The Supreme Progress

by Brian Stableford

  “Naturally,” Balthazar replied, bursting into laughter and taking Cornelius’ hands amicably. With a broad smile, which came from the heart—the kind that ensured that one could not help liking the fellow—he said: “Come on, do you think I can’t see what’s going on? You don’t just play the kite-flyer on the Anstel, overgrown child that you are. You also play tennis with Christiane…and it’s your two little hearts that serve as rackets…”

  “What, do you think so?” stammered the disconcerted scientist.

  “But it’s been going on for three months, friend Cornelius, and I don’t think I’m the only one who’s noticed—three months that you’ve been coming here twice a day: at noon, on your way to the zoological gardens, and at 4 p.m., on your way back.”

  “It’s the shortest route,” Cornelius hazarded, timidly.

  “Yes, to make yourself loved…”

  “But…”

  “Come on,” said Balthazar, paying no heed, “let’s reason it out: Christiane isn’t a young woman like any other; she has a young heart and a very intelligent young head—I can answer for that: intelligent enough to admire a scientist like you. You squeeze her hands, you worry about her health; you lend her books, which she devours. You give her a lecture on chemistry if she has a stain on her dress, or natural history on the subject of a flower-pot, or anatomy when the cat provides an opportunity! She listens with all ears, eyes wide open—and you don’t expect love to come into the picture, between a professor of 25 and a schoolgirl of 18?”

  “All right, I love her, damn it!” Cornelius replied, resolutely. “What are you going to do about it?”

  “What are you?”

  “Well, I want to marry her.”

  “Well then, tell her!”

  “Well, I will.”

  “Well then, shake my hand!” cried Balthazar. “And hurrah for joy—for I’m getting married too.”

  “Oh!” said Cornelius, startled.

  “And I’m marrying,” Balthazar continued, with the enthusiasm of a lover who can only see and hear himself, “Mademoiselle Suzanne Van Miellis, the banker’s daughter.”

  Cornelius made a gesture that might have been translated as “Damn!”—punctuated with admiration.

  “Take note, Cornelius,” Balthazar continued, “that I was passionately in love with her six years ago—but Mademoiselle Suzanne, who is today the acknowledged daughter of a rich banker, was then only his natural daughter. Her mother was so poor that they both came to do needlework for us. Do you remember? And if I had chanced, in those days, to say: ‘Here’s my wife!’ there would have been an outcry in the family. So I whispered to myself: ‘Later…later…!’ And later has come. One morning, Suzanne and her mother were put into a carriage, and the coachman plied his whip! That gross egoist Van Miellis, who had never seen his daughter, had met her by chance; he was moved…he was remorseful, so they say; personally, I think he quite simply had a whim to care for someone; but whatever it was, you know the rest as well as I do. He died last winter, leaving his daughter one of the largest fortunes in the city.”

  “The largest…”

  “Well, that’s what bothered me, Cornelius, and prevented me from seeing my Suzanne—she was too rich. I dared not go to call at her house; I would have seemed to be after her money. You have no idea how many men want to marry her now! The first time I met her, after her change of fortune, was in the zoological gardens. There were half a dozen gallant gentlemen, of all ages, around her, pressing upon her. I would never have had the audacity to approach her. To be exact, it was her who called to me: ‘Well, Monsieur Balthazar, you no longer greet your old friends?’ Me, I floundered in politeness: ‘Mademoiselle! Madame!’ They laughed quietly, the others—but when she’d taken my arm, and her mother had invited me to dinner, they weren’t laughing any longer, those who weren’t invited…. And I spent the evening there, that day…my God, what a fine evening!”

  “And then?” said Cornelius.

  “And in the end, I no longer left her house. I loved her like a lost soul, but I would never have said anything. It was her mother who pushed me to speak…a worthy woman, you know, who liked me a lot because I was polite to her when she was poor. She said to me one day, while showing me out: ‘Say something, then, Monsieur Balthazar, you’re worth more than all of that lot, and I’d be happy to call you my son…’

  “My word, that decided me; I took my courage in both hands, and that evening, when I found myself alone with Suzanne, I poured my heart out. She seemed to be half-expecting it, but that didn’t stop her being as emotional as me… She blushed, but nevertheless, she looked at me…oh, she looked into the depths of my soul, and made everything dance around me.

  “Eventually, she replied: ‘Monsieur Balthazar, you mustn’t take what I’m about to tell you the wrong way, but, since I’ve become rich, I can assure you that I’ve been very unhappy. I can no longer distinguish those who love me from those who don’t. I see so many people who adore me that I’m suspicious of everyone, and I’d rather throw my fortune into the Amstel than marry a man I thought to be a calculating villain!’

  “ ‘Oh, Mademoiselle,’ I protested, ‘is that what you think of me?’

  “ ‘Oh,’ she went on, ‘I know very well that you aren’t one of those, Monsieur Balthazar…that would be so sad! But it’s not enough. I’ll tell you my dream. I only want to choose as a husband someone who would have loved me when I was poor. Oh, I’d be very sure of the love of that man, and I would return it in full!’

  “ ‘But that man is me!’ I cried. ‘I’m the man who loved you six years ago, and although I never dared tell you so, you must have perceived it!’

  “Very softly, she replied: ‘Perhaps, yes…’ And she continued looking at me in a manner so strange…I could see that she wanted nothing more than to believe me, but that she didn’t dare…

  “ ‘Look,’ she said, ‘do you want to convince me of what you’re saying? Do you remember the summer when I was working in your house with my mother? New flowers were brought for the garden…’

  “ ‘Oh, I remember it well, Mademoiselle—they were orchids.’

  “ ‘Yes, and I was allowed to go see the flowers with you. There were all sorts of shapes, and so singular…one resembled a butterfly, another a wasp, another…one might have thought it was a little face—but there was one above all that outshone the rest, and of six flowers on one stem, not one that resembled another; there was one like a little heart, all pink, with two blue wings on either side! And one of such a pretty pink, and one of such a pretty blue! I’d never seen anything like it. And then…’

  “ ‘And then—let me tell what happened next—as we both leaned forward to look more closely at the flower, I don’t know how it came about that your hair brushed against mine, and in the abrupt movement that you made to draw back, your hand, which was holding the flower in order to see it more clearly, detached it from its stem. I can still hear your cry. I can still see you, ready to weep over the accident and beg my forgiveness…when your mother appeared at the window and called you, and I…’

  “ ‘And you?’

  “ ‘And I picked up the fallen flower.’

  “ ‘You picked it up?’

  “ ‘And I kept it as a memory of that little moment of joy, so short and so sweet.’

  “ ‘You’ve kept it?’

  “ ‘Preciously, Mademoiselle—and I’ll show it to you whenever you wish.’

  “If you had been able to see Suzanne at that moment, my friend…it was no longer her, Cornelius—no, it was a new creature, a hundred times as beautiful, if that’s possible. Her eyes were shining; her face was radiant. She held out her hands to me in a gesture so delightful that an angel could not have done better.

  “ ‘Ah,’ she said to me. ‘That’s all I wanted to know, my friend, and I’m very happy! If you picked up the flower in memory of me, it was because you loved me already; and if you’ve kept it until now, it’s because you love me still. Bring it tomorr
ow, our little flower with blue wings…it’s the nicest gift that you could put into our wedding-basket…’

  “Oh, my friend, when I heard those words: basket and wedding! I almost fainted on the spot. I got up, and I was certainly about to do something crazy when her mother came in. I threw my arms around the good lady’s neck, and I kissed her daughter a dozen times on the cheeks. That calmed me down.

  “I picked up my hat and escaped by running away, with the hope of bringing the little flower to Suzanne this very evening…but this monster of a storm has spoiled everything, and I’ve postponed my happiness until tomorrow…and that’s the whole story!”

  “Oh, saints in Heaven!” cried Cornelius, throwing himself into his arms. “Two marriages at once!” At this point, the worthy fellow, imitating the scamps at the church door, threw his cap into the air, shouting: “Hurrah for the wedding! Hurrah for the bride and groom! Long live Madame Balthazar! Long live Madame Cornelius! Long live the little Balthazars! Long live the little Corneliuses!”

  “Would you like to shut up,” said Balthazar, laughing and closing the other’s mouth for him. “You’ll wake Christiane.”

  “Oh,” said Cornelius, lowering his voice, “we mustn’t wake Christiane. Now show me your flower with blue wings, so that I can admire it…”

  “It’s in a little steel box at the back of my writing desk,” said Balthazar, “with all my poor mother’s jewels. I’ve encased it in a glass locket framed with gold and black pearls. I looked at it again this morning. It’s charming. You shall see!”

  So saying, he picked up the lamp, took a bunch of keys from his pocket and opened the door of his study.

  He had only just gone in when Cornelius heard him utter a cry, and rose to his feet. Balthazar reappeared, very pale, on the threshold of the room.

  “Cornelius…oh, my God!”

  “What is it?” exclaimed the scientist, in alarm. “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, my God! Come and see! Look!”

  III

  Balthazar, staggering as if struck by stupor, raised up the lamp to illuminate the interior of the office. What Cornelius saw fully justified Balthazar’s exclamation.

  The floor was completely strewn with papers of every sort, and that confusion of pieces of paper was explained by the sight of two green files extracted from their wooden cabinet and emptied out on to the carpet. Add to that a large morocco portfolio in which Balthazar kept his correspondence, gaping wide open despite its steel lock…and it was completely empty, several hundred letters having been scattered…

  But that was only the least part of the catastrophe, Confronted by that mess, of which he was no longer trying to take account, Balthazar’s first movement was to run to the writing-desk. It had been forced open!

  The steel lock had, however, put up more resistance than that of the portfolio, and the bolt had remained bravely in its socket; thus, giving the impossibility of getting it out, it had been necessary to break the lid of the desk. The entire section of wood adjacent to the lock had been literally cut away, broken up and reduced to shreds, and the lock itself, totally detached, was hanging down miserably with its nails twisted and broken.

  As for the rounded and movable cover, typical of Tronchin writing-desks,9 it had been three-quarters raised—enough to permit a hand to search all the drawers and cubby-holes of the item of furniture.

  Strangely enough, the majority of the drawers that were unprotected against violence, and contained stocks and shares, had been left alone by the thief; it seemed as if he had not even taken the trouble to open them. All his attention had been focused on the one that contained gold and silver coins—about 1500 ducats and 20 florins—and the little steel box that Balthazar had mentioned, filled with jewels. That drawer, torn from its socket, was absolutely empty, as if it had been turned upside-down. Everything had vanished without trace, gold, silver, and jewels alike—and what, for Balthazar, was the most cruel blow of all was that, when he picked up the steel box from the floor, he found that it was empty too, and that the locket had been stolen along with everything else!

  This cruel loss, which affected him more than that of all his money, caused his initial stupor to be succeeded by a veritable fit of madness. Abruptly, he opened the window that overlooked the street and started shouting at the top of his voice: “Stop, thief!”

  The entire town, following its custom, would have replied: “To the fire” if the first cry had not attracted a police patrol sent out to observe and repair damage caused by the storm. Then ran to the window, where Balthazar, shouting and gesticulating, was unable to get to the end of his explanation.

  Even so, Monsieur Tricamp, their leader, soon realized that it was a matter of stolen objects. After inviting Balthazar to make less noise, in the interests of his cause, he posted two policemen in the street to watch the coming and goings, and asked the gentlemen to let him into the house without waking anyone up—which Cornelius did forthwith.

  IV

  The door having been opened quietly, Monsieur Tricamp came in on tiptoe, followed by his third subordinate, whom he left in the hallway with orders not to let anyone in or out.

  It must have been nearly midnight; the whole city was asleep, and it seemed certain, given the tranquility that reigned within the house, the Gudule—who was a trifle deaf—and Christiane, worn out by the excitements of the storm, had not heard any of the racket, and were sleeping peacefully.

  “Now,” said Monsieur Tricamp, lowering his voice, “what’s the matter?”

  Balthazar drew him into the study and, without finding the strength to say a single word, showed him the scene.

  Monsieur Tricamp was a short man, slightly plump but nevertheless very brisk and lively. He also had a smiling face, an attitude of great self-satisfaction—justified by his much-renowned ability—and pretentions to elegance, eloquence and knowledge. He was, however, a clever and cunning man, who had no other defect, in professional terms, than an excessive myopia: a troublesome ailment, which obliged him to look at things at very close range—which is not always the best means of seeing them clearly.

  He was obviously surprised, but it is the rule, in every profession, not to appear astonished in front of clients. He contented himself with murmuring: “Very well! Very well!” while smiling and darting the expert glances of a master in all directions.

  “You see, Monsieur!” Balthazar said to him, in a strangled voice. “You see!”

  “Very well,” Monsieur Tricamp replied. “The portfolio forced, the writing-desk forced! Very well…perfect!”

  “Perfect how?” said Balthazar.

  “Money has been taken, hasn’t it?” Monsieur Tricamp continued.

  “All the money, Monsieur.”

  “Good.”

  “And the jewelry…and my locket!”

  “Bravo! Theft with breaking and entering, in an inhabited house! Excellent! And you don’t suspect anyone?”

  “No one, Monsieur.”

  “So much the better. We shall have the pleasure of the discovery.”

  Balthazar and Cornelius looked at one another in surprise.”

  Tranquilly, and without astonishment, Monsieur Tricamp continued: “Let’s take a look at the door!”

  Balthazar showed him the only door to the study, equipped with a fine old-fashioned lock, a masterpiece such as is no longer found in the Low Countries. Tricamp tested the lock—crick, crack! It was sharp, sonorous and easy. He took out the key and assured himself with a single glance of the impossibility of opening the lock by means of ordinary picking-devices. The key had the form of a double trefoil and was complicated by a secret that, exceptionally, was not generally known.

  “And the window?” said Monsieur Tricamp, handing the key back to Balthazar.

  “The window was closed,” said Cornelius, “until we opened it to call you. Besides, Monsieur, take note that it is equipped with a strong grille, whose bars are very close together.”

  Monsieur Tricamp assured himself that t
he bars could not, in fact, have given passage to a two-year-old child, and closed the window again himself—after which, he naturally turned his attention to the fireplace.

  Balthazar followed all his movements without saying a word, with the confidence of an invalid watching a doctor write his prescription.

  Monsieur Tricamp bent down and considered the interior of the fireplace attentively.—but there again he was bewildered. Recent masonry had blocked off three quarters of the chimney, only leaving the opening necessary for the passage of a stove-pipe. That stove, dismantled every year in spring in order to be cleaned, and only set up again when the weather turned cold, was presently in the loft, and the fireplace was quite empty.

  Monsieur Tricamp only wondered momentarily whether the stove-pipe conduit might give passage to anyone, and straightened up again, more embarrassed than he wanted to appear. “Very good!” he said. “Damn it!” And he looked at the ceiling, after having replaced his pince-nez with a pair of spectacles. “There again, nothing suspicious, or even dubious.”

  He took the lamp from Balthazar’s hands, set it down on the writing-desk, and took off the shade. Suddenly, that action revealed a detail that had escaped them thus far…

  V

  Three feet above the writing-desk, almost equidistant between the floor and the ceiling, some sort of knife was embedded in the partition wall. Verification was made that the knife belonged to Balthazar. It was a foreign weapon, a gift from a friend, which was usually kept in the writing-desk—but what was surprising was the strange use that had been made of it.

  “Why is that knife stuck into the wall?”

  At the same moment, Tricamp noticed that the iron wire of a bell, which ran along the cornice above the writing-desk, was broken and twisted, and that the two severed fragments were hanging down in the direction of the knife. He leapt nimbly on to a chair, then on to the top of the writing-desk, and started examining the object at closer range. He had scarcely stood on the improvised ladder, however, when he uttered a cry of triumph. He had, in fact, only to reach out his arm between the knife and the cornice of the ceiling to lift up a fragment of wallpaper, unstuck on three sides, to discover a large circular opening underneath, pierced in the partition wall, which the paper had closed off until then like the flap of a valve.