the engine surges forth amid the motionless trains that cramp the horizon. The black caterpillar of carriages undulates, seems to hesitate, even to draw away, but finally plunges into the station, drawing slowly level with the platform, and its doors open.
Gazes meet and search for one another. Hands wave. Muffled exclamations are heard, like moans of happiness. Already the most agile have leapt down to the ground. Some slip into the crowd, as if in a hurry to disappear and plunge into the city. Others are immediately seized, imprisoned by effusions.
Suzanne has discovered her father, leaning out of a window. “There he is!”
Everyone follows her.
Dr. Bro brandishes his traveling cap. An unforgettable vision! Beneath the overhanging brows, pitted by wrinkles and swollen with projections, in the hollow of blue-tinted and profound ridges, his mobile eyes have a phosphorescent yellow gleam. The abrupt nose displays the black holes of the nostrils. Sparse, indecisive hair, red, blond and white at the same time, frames the rictus of his mouth, curling over the jutting chin, climbing the thin cheeks, quivering alongside the faun’s ears, and evaporating into down on the shapeless and tumultuous skull. And that chaotic, almost simian face, soiled with dust and carbon-grease, is resplendent with intelligence.
With a bound, elbowing people out of the way and bumping into suitcases, indifferent to collisions, Dr. Bro surges toward his relatives. A white scarf is around his neck. A discolored waterproof overcoat envelops his short figure. In the confusion and emption of the first contact he lavishes awkward kisses and nervous handshakes, stammering neutral words from tremulous lips.
Suddenly, he takes off, plunges into the crowd, and then reappears, holding the arm of a tall and handsome young man with an exceedingly pale complexion and an exceedingly brown beard. In a familiar manner, amicably clapping the unknown on the shoulder, he introduces him, in a voice clear, musical and a trifle vulgar, whose charm is surprising: “My laboratory assistant Dajan-Phinn, a very distinguished fellow, a native of Borneo, who wanted to come with me and continue to render me his assistance.”
The stranger slowly takes off his hat. Heads and upper bodies incline. But this unexpected presence alarms and embarrasses the intimate little group, and that malaise increases in the family omnibus that carries everyone to César Bro’s house, where a lunch is to celebrate the return of the absentee. The painter has been obliged to invite Dajan-Phinn, for the doctor has clearly expressed the intention of not being separated from his pupil.
In the racket of the rattling windows, everyone falls silent. No allusion to the past, or the imminent future. No effusiveness, no surges of affection. Nothing is exchanged but glances. Bro contents himself with scrutinizing faces.
The presence of the unknown is not sufficient on its own to explain the general mutism, but his appearance is fascinating. The gaze is fatally attracted by that extraordinary beauty, that nacreous complexion set within that coal-black beard, that face in which one searches in vain for an imperfection, in which nature has not committed any sin of color or design, in which every feature, taken in isolation, compels admiration and gives an impression of the ideal realized. In him, all is harmony, from his slender but solid build and his delicate joints to his careful and discreet bearing.
And yet the mind does not experience a complete satisfaction. What secretly irritates it is being unable to penetrate the mind that lives behind that admirable mask.
Does he feel lost, out of his element, transported to the other side of the world, among people he does not know, the swarming of the city? But on that face of triumphant beauty, which one would like to see animated by a flame as beautiful as itself, there is nothing to be seen but a slight astonishment, like the amazement of being alive…
César Bro lives in a villa near the Boulevard Pereire, a discrete house nestling in the depths of a garden. It is on the threshold of that pleasant swelling that the little company disembarks, still numbed by the long journey through the city.
After a rapid and summary refreshment, Dr. Bro launched forth on an exploration of the house, with which he was unfamiliar. Accompanied by the silent Dajan-Phinn and his brother, he bounded upstairs to the studio, which occupied the entire second floor. Running around, pausing and rummaging, he offered an appreciation of every canvas in precise terms, whose justice the painter was obliged to admit. Then he plunged down to the ground floor and sprawled on a sofa, head back, arms on the cushions and legs crossed, praised the painter for having combined the drawing-room and dining-room, took an interest in the Louis XV furniture, judged it authentic while pointing out a restored side-table, savored the old rose and pale blue wallpaper, gallantly declared that its flowery tints suited blondes and that his sister-in-law and daughter resembled, among these delicately-woven fabrics, golden bees at the heart of a corolla.
At that point, the painter’s two children returned from their morning stroll; Bro took possession of them, set them on his knees, promised Chinese dolls to the three-year-old Lise and a Malay kris to the seven-year-old Claude, inspected their teeth, ears, palates, the inner surfaces of their eyelids and enumerated, very exactly, a few weaknesses of their complexion, prescribed a regime, assured himself of their knowledge and, as they were learning English with their governess, began to sing a minstrel refrain to them in a hearty voice.
Half an hour after his arrival, he knew the house, objects and people alike, as if he had always lived there.
At table, he was liveliness personified. Occupied in talking, he ate and drank whimsically. Sometimes, he forgot a dish on his plate, and then dispatched it in two or three mouthfuls in order to make up for lost time. Sometimes, he returned to a dish, not out of greed, but out of distraction, not realizing that he had already served himself once. He left all his glasses full, then emptied them one after the other, mixing the vintages and the colors. And above that incoherence and massacre his gestures fulgurated and his flavorsome speech sang.
Between the hors d’oeuvres and dessert, Bro re-lived his seven years in the Far East. He sculpted anecdotes, launched witticisms, mimed scenes, sketched locations. He was malicious, subtle, ingenious and profound. In accordance with an evident premeditation, however, he abstained from any allusion to his own work, to any scientific development, either by virtue of the skill of a conversationalist who fears boring his audience, or because he was firmly resolved to avoid any controversy with Ruchard, by awakening old questions that had been laid to rest.
He only interrupted himself to take Dajan-Phinn for his witness. The young stranger expressed himself in a very pure French. Doubtless unfamiliar with our language, however, he hesitated momentarily, with his mouth partly open, before speaking. Then, once released, his sentence would flow like a spring. Bro never took his eyes off him, encouraging him vocally and by gesture.
“Dajan-Phinn is a modest fellow,” he declared. “He speaks six languages admirably: French, Dutch, German, English, Spanish and the Malay idiom most commonly used on his island. It’s the embarrassment of choice that paralyzes him. Come on, don’t be afraid. You’re among friends.”
At first, the young man abbreviated his replies, restricting them to the strictly necessary. Gradually, however, he gained in confidence, and when the meal was over, Dajan-Phinn had almost raised himself to the cordial tone that Bro’s verve and good humor had given to the reunion. The doctor’s gaiety seemed, in fact, to bode well. How could a man so full of zest be contemplating opposition to the wishes of his entire family?
Henri Ruchard, however, did not share this happy mental disposition. As everyone rose from the table to take coffee he isolated Suzanne Bro in a corner of the room. Her face radiant, she was already getting ready to rejoice with him with regard to the favorable omens, but he shook his head.
“I understand your confidence, but I don’t share it. Now that our fate is about to be decided, I’m afraid; I’m not r
eassured…”
“Why?” she interjected, swiftly.
“Because your father manifests no bitterness, does it follow that he doesn’t experience any? Do we know what he’s thinking, de down?”
“But…”
“The proof that he’s capable of hiding his true thoughts is that he has let none of them show for seven years. Certainly, the blow was hard: ten years of work, a whole assembly of doctrines; a whole set of experiments that would have revolutionized the world, all reduced to nothing, to less than nothing, by a few weeks of controversy. What a disappointment, what a blow! And yet, your father has never shown mine his resentment. By his exile, he seemed to abandon the contest—but has he renounced all hope of revenge?”
Many times already, before Dr. Bro’s return, the two young people had broached this redoubtable question—but it seemed to be resolved by the very attitude of the traveler. That was what the young woman could not help opposing to her companion.
“Oh, come on! Does he present the appearance of someone who’s been nursing a resentment, or who’s considering causing us any difficulty? Look at him.”
He obeyed. At the far end of the room, beside the fireplace, Dr. Bro, with his hand set familiarly on Dajan-Phinn’s shoulder, was standing in front of Ruchard, who was sitting beside the lady of the house—and the animated cheerfulness of his old companion lit up the haughty and tranquil face of the professor with a smile.
The young man remained anxious, however. With his head bowed, he resumed: “Yes, perhaps you’re right—but it doesn’t matter. Why that long silence, then this abrupt return? There’s something abnormal and mysterious about all this…” Then, suddenly revealing his true dread, he went on: “And look—this Dajan-Phinn. Do you find his presence natural? What is this tenebrous beauty, black and white like a domino, as multilingual as a hotel porter? We don’t know where he comes from, or what he’s come to do here. Have you noticed your father’s insistence on praising him highly, on showing him off? Are you sure that he doesn’t have plans for that dear pupil, that he isn’t the fiancé he has in mind for you?”
This time, Suzanne burst out laughing. “What an idea! And what underhanded thoughts you’re crediting to my poor Papa!”
Henri loosed a gesture of annoyance with himself. “Yes, I was wrong to tell you all that. But you mustn’t hold it against me. If I’m anxious, it’s out of dread. I’m so afraid of seeing some obstacle rise up between us, at the very moment when our fate seems settled. There are moments, you see, when I’m almost tempted to go find my father, and ask him not to talk to yours today, if he has any intention of doing so, so fearful am I of knowing, so preferable does doubt sometimes seem to certainty…”
Moved by this anguish and wanting to hide her own anxiety, she said, jokingly: “But I forbid you to do that. I feel so sure of the result.” Then, suddenly becoming serious, she added: “Besides, it’s too late. Look.”
He turned round. Ruchard had risen to his feet and was leaning toward Dr. Bro’s ear. The latter, acquiescing with a nod of the head, confided Dajan-Phinn to his sister-in-law. Laughing graciously, she invited him to sit next to her. The two men left the room.
They went up to the studio. Behind the imposing mass of the professor, who made the narrow oak-wood staircase creak, Bro climbed with an uneven and hurried gait—and he contrast between the two individuals was further increased in the bright crisp daylight that descended from the skylights. His solid clean-shaven face fully lit, his handsome plump white hands on the arms of his armchair, Ruchard seemed to be posing for his portrait. Incapable of keeping still, astride a chair one moment, throwing himself on a divan whose springs returned him to his feet the next, Bro tried hard to relight a stout cigar, which, moistened and reduced to pulp, fell apart.
In a voice habituated to the professorial chair, but humanized by benevolence, Richard opened fire.
“My dear friend, I’ll get straight to the point. You know why I’ve brought you here. Our children are in love. I only have my son. You only have your daughter. We both want them to be happy. Let’s marry them. Your brother has written as much to you, and I hope that I don’t have to see in your delay in replying as an indication of opposition, and especially not the residue of old quarrels that once…”
Bro, who had stopped moving momentarily, bounded toward his friend and waved a peremptory hand in front of the professor’s august lips.
“Shh! Shh! Let’s not talk about that, let’s say nothing about it. It’s necessary not to confuse the issues. The happiness of our children has nothing to do with our laboratory disputes. I lost the game. I even think that I’ve been a rather good sport. But, after all, you beat me. That’s understood. And it’s not the moment to reopen the debate…”
“In that case…?” Ruchard began.
Bro was following his own train of thought, though. “Now, if I haven’t replied to César’s letter, it’s because, as soon as I received it, I decided to return to France—but I’d undertaken a project that I absolutely had to finish before my departure. I was overwhelmed by work. In brief, I kept putting off from one day to the next the joy of bringing my reply myself…”
“So it’s favorable?” the professor interjected.
Bro gripped his hands. “Can you doubt it, my dear friend? Such a project honors me and fulfils my desires…”
Ruchard got to his feet and breathed out expansively. “Mine too, believe me! And the proof is that your silence made me dread some snag. Without reproach, since you were decided, you might have spared the loving couple a two-month delay…”
A shadow of embarrassment passed over Dr. Bro’s noble features. In an uncertain voice he said: “I couldn’t…I didn’t want to…in sum, I wanted to bring my reply in person.”
“Let’s not leave them in suspense any longer, then,” said Ruchard, heading for the door. “As for the practical arrangements, in which we can’t be uninvolved, I’ve discussed them with your brother. I know that he touched upon them in his letter. I hope that we’re entirely in agreement in that respect too…”
“Perfectly, perfectly!” declared Bro, precipitating himself downstairs.
Professor Ruchard follow him ponderously. Had he exaggerated his anxieties during the months of waiting and incomprehensible silence? Had his son’s impassioned disquiet gradually infected him? But his prompt and facile victory disconcerted him. It was the unease of deliverance, anguish in triumph, the state of mind of an assailant who believes a redoubt to be strongly guarded and finds it empty.
Henri Ruchard went swiftly through the garden in front of César Bro’s house. It was May. New leaves were bursting forth on all sides: that Paris verdure which hastens to blossom as if it knew that it would die young in the July heat. But Suzanne Bro’s fiancé seemed indifferent to the external world. Familiar with the house, he went straight up to the studio.
The pensive painter, one eye half-closed by the smoke of his cigarette, was sketching beside a box of charcoal. His wife was writing at a little table. They were alone.
While he shook hands with them, in a warm but slightly abrupt fashion, she said to him: “Have you seen Suzanne?”
Distractedly, he replied: “No, but I’m not displeased to find you alone first.”
He seemed so worried that she became grave. “No trouble, I hope?”
“No trouble, strictly speaking, but the sort of dull irritation that you can prevent from bursting out, and can even dissipate.” He let himself fall into a chair and twisted his hat in his hands. He attempted a meager smile, which contracted his energetic face, and went on: “You’ll think me very demanding to complain since, in spite of our apprehensions, Monsieur Bro has granted me his daughter’s hand without any difficulty and we’re to be married in a month’s time, but, sincerely, don’t you think all the same that there’s something abnormal about my situation? Why, we’ve been engaged for three weeks, and living under the same roof as my future wife is a young man endowed with all the qualities, handsome enough
to turn heads in the street—in a word, perfect from every point of view! Me, I only come here as a visitor. He lives in complete intimacy with Mademoiselle Suzanne. Don’t you find it natural that I take umbrage and want to see it ended?”
César Bro interrupted him in his tranquil voice, without ceasing his sketching. “I beg your pardon, my dear friend, but remember first of all how these things came about, and agree that they could hardly be arranged otherwise. It was natural on my part to offer hospitality to my brother for a sojourn that, he has told me, will not be prolonged beyond your marriage. Now, he has expressed to me his formal desire not to be separated from that young man. You know how forcefully and vehemently he has explained his reasons. The boy has never been to France; he is literally lost among us. My brother, who has brought him, has assumed responsibility for him, and does not want to abandon him. I could do no less than offer to accommodate both of them, since I have enough room. And take note that if my brother had refused, you would have lost out, for he would have taken his daughter away without letting go of his ward. All three of them would have been living together, instead of being disseminated among us.”
As the young man, far from being convinced, became even sulkier, Madame Bro ventured in her turn: “Besides, aren’t they living alongside one another in the most complete indifference? Monsieur Dajan-Phinn manifests and insensibility, a coldness, for everything touching matters of sentiment. Nothing seems to move him—the grace of a young woman no more than the extended arms of a little child. Have you ever caught a word or a gesture on his part to which you could take offense…?”
“That’s all that’s lacking” exclaimed the fiancé.
“As for Suzanne,” she continued, “don’t you know that for a woman in love, there is but one man in the world—the one she loves? The others don’t exist. She doesn’t notice them; she doesn’t see them. It’s the very sign of affection. Have you seen her pay the slightest attention to Monsieur Dajan-Phinn?”
The World Above The World Page 14
