The Second Life of Doctor Albin

by Raoul Gineste

  All the projects that she had formed since Nini Nichon had told her the good news collapsed. All the hopes to which her naivety, mingled with perversity and tenderness, had given birth, fled. Why was he no longer the starveling, the old lost dog, the defrocked priest, the wretch, the thief, that his fall had brought down to her level and would have permitted her to associate her life with his?

  Such was the true significance of the confused reflections that were passing through her soul.

  Now, utterly resigned, having lost all illusion, she waited patiently for the spectacle to end. She did not have a sou. Nini Nichon, under some pretext, had not yet given her the twenty francs she had for her; she had scarcely been able to advance her twenty sous to get into the café concert. She too had not yet eaten that day.

  The concert was over, the pianist played the retreat, the audience flowed toward the exit door. She waited in her corner. Soon, the last habitués would have emptied the hall.

  The artistes, Annette, and two or three other women headed for the door in their turn.

  Monsieur Charles suddenly found himself face to face with Mariette. Before the poverty of her appearance he had a moment of irritation and repulsion that made him hesitate. Would he have the cowardice not to recognize her?

  A rapid vision of the past surged before his eyes, and he ran to her.

  “My dear Mariette!” he cried, affectionately. “Here you are at last!”

  He took her hands, drew her toward him and kissed her.

  Sniggers and jokes burst out behind him. He turned round menacingly.

  “This poor girl is worth more than all the women here,” he declared, in an irritated voice. “I won’t tolerate anyone mocking her.”

  The spell of sorts with which the great Annette had succeeded in enveloping him was broken; he was ready to scourge her mania.

  “What do this heap of cowards and whores have against me!” howled Mariette. “Come here, then, bitch, and say it to my face, if you dare!”

  She was about to hurl herself at her rival, but he grabbed her violently by the arm and drew her outside. He had suddenly calmed down; Mariette was still grumbling. She suddenly burst into sobs.

  “Sorry, sorry,” she stammered. “I heard someone call me a filthy whore and I couldn’t hold back. Perhaps I’ve done you harm.”

  He was quick to console her. “Let’s not talk about it anymore, my dear. When were you released?”

  “This morning.”

  “Have you seen Nini Nochon? Has she given you the money?”

  “Someone stole it all while she was asleep. She could only give me twenty sous to get into the concert.”

  “You haven’t eaten, then?”

  “Oh, I’m not very hungry yet.”

  “Poor Mariette! Come quickly, we’ll go to a brasserie; it’s not midnight yet, we still have time.”

  They sat down at table. Mariette continually interrupted her eating in order to talk.

  “Eat first,” he told her. “We’ll chat later.”

  He thought, while he watched her devour the food with such a good appetite, of that long day without bread, on which the charity of the prostitutes had rescued him. He was ashamed of the vile hesitation he had just experienced and cursed the stupid vanity that had caused it. She had not been concerned about whether he was a pianist before coming to his aid.

  He set about contemplating her. The four months of forced rest she had just taken had changed her visibly. Although her face had the characteristic pallor produced by the privation of air and light her cheeks were full, her wrinkles effaced, her complexion uniform, her large eyes less ringed, and her coiffure more modest. Her attire was almost sordid, it was true, but in her dirty black woolen dress she looked more like a poor seamstress just out of the hospital than a whore ready to resume her vile work. She resembled the pauperess he had seen kneel down before Dr. Albin’s tomb. He was astonished by a change so advantageous for her, and expressed his satisfaction with it.

  “Do you know that you’re pretty like this, and have a respectable air about you?”

  “Really?” she exclaimed, a gleam of joy in her eyes. “People won’t take me for what I am, then,” she added, quickly, and sadly.

  “Embarrassed, he did not know what to say.

  “Why don’t you try to work?” he ventured, finally.

  “Work?” she said, sardonically. “Go back to the sweatshop, wear myself out to die of hunger? Oh la la! If I weren’t a slut, perhaps I could try to try again to get out that way, but what’s the point now? I could never become an honest woman again, could I? So why put myself through the hard grind of honest women? What would give me the courage to do it? I’d need someone I loved to tell me that I had to do that and nothing else, or it’d be over.”

  He sank into dolorous reflections. The terrible logic of acquired vice, accepted corruption, caused him painful impressions. So, tomorrow, perhaps tonight, the unfortunate was about to descend into the gutter again. In a few days, that physiognomy, which had become almost chaste, would have resumed the bold allure, the brutal cynicism that would doubtless stigmatize it forever. Oh, if he could extend a hand efficaciously, take advantage of the calm that had broken her depraved habits, make her understand the debasement of her condition, give her the desire to get out of it…

  He opened his mouth...

  But what right had he to speak thus, to trouble her crapulous quietude, insert remorse and regret into her soul? Was she not unhappy enough already? It was actions, not words, that was required. Was he ready to become her lover? Did he even have the means to support her? He knew that he did not. Besides which, another task, much greater and more noble, solicited him. Charles Balin kept silent.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked, seemingly having divined his disquiet.

  “About you,” he admitted. “But why are you no longer addressing me as tu?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t dare.”

  “Have you forgotten, then, that we are and always will be old friends?” He added: “Nothing else alas, since destiny obliges us each to live in our own way.”

  “Ah,” said the prostitute, with a gaze imprinted with resignation and reproach.

  “Well, you see, Mariette, one day, perhaps soon, I shall be rich. Then, no matter where you are, I’ll come to find you and I’ll say: here’s money, become free again, act as you wish; have a lover if you want, but no longer be at the mercy of passers-by.”

  “May the good God hear you,” she replied, simply. Then the enigmatic young woman had an instant of ironic and bitter revolt. “And in the meantime,” she observed, “it’ll be necessary to go back to the game.”

  There was a long moment of silence. What could he say?

  “So, my poor Mariette,” he resumed. “You hadn’t eaten yet today?”

  “Bah! It’s not the first time that’s happened to me, and it surely won’t be the last.”

  “It’s always in moments of distress,” he remarked, with thoughtless indelicacy, “that luck abandons you, for you might have been able to encounter a friend to come to your aid.”

  Mariette blushed to her ear-lobes. “I met a fellow coming to the concert,” she murmured, “but I didn’t want to. I wasn’t thinking about that.”

  He gazed at her, astonished by her sudden blush and her sadness.

  Had she by chance, been thinking about seeing him again as soon as she emerged from prison, of renewing the relationship that ought to have been irrevocably broken, of keeping the first fruits for him? He resolved to take away all hope.

  “Where will you go now?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ll walk straight ahead, and arrive somewhere eventually,” she replied, with a forced smile.

  “Do you think I’d let you leave without money?” he hastened to add. “Why would I have asked you to come, then?”

  “How do I know?”

  “Certainly not, my dear. We’re going to go to the Rue Vavin. I no longer dare carry money on me; I
was robbed the other day going home. I’ll go up and look for what I’ve put in reserve, and give it to you.”

  He paid the bill and left.

  Mariette had taken the arm that he had offered and wanted to tell him about her quarrel with the waiter. He begged her not to rake up bad memories. Then she told him about her sojourn in prison, the books she had been lent to read. She had earned a few sous working, but she had been indebted when she was put away and had had to give them to her mates.

  They had arrived at the door.

  “Is this where you live?” she asked. “In a furnished room? You’re all alone?”

  “Yes. Why ask that?”

  “Well, what would be extraordinary about you having a mistress?”

  “Nothing, but I assure you that I’m alone. To have a mistress, it’s necessary to be able to maintain her.”

  “Is that true, what you’re saying?”

  “I swear to you, Mariette.”

  She looked at him with a suppliant expression. “Well, since I’m alone,” she implored, slowly, “take me. I won’t be inconvenient.”

  He made a moment of irritation, which the prostitute saw.

  “You must have a sofa, a chair,” she said, in a low voice. “I’m not difficult, I’ll sleep on that.”

  He remembered the night when Mariette had taken him in. A violent combat began in his heart. But the situation was not the same. Wasn’t he going to give her money, permit her to sleep in a good bed?

  “No, my dear Mariette, I’m sorry. I can’t explain why, but it’s necessary that we don’t see one another in that fashion again.”

  “Tomorrow,” she replied, dully, “It’ll be finished. I’ll go away, we won’t see one anther again. I have no pretention to be your wife. You’ll always hold it against me what I did to you in the Avenir, but you can see that I regretted it, because I fought for you.”

  “Mariette, I swear to you again that all these reasons you’re imagining don’t exist, but I can’t, I mustn’t have any other liaison.”

  “Since I’ll go away tomorrow, as I told you, why are you afraid of my staying?”

  His impatience increased. “Wait here; I’ll come back,” he replied, in a tone that was almost curt and harsh.

  She straightened up, bold once again. “Well, go—but now I know what I was told at the café concert is true.”

  “And what were you told?”

  “That you have a mistress. She’s waiting for you up there, for sure.”

  “For the third time I swear to you that I haven’t.”

  “Why won’t you take me with you, then? I didn’t disgust you the night I took you to my room!”

  Visibly disconcerted, he maintained an awkward silence.

  The strange young woman’s expression suddenly softened. “I’m wrong to reproach you,” she added, discouraged. “You’re right not to want me anymore, I’m nothing much. Go get me the money and I’ll go.”

  He ran up the stairs, took the sum he had put aside and came down again in haste.

  Mariette was no longer there. He saw a shadow fleeing in the distance.

  “Oh my God!” he murmured. “Where is she going?”

  He ran as fast as he could and caught up with her along the railings of the Luxembourg.

  “Mariette! You’re crazy! You know full well that I have to give you, pay you back, the money!”

  The young woman turned on him like a wild beast. “Money! That’s not what I came for!” she howled. “Keep your money, or I’ll throw it in your face! Money! I have what I need to make it too!” She accompanied those words with a lewd gesture. “Go back to your jewel-box, your great blowsy blonde. Get away!”

  Was he weak, perverse, afraid of letting her believe that another woman was keeping him, or was he vanquished by the young woman’s disinterest? What the suppliant and meek Mariette had not been able to obtain, the unleashed whore, beautiful in anger and transfigured by that inconceivable amour, had no difficulty in getting. Was it not just that he should also render her the alms of pleasure that she had given him, since she put more value on that than all the rest?

  “Come on, then,” he murmured.

  It was his turn to beg. One might have thought that she was trying to read the reason for his change of mind in his gaze.

  “Swear to me that you’re speaking with an honest heart?” she ended up by demanding.

  He held out his arms; she threw herself into them recklessly, sobbing, avid for tenderness, famished for a little veritable love.

  They went back to the mansard without saying a word, almost running, gripped by a previously-unknown intoxication.

  The next day, Charles Balin went back to his office, emerging as if dazzled by a dream, wondering in what fashion he was about to pay the legitimate reparation that he owed Mariette. He was very late, the administration of the newspaper was capable of sacking him—but nothing came of it.

  That evening, however, the concierge handed him a note.

  Monsieur Charles, wrote the amiable person who was serving Père Antoine as a scribe for the circumstance, after last night’s scandal, and informed of the bad company that you keep, I am obliged to dismiss you.

  My action must be partly just and honest, he thought, since destiny is inflicting such a light punishment on me.

  Chapter XVIII

  Now, without veritably loving Mariette, he sensed that the bond that had been formed would be difficult to undo, entangling him with her.

  The indefinable something that attracted him to her, the mixture of naïve perversity and delicate sentiments that caused him new surprises every day, had ignited his covetousness, and unchained his lustful instincts. The carnal sensuality that he had scorned for so long, belated by imperious, claimed its due, and the person who poured out the troubling liqueur, expert in enchantments, made him drink it to the dregs. He had found Calypso’s island.

  Already, many a time, he had tried to take back his liberty, but the revolt, soon repressed, had only served to make him aware of his weakness, to tighten the chain, to convince him of his cowardice. Mariette had only to look at him, and he fell submissively into her arms. The young woman who had wanted to leave the mansard the day after that night of amour no longer left it, and he was the one who had retained her.

  Thus is was that his noble project, for the accomplishment of which he had given up everything, was relegated to the background, just at the moment when he had decided to set to work, and he was no longer thinking about anything but redeeming Mariette from her ignoble slavery.

  To lift her out of it completely? It was necessary not to think of that; he did not have the resources and could not consecrate his entire life to her. But there are degrees of vice, castes in prostitution, a kind of hierarchy in corruption. It was that ladder that it was first necessary for his friend to climb. The further away she was from poverty, the better able she would be to follow the good instincts dormant in the depths of her heart.

  It was necessary, before anything else, to find a little money. Since he had to live with Mariette for some time, he did not want her, at all costs, to have the slightest acquaintance with the degrading milieu from which he hoped to remove her. Once she was launched into another mode of existence, they would be able to part as good friends, he to resume his task, she and she to live more happily and even to raise herself up if she was truly worthy of it. But until they were able to recover their respective liberty, he demanded a common life exempt from any compromise; it was therefore necessary for him to provide for all her needs.

  He racked his brains for a long time; a project of indisputable rectitude came to mind.

  Dr. Albin, he thought, has left his widow nearly a million, which he acquired legitimately by his knowledge. Could I not recover a tiny part of that sum? It no longer belongs to me, it’s true, since Dr. Albin is dead, of my own will, and has given her all his wealth, but have I not some right to it all the same? Oh, I don’t want to be demanding, all the more so as there would sure
ly be danger in that. Two thousand francs ought to suffice.

  He took an ordinary piece of paper and drafted the following note:

  I, the undersigned, recognize that I owe Monsieur Charles Balin, for a painting by Van Ostade, L’Opérateur de village, which he has sold me, the sum of two thousand francs.

  Paris, 16 June 18**

  Dr. L. Albin.

  He had, in fact, bought the said painting at the time indicated and had placed it in his consulting room.

  He put the note in an envelope and, modifying his handwriting, he added to it the following letter:

  Madame,

  The late Professor Albin, your husband, gave me more than a year and a half ago this recognition of a debt of two thousand francs, a sum of which I now have the most urgent need.

  I was far away from France at the time of his death and unable to bring my entitlement to your attention earlier. I know, Madame, that you are one of those elite individuals for whom moral obligations have as much value as written proofs, so I have not hesitated for a moment in sending you the justification of the debt. Dr. Albin, having no money on him at the time he bought the painting from me, gave me the acknowledgement you will find enclosed.

  I have the honor, Madame, of being your humble and very respectful servant.

  Charles Balin,

  42 Rue Vavin.

  Certainly, he was playing a dangerous game. Madame Albin, left to herself, he was sure, would pay immediately, but she had advisors. Dr. Larmezan must have taken charge of her affairs; there might be an investigation; he might be accused of having imitated the illustrious scientist’s handwriting; his former employment as a copyist even rendered him susceptible of that suspicion. Fortunately, his concierge only knew him in his capacity as a pianist, obliged as he was to draw the bolt for him at late hours.

  He awaited the result of his attempt impatiently. After ten days, a letter from Maître ***, a notary, invited him to call at his study. The cashier apologized for the delay; he had been obliged to have the note verified by experts and to seek information. That quest had not been absolutely satisfactory, but Dr. Albin’s handwriting had been recognized indisputably, the sum he had demanded was therefore paid.