The Givreuse Enigma

by J. -H. Rosny aîné

  “I’ve read that tigers rarely attack during the day,” said Corisande.

  “That’s true, Mademoiselle—so we have a good chance of getting past. If they’ve hunted successfully, there’s no danger. If I were alone with my men, I’d risk it, but I’m responsible for your safety…”

  Corisande and Frédéric looked at one another.

  On Hendrik’s orders, the Sino-Indian and the Sumatran took bamboo stalks and branches of teak and ebony from the wood-heap in a shed, in order to improvise a shelter for the travelers.

  “Thus protected, we’ll be able to fire at leisure,” Hendrik remarked.

  “The Mistress will be here!” muttered Jan Cats.

  The dogs stood up. Cats cocked an ear. At first, no sound troubled the silence of the wilderness—a silence more profound beneath the midday Sun than in starlight. Then Jan broke into a smile. “The Grafina!” His chubby face expressed a slow and intense joy; the dogs leapt about madly. Corisande was agitated by an ardent curiosity.

  As the horses arrived with lightning speed, they saw a brunette woman with the head of a Ligue member crouched over the neck of her horse. A thin, short man with olive-colored skin was almost lying on Rulf.

  At the threshold of the caravanserai, Mademoiselle de Gavres leapt down. The dogs assailed her as if they were going to devour her, drunk on the young woman’s caresses.

  Corisande and Frédéric looked at the beautiful, luminously-costumed huntress avidly. She seemed as fresh as if she had only just got dressed.

  The Grafina fixed her black eyes on the travelers with a start of surprise and a certain malaise—for she recognized them.

  Were they not the people who had sheltered the bloody dragoons on the day of the massacre, who had appeared on the double perron to welcome them, dragging Jacques de Gavres, the Martyr, who was burned alive on November 17, 1697?

  The Grafina studied, in amazement—almost with hatred—the charming young woman coiffed in light, with the fine French face and the little poppy-red mouth, and the young man with the military bearing. She replied to their greeting with a solemn bow, repeated in the fashion of her ancestors, and, noticing the young man’s croix de guerre—which was for her a mysterious emblem—she murmured: “The ordeal was stern—the entire Earth has trembled.”

  Her bell-like voice gave a majesty to the old French accent that her Huguenot forefathers had retained. Then she said to Jan: “Give the man I pulled out of the water something to eat. Will Duyvel live?”

  “He’ll live, Mistress!”

  The Grafina turned to Hendrik, to whom she spoke in French. “The tigers are nothing. The Sumatran I saved had told me that the Carabao-Men24 have been driven back to the Blue Forest.”

  “Bad news!” said the young Dutchman.

  That mysterious horde, living deep in the marshy forest, practiced a vile and ferocious religion. They were accused of combining the flesh of man and beasts. They never penetrated any domain without killing everyone, except for the women of child-bearing age, reserved for the use of their males. Their rites were older than the centuries of history.

  “Three days to reach your fort is too long,” Mademoiselle de Gavres continued, “especially with the young woman…” Her voice hardened on the final words, and that malevolence awoke an obscure anguish in Corisande. “You can come with me, Heer Hendrik. We’ll arm the servants, and your father, with his household, can come to meet us.” She turned to Frédéric, smiling weakly. “We don’t have any machine-guns or grenades. I’ll get some!”

  To avoid the flood, the travelers had to follow a route even wilder than that followed by the Jufvrouw.

  The Sumatran led the saddle-horses. Louise de Gavres, sitting in the back of the cart, watched the forest. Jan led the dogs on a lead—except for Duyvel, who had been laid on a bed of dry grass. The dog had a fever; green gleams ran around his pupils.

  For half an hour, there was no sign of enemies.

  “I suppose,” Jan remarked, “that the tigers are behind us.”

  “A tiger’s territory is vast!” the Grafina replied. Her dark eyes followed the movements of the retrievers, which penetrated the mysterious invisible spaces more profoundly than the mastiffs.

  The route was about to make a deviation when the black dog stopped, nose to the wind; the other immediately shared its anxiety.

  Mademoiselle de Gavres left the cart with a single bound. She glided to where the dogs were, almost as silently as a wild beast, then went on ahead of them, while the vehicle followed ponderously.

  At the turning, the Sino-Indian uttered a dull exclamation. The tigers were there; the body of a fine stag lay across the route. It was not dead; it was still breathing, but its blood was already being drunk and it was being eaten.

  At the sight of the Grafina, the regal beasts, amazed and furious, raised their flat-faced heads, with growls that increased in volume.

  Corisande recalled the scene of the day before: the impotence of humans, the power of beasts. A rush of terror took her breath away. Louise’s silhouette stood up, tall, slender and lithe, before the thickset beasts. The dogs were howling, seized by madness, scarcely subdued by Jan’s harsh commands.

  “My God!” moaned Corisande.

  The larger of the two tigers had leapt forward. Ten more of those giant leaps and the Grafina was doomed. With her head inclined to the right, she shouldered her weapon. Four shots sounded, with chronometric regularity—and the miracle was accomplished. The beasts spun around, roared, collapsed—and died before the deer did.

  Frédéric’s heart filled with a savage enthusiasm. Stupefied, he looked at the young woman, the monster-slayer, who was as tranquil as if she had shot two jackals. “Oh! Splendid! Splendid!” he shouted, with an admiration that overwhelmed his self-contempt.

  Hendrik nodded his head in placid approval. “My father’s pupil,” he murmured. “A pupil equal to the master.”

  Jan, the Sumatran and the Sino-Indian loaded the spoils on to the front of the cart, which resumed its course through the jungle.

  As evening approached, the dogs gave further signs of disquiet. The Grafina and the man she had saved studied the route ahead.

  The Sun was orange by the time Mademoiselle de Gavres picked up a bizarre object carved in jade: a colossal needle with an eye as long as her hand and a triangular point.

  “One of the Carabao-Men’s weapons. The native isn’t mistaken.” To Frédéric, who was leaning forward avidly, she said: “Some of these weapons have been in existence for 1000 or 2000 years. Some have been found in the tombs of the Carabao-Men that must be as old as the earliest pyramids. Take care—the needle is almost certainly poisoned.”

  “How has the race been able to survive?” asked Corisande. “Isn’t it hated?”

  “Execrated! It takes refuge in frightful terrain, in the marshes. Other men die there like flies. The Carabao-Men suffer no harm.”

  “Are there many of them?”

  “20,000 or 30,000, it’s believed—men, women and children. The race is dying out.”

  “They’re no longer seen,” Hendrik added. “None have appeared in the vicinity of our lands in my lifetime.”

  “Nor in the vicinity of mine!” said the Grafina. “One might have believed that they had disappeared. Even my father only ever saw one of them. What I know about them I learned from my great-grandfather and a forest-dweller.”

  “Something extraordinary must have occurred to cause them to leave their marshes,” Hendrik added.

  “Are they really so very dangerous?” asked Frédéric.

  Louise de Gavres looked the young man up and down in a strange manner. “Their bravery is boundless, their patience prodigious, their instinct infallible, and they’re indomitable. When captured, if they can’t escape after a few days, they kill themselves.”

  “So nothing is known about them?”

  “They’re known by their actions. My great-grandfather told me the story of their incursion in 1833. It was disastrous for the spa
rsely-scattered colonists who had settled here at that time.”

  “Yes,” said Hendrik. “The forests were virgin then.”

  They arrived at the Grafina’s home during the night.

  IV. The Ancestral Simulacra

  The day after their arrival, the Grafina said to Corisande and Frédéric: “Would you like to see your portraits, as they were painted in the 17th century?”

  Although she had offered the French couple a sumptuous and refined hospitality, an ominous malaise persisted. Louise de Gavres spoke to them with a cold reserve that occasionally seemed hostile.

  “Our portraits?” they said, bewildered.

  Their hostess’s attitude was serious; it would have been absurd to believe that it was some sort of trick. “Yes, your portraits.”

  She led them through a dark corridor and into a solitary room, where the only furniture was very old.

  “Look!” said Louise de Gavres.

  She pointed to a large painting on the wall, which caused them to step back in astonishment.

  At the top of a double perron, coiffed like Madame de Montespan or Madame de Grignan, and clad in a silvery dress, stood a young woman, on whose hand a captain of dragoons had placed his lips. Beside her was a bare-headed young man and, further away, a tall prisoner with an obstinately bold and proud face.

  Corisande and Frédéric, nonplussed, recognized their faces, their hair and their eyes, very nearly as they would have appeared in a mirror—and the captive bore a strange resemblance to Louise de Gavres.

  “Who are they?” asked Corisande, curiously.

  “She,” said the Grafina, slowly, “is the Marquise Anne de Tamares. The young man is her younger brother. The prisoner is Jacques de Gavres, the martyr, burned alive—although he was a gentleman—on November 17, 1697.”

  Corisande’s face was fixed on the woman’s. “Why do I resemble her?” she said. “There’s no link between us…”

  “I haven’t told you the name of the young man: Philippe de Rouveyres. Aren’t you descended from him?”

  Stupefied, almost terrified, in an atmosphere of sorcery, they remained silent.

  “We don’t know,” Frédéric said, eventually. “Our family, impoverished since the Revolution, has become almost bourgeois; we’ve only heard slight mention of a Comte Charles de Rouveyres, in the reign of Louis XV—never any de Tamares.”

  “We’re ancestral enemies nevertheless!” said Louise, enigmatically.

  There was a smile in the corners of the Grafina’s dark eyes. Corisande, full of suspicion, suddenly felt herself invaded by some obscure combative spirit—as if she were host to the soul of Madame de Tamares and Louise that of the proud Jacques de Gavres.

  “They were inexpiable times!” said the Grafina, in a bitter voice. “Those people”—she pointed to the Marquise—“expelled from France the purest of her children.”

  “Oh—the purest!” Corisande retorted. “If they had been able to, wouldn’t it have been them who expelled the others?”

  The Grafina went pale. “I don’t believe so!” she said.

  “Do you imagine that there are two sorts of men? Haven’t the English treated Catholics as badly as our people have treated Protestants?”

  Frédéric remained silent, but his gaze met that of Louise—and they both became aware of themselves with a singular ardor, he as a Catholic, she as a Huguenot. They were separated by a silence as hard as a wall.

  Eventually, Louise resumed speaking: “In two days, everything will be ready for your departure. I hope the delay won’t inconvenience you.”

  “No,” said Frédéric. “Our time isn’t limited—but I’m confused by everything you’re doing for us.”

  “I’m not doing anything. I’m only following the rules. You’re my guests. Until Dirk de Ridder can collect you, my responsibility will remain entire!”

  “Outside this house, we’d cease to be your guests.”

  “Not now.”

  “Why?”

  “All the roads are dangerous.”

  “You’re not the cause of that.”

  “I’m responsible,” she said, rather dryly. “That’s the de Gavres law.”

  They felt the weight of that protection.

  “How long will it take for Monsieur de Ridder to get here?”

  “We’ll know that when I’ve received his message.”

  It was necessary to submit to the will of this haughty woman; they were profoundly humiliated by that necessity.

  The day went by slowly. Men and dogs explored the region; the Grafina went out more than once herself, with her large retrievers.

  That evening, Hendrik asked: “Has any trace of them been found?”

  “No,” Mademoiselle de Gavres replied. “Nothing except the traces already found. Since then, they must have moved away. Perhaps it’s a trick. No one knows.”

  Although there were electric lights installed there, the table was only lit by large candles; others burned in the cressets along the wall, and the light had a restful softness about it. The night slept beyond the mosquito-curtains; the palm-trees were murmuring in the gentle breeze, and the great flap of the punkah refreshed the guests.

  Li-Wang and a Sumatran servant were silently serving lobsters from the Red Bay.

  “I’m expecting grenades and two machine-guns,” said the Grafina. She turned to Frédéric and added: “Will you consent, Monsieur, to instruct us in their use?”

  Frédéric’s face became animated; the humiliating sense of inferiority from which he had been suffering since the incident with the tigers seemed less intense. “I’m more familiar with launching grenades than the operation of a machine-gun—which, in any case, will be child’s play for you.”

  “We’ll see!”

  The leg of a wild boar was brought in, prepared according to an old Malay recipe, with sago, roasted nuts, raki, red pepper and cloves.

  A dog growled in the darkness, then another—and all around the house, the voices of retrievers, mastiffs and basset-hounds resounded frantically. The Grafina sat up straight, listening attentively; the sound of hoof-beats became audible. Li-Wang appeared, and said in a cold voice: “It’s Jufvrouw Ruyter.”

  Mademoiselle de Gavres seemed astonished, but she got to her feet and went to meet the nocturnal visitor. A few minutes went by before they saw a young woman appear, followed by their hostess. Tall and athletic, with hair as blonde as maize-straw, a bold mouth and fresh cheeks, she turned her wildly gleaming eyes to the guests. Their color changed like the shades of the ocean. Frédéric looked at her in amazement.

  “Mademoiselle Suzanna Ruyter,” said the Grafina, introducing her to the French couple.

  She bowed and held out her hand to Hendrik, while the servants set an extra place at the table.

  The tall woman lit up. “It’s chaos!” she said. “The rivers overflowing, the ground opening up, lakes spreading in the valleys, the forests expelling their beasts and their humans…” She spoke in French because of the guests, in a soft voice with a harsh accent.

  “Mademoiselle Ruyter has encountered the Carabao-Men!” said the Grafina.

  “I’m not sure about that!” said Suzanna, serving herself a slice of pork. “A mass of hairy individuals attacked us furiously. My men fired into the pack, but had to retreat before the weight of numbers. Two horses were wounded.”

  “When did they strike?”

  “Half an hour ago.”

  “They shall die!” said the Grafina. “Were any men hurt?”

  “No—we were able to flee in time.” She was eating with heroic insouciance.

  “Their weapons are poisoned!” Mademoiselle de Gavres continued.

  Frédéric looked at each of the striking young women in turn. A dazzling sadness overwhelmed him. The dreams of ephemeral humankind passed through his inner being like migratory birds—those tyrannical dreams that are born and die within us, but are sufficient to create hope or melancholy. Even a young man bears a thousand aborted destinies. />
  “Is there no remedy for their poison?” Suzanna asked.

  “Yes—a red hot iron, applied within ten minutes, or Kannour liquor.”25

  “No one knows that!” Hendrik remarked.

  “Except me. I have the recipe, and even a supply, enough for 200 men. It doesn’t spoil.”

  A silence. In the distance, a plaint, then a hoarse cry; primitive life was prowling around, ready to submerge the work of humans come from arctic lands.

  “Do you think they’d dare to attack the house?” asked Hendrik.

  “I think they’d dare,” the Grafina replied, “but I’ve heard my grandfather say that, although they’re always ready to die, they know the value of prudence…”

  Barking sounds came closer, and they saw Jan Cats appear.

  “Well?” asked the Grafina.

  “Men from the Blue Valley, Mistress.”

  “How many?”

  “At least 50, according to Vandalen and Devos.”

  “What sort of men?”

  “Carabao-Men.”

  “We’ll see!”

  Jan withdrew, and Louise did not think it necessary to translate what the servant had reported for the benefit of her French guests. When the coffee had been served, however, she left to give her orders.

  When she came back, her face was impassive, but Corisande, who could see through the expression, divined the presence of obscure forces.

  Young Suzanna finished the meal placidly. She was related to Louise’s family via a great-grandparent; her Dutch heritage had brought her a great deal—the heroic and temeritous heritage symbolized by the great name of the Ruyter who had led his fleet up the Thames into the formidable port of London.26

  “The red Moon will rise soon,” said the Grafina. “Would you like to see the night?” She was talking to Frédéric.

  “The nights are as beautiful here as in the high mountains!” said Suzanna.

  In spite of the rising Moon, the stars stood out clearly. An exceedingly soft breeze, charged with the scent of flowers, brought a blue gleam, and Corisande alternated her gaze between the Southern Cross and the black holes of the Coal Sack, immeasurable etheric solitudes. In the ever-more-vivid light of the rising Moon, Frédéric continued to be subject to Louise’s hostile spell and the evident grace of Suzanna. Because he was adrift in a strange world, without any thought of the days to come, the young man tasted the double charm without anxiety or hope.