Ordinarily, at his hour – eight in the morning, to be precise – the old man is already behind his curtains, bent over his square wheels, and Madame Langlois only has to push open the door. But, this morning, the shutters are still closed. Old Mother Langlois – who I know well, for she also serves me as a housekeeper – is slightly disconcerted. She knocks. She knocks again with her dried, wrinkly fists. At last, the door is opened. It’s the old man who comes. She goes in and Monsieur Prosector comes out at once, almost on the run! He must be late for his lectures. I watch him as he passes. Apart from his frowning eyebrows – he seems to me to be as insignificant as on any other day.
The door of the shop is left ajar; I no longer see the old man! Ah, if only I could get in through there: I, the one who knows! What might I see in there..? They will already have arranged things so that old Mother Langlois will see nothing… she will see nothing… but I? And suddenly, without further reflection, I pick up my stock of leathers, lurch across the street, and steal into that house of crime… I pass through the shop, through the small dining room located at the rear, and in which old Mother Langlois is already going through the motions of her function. With broom in hand, she calls to me as I pass through, but I have already reached the garden.
There I go, and collide with a stupefied old Norbert, who is overwhelmed by this extraordinary event: by the sheer audacity of a man who dares to cross the five square metres of his shop floor and go for a walk in his garden as if it were his own home!
“Wh… what are you doing here, monsieur?” he finally mumbled while fixing me with grey eyes, full of intense hostility.
“Monsieur, I am the bookbinder.”
“But I thought my daughter had come to an understanding with you!”
And then he whispered another few words through his teeth, after which I understood that Christine had made her visit to me the excuse for not accompanying the watchmaker and his nephew on their Sunday stroll.
At that moment, a voice could be heard from above us:
“Let the gentleman come upstairs, papa!”
I didn’t need to be asked twice, and without waiting for the old man’s permission (indeed, I left him in a state of complete agitation), I bounded up the staircase leading to the atelier where Christine waited, leaning over the balcony.
She was still as calm as when I had seen her the evening before, in my place, and there was nothing in her demeanour, or in her physiognomy, that in any way reflected the slightest trace of the terrible drama of the night before.
Who can imagine what my thoughts were at this moment? Could I even express them? I was about to find myself in a room, which I knew no-one entered, apart from Christine, her father, her fiancé – and their victim – and only a few hours after the murder, I was about to be let in by Christine herself who, with the most natural gesture imaginable, pushed the door open for me.
Immediately, my eyes turned around the joists of the balcony, to the atelier floor, to the table, to the immense cabinet, as if I were destined to discover the bloody traces of the crime. It was an infantile idea! From the moment she received me in that room it was obvious that everything necessary would have already been done! Necessary? But the floor did not even seem to have been swept... Nothing, nothing, nothing in this long room, which was flooded with daylight, nothing remained here that could hold the gaze of the one who had seen the most – my gaze – which had seen Gabriel murdered!
There was more: I knew, from the insinuated confidences of Old Mother Langlois, that the old man, his daughter and the fiancé were locked in that atelier for hours and hours at a time, with all the curtains drawn over the windowpanes, engaged in some mysterious labour which – I had already heard – had begun to trouble a few of the simpler minds of the neigbourhood; but, after a brief glance around this rather banal atelier, I began to wonder if Mother Langlois had, in fact, been dreaming!
A vast divan stood in one of the corners, a few canvasses, studies, and modellings based on antique designs hung on the wall, two stools supported a rough model in clay covered in damp cloths, a glass bookcase stood to one side, which contained several polychrome stautettes (but no books), all of which reminded me that, two years ago, Christine Norbert had exhibited a bust of Antinous, of singular beauty, an event that had seen her frequently talked about owing to speculations about the substance from which it had been sculpted – but while this effort was being made to discover the substance and give it a name, one morning, the artist, without explanation, withdrew her exhibit.
At the far end of the atelier, a partly-drawn portière hung over the door to a little room that had to be Christine’s bed chamber. My eye, which I was unable to fix on anything, returned to the cabinet.
Then Christine gently reminded me of the purpose of my visit, and asked me to take a seat on the very chair on which, the night before, I had seen Gabriel sitting.
If she was feeling in complete control of herself, I certainly was not! My brain was on fire, my hands were trembling. She sat down in front of me; I dared not look at her. Here was the place where, last night, they had murdered her lover, and there she was studying the grain and colours of my leathers.
She offered to give me some drawings from which I could make a mosaic.
“So, you want a deluxe binding?” I asked.
“Yes,” she answered, “but I have to admit that these books are not mine and neither are they intended for me. This is a secret that I have not told you, but I am sure that you will keep it! They belong to the Marquis de Coulteray, our landlord, who I have seen recently, and who is looking for a bookbinder, of great skill, who would be willing to dedicate himself to keeping his library in exceptional condition. Perhaps this would not be disagreeable to you, since you are a neighbour! I spoke with him about your work and he asked me to acquire him some samples. Forgive me the intrusion!”
I repaid her with a stammer like that of a timid and confused child. I was not particularly interested in the little story about the books, but in the idea that she had thought of me! That I actually existed for her! That she had even tried to do me a favour. The thought made me feel intoxicated. A moment before, I had approached this beautiful girl with horror, wondering to myself what kind of impassive metronome pulsed under her dress, now I would have kissed its hem as if she were the goddess of pity.
Yes, yes, it was adorable of her to lower herself to my level of abomination! To smile at my hideous face! O, my angel!
All the same, last night, in this very place, they had murdered her lover!
This idea, resurgent all of a sudden, made me feel giddy. My stupid gaze strayed once more around the circumference of that accursed room, which revealed none of its secrets, but it returned, as always, to the cabinet! The cabinet from which he stepped and into which they had probably thrown his body while digging a grave for him. I wonder if he’s still in there, the beautiful dead man..!
I’m sure he is..!
A force over which I was not master impelled my steps towards that fatal piece of furniture. “Where are you going, monsieur!”… This time it seemed to me that the voice was less assured and that the gesture with which she stopped me a little too hasty.
Now it was my turn to show pity. I pulled myself together… I said, without knowing why:
“Why, that’s an antique Norman bahut, isn’t it?...”
“It’s not a bahut, monsieur, it’s an old armoire from Renaissance Provençale, everything about it is quite authentic… this is the only piece of furniture I have left that belonged to my mother, monsieur, it was left to her by her grandmother… in its day, it contained some very fine and strong linen of a variety that is not made these days.”
I felt the urge to leave. She held out her hand. I sensed that if I touched her hand to my lips, I’d do something stupid and so I hurried away..! After all, he’s dead! He’s dead! That’s the most important thing..! Old Norbert was within his rights! The old Roman rights, the only true ones! The right to administer life
and death under your own roof..! It is true that he killed the man in the cape, but he would never touch a hair on his daughter’s head…he’s done the right thing! A creature like her is sacred, no matter what she does! Brave pater familias! I shake his hand in the shop before locking myself up in my own. All of this is horrible!...
IV
A Red Drop Of Blood Is Heavier Than An Enraged Sea
“Y’see, M’sieur Ben’dict, it’s as I says, things happen there that ain’t natural; when I saw you this morning walking through their dining room, I wanted to throw myself on top of you so you couldn’t get through, I was so worried about something bad happening to you! One day, I thought they were going to eat me ‘cause I went into the garden without their permission! Worse than savages, that lot! Worse than savages!
“They want nobody around them! I’m fairly flabbergasted that they even have a cleaning lady coming here, but there are things that the young lady couldn’t bring herself to do; she couldn’t lower herself to wash the dishes, for instance! She hates doing that, being a doll, with the manicure of a grand lady, who ain’t got a penny to her name! ‘Cause none of them have got a penny! They’re so proud; it’s as if they hadn’t sold everything off, piece by piece! I saw her make off with the silverware, I did! I tell you, they were pieces that weren’t made yesterday, and that’s no lie! Family mementoes, and paintings, and pieces of furniture! For three years they’ve been draining the place and getting rid of things, but why, and for what? That’s what I want to know…
“People say that the old man is searching for perpetual motion! What’s that, when it’s at home: ‘perpetual motion?’ I’ve found it, I have, perpetual motion, that is! Isn’t that what happens when I find myself moving all the time? Never a minute’s rest for us poor folk.
“But if you think he’s mad, old Norbert that is, d’you think the other two have got any common sense to lend him? My word! That doctor acts just like a nutcase down there in his little laboratory at the bottom of the garden, as mad as the old man and the young lady up in that workshop of theirs! I said this not an hour ago to that nice Mam’selle Barescat; when he comes out of there same time of the morning as I arrive and runs off towards his lecture hall, he looks like a walking corpse that’s been doing the danse macabre! And how d’you s’pose he’s spent the night?
“As regards the young lady, and that’s another thing, she always has this expression like she’s walking in paradise! She passes by you as if you were no more than a flea! All the same, for two days I’ve seen her with red eyes.
“Y’see, M’sieur Ben’dict, that house makes me afeared! Whenever I come out of there I always feel like I don’t ever want to go back… If it wasn’t for Mam’selle Barescat, who’s just as curious about the lot of ‘em as I am, I’d have bowed out of there long ago..!”
It was in the back of the shop owned by Mademoiselle Barescat, the haberdashery, and the centre of all the gossip in the quarter, that this conversation took place. I went there, under the pretext of seeing Mother Langlois. The chattering of these two women seemed to me to be dangerous for the watchmaker and his family! …
Mademoiselle Barescat listened to Mother Langlois, while nodding her head and stroking her cat… Nothing in the world could separate Mademoiselle Barescat from that cat: only death could tear them apart, one was never absent from the other. Together, they were taken into the confidences of all who visited there, together they ushered them to the door and it is very likely that, when they were alone, they hatched little intrigues and plots together that might well drive even the most phlegmatic mind to the point of derangement or suicide.
In the meantime, I tried to reassure myself; the words of the haberdasher did not overstep the limits of ordinary, hackneyed gossip. After a while, I made a declaration meant to appease the anxieties of Madame Langlois.
“Imagination is a wonderful thing, Madame Langlois, it wards off dull thoughts and lends to your conversation a certain colour that I appreciate, because I have always liked tales that frighten me a little and, in that respect, I have always remained very much like a small boy. That’s why I never tire of hearing you speak of old Norbert, his nephew and his daughter and those strange lives that you think they lead. I don’t want to keep anything from you, so I’ll admit that it had a lot to do with the stories you’ve been telling that I made up my mind, all of a sudden, to sneak into the forbidden garden and make a break for the staircase that leads up to that mysterious atelier. The truth compels me to tell you, Madame Langlois, that I have found nothing in the Norberts’ place that would justify the suspicion with which you treat these worthy people. The atelier contains nothing but everyday, commonplace things; I’ve seen twenty others just like it in my lifetime.”
“All right then!” she interrupted, while Mademoiselle Barescat threw me a sideways glance, “in that case, why do they make it into such a mystery? – if they just want everything to be left alone, and no dusting neither, I’ll be losin’ my job at this rate!”
“Artists have these kinds of whims…” I offered.
“All I’ve seen is that artists like dust!… It’s even stranger to me that the beautiful Christine is always as clean as a new penny… Ah, but then, she don’t do any of the sweeping! Keep this to yourself, but there’s only one man that’s ever gone into that atelier, that’s besides Norbert and the nephew, of course. It was, two months ago... I told Mam’selle Barescat… oh! he was one of them funny types… he was dressed in a cloak that wrapped him up from head to toe, and he had these boots on…”
“Well, there you can see that they have foreigners coming to see them,” I said, in the attempt to preserve a natural tone in my voice, although I was singularly stirred by that last declaration of the cleaning woman.
“A foreigner, you say? He could have been a foreigner…he had that look about him… he didn’t dress like we do these days… he had a black hat with a buckle, like the ones you see in the cinema in them pictures about the Revolution. By my faith, you could have thought he was an actor… a beautiful boy, moreover, not that I’ve ever had the time to look at many of them! It happened one afternoon, when I had come on the off chance and they wasn’t expecting me… they didn’t half make him move! He was sitting there in the garden… Miss Christine marched him into the workshop at the double… the nephew followed them up there. By then, the old man had already grabbed me by the wrist and dragged me back into the shop, and I will always remember his tone of voice when he says to me: ‘Well now, what are you doing in here, what do you want, Mother Langlois?’ And after that, you should’ve seen the look in his eyes! I said to him: ‘Begging your pardon for disturbing you, M’sieur Norbert!... I didn’t know that you had a visitor!’ He whispered something, I dunno what, between his teeth, I told him what I had come to tell him, then cleared off..! You remember, don’t you, Mam’selle Barescat?”
“Oh, yes,” Mademoiselle Barescat remembered. The cat also had a knowing look, as if it was ‘remembering something.’
They both purred in smug agreement, the one stroking the other.
“We even waited to see if he would come out again; but he never did!”... Mother Langlois added… “And I’ve not seen him since!”
“No, and I never saw him go in there,” exclaimed the haberdasher, pushing her glasses onto her forehead and fixing me with eyes the colour of dust.
Then I said:
“Oh, now I know who you’re talking about!...he’s some kind of friend of the family. I’ve seen him go in there a few times, and I remember seeing him leave there, about two months ago, at around ten in the evening..!”
A lie! A lie...all of a sudden, I’ve become their accomplice..!
I want to save her…no matter what she has done! No matter what they have done!
I pass the remainder of the day in an anxious frame of mind… I try to bring my thoughts back around to the tragedy I had witnessed… to attempt throw some light on it with some of the chatter I had listened to in the haberdasher’
s house…
So… Gabriel has been in the watchmaker’s house for two months, and I knew next to nothing about it..! The family had also known he was there! Does that mean that Christine did not receive him in secret..? No..! She kept him secret, hidden in the cabinet..! Evidently, milady..!
The other two must have thought he had left..! But he was in there all the time!
All of this is most extraordinary… because, in the end, he can’t have been in there for more than two months before they murdered him..!
But how had he avoided the continual prying, the incessant espionage of the haberdasher and the housekeeper (not to mention my own as I watched, hidden behind my curtains)..? When I return to that scene of atrocity, in truth, I am obliged to consider that those two men were not absolutely taken by surprise when they found him there…
As for the words of the father, which ever since have made my ears ring with a singular music, I struggle in vain to find any sense in them. They clearly attested to this much, at least: that he was not completely surprised to discover his daughter in the company of the mysterious visitor: “he doesn’t obey me any more! And it’s your fault!” What a bizarre choice of words at such a moment! And then there was Christine, beside herself, begging the old man: “Don’t kill him! Don’t kill him!”
The Bloody Doll Page 3