The car moved off into the new day.
The mist was fading away, as if the sun, having bleached the darkness, had still to dissolve it, and as if that condensation, now almost gone, were its lingering foggy shadow: a vaporous residue of night in day, the fading specter of a vanished phantom.
II. Among Sphinxes
The automobile slowly wound its way through the labyrinth. Sometimes, confronted by a crossroads, the postman hesitated momentarily.
“How long is it since these zigzags replaced the straight road?” I asked.
“Four years, Monsieur—about a year after Monsieur Lerne took up permanent residence at the château.”
“Do you know their purpose? You can tell me—I’m the professor’s nephew.”
“Bah! He’s…well, he’s an eccentric.”
“What does he do that’s so extraordinary?”
“Oh, my God, nothing…we hardly ever see him. That’s what’s so strange. Before he took it into his head to build this maze, we often ran into him—he took walks in the countryside—but since then…all he does is go to catch the train in Grey once a month.”
In sum, all my uncle’s eccentricities had started at the same time: the maze and the different style of his letters dated from the same era. Something had profoundly affected his mind at that time.
“What about his companions, the Germans?” I went on.
“Oh, them! Invisible men, Monsieur. What’s more, although I go to Fonval six times a week, I can’t recall when I last cast a glance over the grounds. Monsieur Lerne comes to the gate in person to pick up the mail. Oh, what changes there’ve been! Did you know old Jean? Well, he’s gone, and his wife too. It’s just as I tell you, Monsieur: no more coachman, no more housekeeper…no more horse!”
“Four years ago, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Tel me, postman, there’s a lot of game hereabouts, isn’t there?”
“My word, no. A few rabbits, two or three hares…but there are too many foxes.”
“What, no roe deer or red deer?”
“Never.”
A strange joy made me quiver.
“We’re here, Monsieur.”
Indeed, after one hast hairpin bend, the road opened out on to the former avenue, of which Lerne had kept the stump. Two rows of linden trees marked out its borders and at the very end of their line, Fonval’s gate seemed to be coming toward us. In front of it, a semicircular esplanade broadened out the avenue, and behind it, the blue roof of the château stood out against the green of the trees, while the trees stood out themselves against the dark flank of the gulf.
In the middle of a wall connected to the cliffs, still coiffed by its tiled roof, the gateway had aged; the stone of its frame was eroded and the worm-eaten wood of its panels was crumbling to dust in places—but the bell had not changed. It rang from the depths of my childhood, so cheerful, so clear, and so distant that I could have wept on hearing it.
We waited for a few moments. Eventually, clogs clattered.
“Is that you, Guilloteaux?” said a voice with an accent from beyond the Rhine.
“Yes, Monsieur Lerne.”
Monsieur Lerne? I looked at my guide, my eyes wide. What? It was my uncle who was speaking in that fashion?
“You’re early,” said the voice.
Iron bolts were withdrawn, then a hand was extended through a narrow gap.
“Give…”
“There you are, Monsieur Lerne…but there’s someone with me,” insinuated the postman, suddenly timid.
“Who is it?” exclaimed the other—and he appeared in the crack left by the partly-opened door.
It really was my uncle Lerne—but life had affected him strangely, afflicting him with premature old age and turning him into a wild and unkempt individual whose overly long grey hair made his collar greasy. He stared at me as if I were an enemy, his eyebrows furrowed above his hostile eyes. “What do you want?” he demanded, rudely. He pronounced his ws as if they were vs.
I hesitated momentarily. That Siouxesque mask, hairless and cruel, no longer bore any similarity to the face of an old woman; as I looked at it, I experienced the contradictory sensation of recognizing it even though it was not recognizable.
“But it’s me, Uncle,” I finally stammered. “I’ve come to see you…with your permission. I wrote to you—except that my letter…there it is…we’ve arrived together. Excuse my stupidity…”
“Ah! Well…you should have told me. It’s me that asks forgiveness of you, my dear nephew.” The change was sudden. Lerne blushed in confusion, becoming eager, almost servile. This embarrassment, unnecessary so far as I was concerned, surprised me. “Ha ha!” he added. “You’ve come in a mechanical carriage. Hmmm…there’s enough room to get it in, isn’t there?”
He opened both panels of the gate. “Here, one often has to be one’s own servant,” he said, while the ancient hinges creaked—and my uncle laughed dully. I would have wagered, given his perplexed expression, that he had no desire to do so, and that his thoughts were far from frivolity.
The postman had gone on his way.
“Is that still the coach-house?” I said, pointing at a brick shed to the right.
“Yes, yes…I didn’t recognize you because of your moustache. Hmm…yes…your moustache. You didn’t have one before…ha ha? How old are you now?”
“31, uncle.”
At the sight of the coach-house, my heart slipped a beat. The carriage was moldering, half-buried under bundles of firewood, and the stable next door, which was full of bric-à-brac, was covered in cobwebs, old and new.
“31 already!” Lerne went on, without conviction, his mind obviously distracted.
“Address me as tu, as you used to, uncle.”
“Eh? That’s right, my dear…er...Nicolas, isn’t it?”
I was very embarrassed, but he seemed no more at ease than I was. My presence was clearly unwelcome. It’s always intriguing for an intruder to discover why he’s intruding; I grabbed my suitcase. Lerne noticed the gesture and seemed to come to a sudden decision.
“Leave that!” he instructed, rather imperiously. “Leave it, Nicolas! I’ll have your luggage sent up shortly. Before then, we must have a chat. Let’s go for a walk.” He took me by the arm and drew me toward the grounds. He was still reflective, however.
We went toward the château. Nearly all of the shutters were closed. In many places the roof was depressed, sometimes even cracked, and the leprous walls, whose plaster was coming away in large flakes, were displaying their masonry in places. Potted shrubs still framed the edifice, but there was no doubt that the vervains, pomegranates, orange-trees and laurels had not been taken indoors for several winters. Rotting where they stood in their broken tubs, they were all dead. The sandy drive, once kept carefully raked, might have been taken for a coarse meadow, so extensively had the grass invaded it, mingled with stinging-nettles and hemlock. It might have been the Sleeping Beauty’s manor-house, when the prince arrived.
Lerne held my arm as we walked. He said nothing more. We went around the sad dwelling, and the grounds appeared before my eyes: a mess. No more flower-beds or broad and winding sandy paths. Except for the lawn in front of the château—which had metamorphosed into a pasture, enclosed by steel wire, and given as grazing to a few cattle—the vale had resumed its wild state. The pathways were still marked out by shallow depressions, but young saplings were growing amid the grass. The garden was now no more than a large wood strewn with clearings and criss-crossed by verdant footpaths. The Ardennes were reclaiming their stolen domain.
Carefully, Lerne stuffed a large pipe with a feverish finger and lit it. We went into the wood, along one of the cave-like lanes.
As we went past, I looked at the statues with disillusioned eyes. A former proprietor of Fonval had erected them in profusion. These magnificent bit-part players in my dramas were, in fact, poor modern castings, commercially copied from Rome or Greece by some magnate of the Second Empire. The concrete
tunics swelled out like crinolines, the cloaks hung down like shawls, and the divinities of the woods—Echo, Syrinx, Arethusa—wore hair-nets in the Benoiton style. Today, these tawdry simulacra of exquisite fantasies, forest-dwellers’ fancies transmuted into dryads, were more timely in their mantles of virginal vines and clematis, although certain heroes were no more than men of ivy, whose mossy expressions were imagining Diana.
After walking for some time, my uncle made me sit down on a stone bench covered with a layer of lichen, in the shade of a flowering hazel-tree. There was a little cracking sound within its crown, immediately above our heads. Lerne started convulsively, and raised his head. It was merely a squirrel, which was watching us from a high branch. My uncle glared at it ferociously, as if he were taking aim at it; then he started laughing, in a reassured fashion. “Ha ha ha! It’s only a little…thing,” he said, unable to find the right word.
In truth, I thought, how odd one can become as one ages. Environment, I know, explains a great deal of evolution; one acquires the appearance, and even the accent, of one’s intimates. The company Lerne keeps is sufficient to explain why my uncle is badly-dressed, expresses himself awkwardly, talks with a German accent and smokes that huge pipe…but he’s stopped liking flowers, no longer looks after his estate and seems, at present, to be astonishingly nervous and preoccupied. If we add in last night’s incidents, all that seems less natural.
Meanwhile, the professor was staring at me in a disconcerting manner, studying me as if he were weighing me up, never having seen me before. I was confused. A lively debate was going on within him, reflected in his face in alternatives of various resolutions. Our eyes met continually, finally meeting steadfastly, and my uncle, unable to keep silent any longer, appeared to make up his mind for a second time.
“You know, Nicolas,” he said, patting me on the thigh, “I’m ruined!”
I understood what he was trying to do, and rebelled.
“Be frank, uncle—you want me to go away!”
“Me? What an idea…”
“Definitely. I’m sure of it. Your invitation was rather discouraging, and your welcome is hardly hospitable—but you have a very short memory, uncle, if you think me greedy enough only to have come here as your heir. I can see that you’re no longer the same man—your letters had alerted me to that, anyway—but it surpasses all understanding that you’ve invented this gross subterfuge designed to chase me away. For myself, I haven’t changed in 15 years! I’ve never ceased to respect you wholeheartedly, and I deserve better that those icy epistles and—Great God!—this insult!”
“Now, now…take it easy…” said Lerne, profoundly irritated.
“In any case,” I continued, “do you want me to go? Say so straightforwardly, and I’ll say goodbye. You’re no longer my uncle!”
“Never pronounce such a blasphemy, Nicolas!” He said that in such a fearful voice that I attempted intimidation.
“And I shall denounce you, uncle—you and your acolytes and your mysteries!”
“You’re mad! Mad! You’d better shut up! What an imagination!” Lerne burst out laughing—but his eyes frightened me, and for some unknown reason I regretted what I’d said. “Come on, Nicolas,” he went on. “Don’t get carried away. You’re a good lad. You’ll always find in me your old uncle, who loves you. Listen—no, it isn’t true, I’m not ruined, and my heir will certainly receive something…if he does as I wish. Honestly, though, it seems to me that it would be better if you didn’t stay here. There’s nothing here to interest a man of your age, Nicolas; personally, I’m busy all day long…”
The professor was able to talk now. Hypocrisy was evident in every sentence; he was no longer anything but a Tartuffe unworthy of consideration, fair game for deception. I had no intention of leaving until my curiosity was completely satisfied, so I interrupted him. “There you go again,” I said, “still playing the inheritance card in order to make me leave Fonval. You obviously don’t trust me…”
He denied it with a gesture. “No, uncle,” I continued, “permit me to remain in order that we can get to know one another again. We both have need of one another.”
Lerne frowned, then joked: “Do you persist in disowning me?”
“No,” I said, in a bantering tone, “but if you don’t let me stay here, you’ll hurt my feelings, and I won’t know what to think…”
“Stop!” said my uncle, forcefully. “There’s nothing of which to be suspicious—far from it!”
“Of course. Nevertheless you have secrets, and that’s your right. If I mention them to you, it’s because I need to assure you, firmly, that I shall respect them.”
“There’s only one!” said my uncle emphatically, becoming animated. “Just one secret—and its purpose is noble and salutary! One alone, you understand! That of our work: beneficent, and glorious too, and worth a lot of money! But it’s still necessary to keep it quiet. Secrets? The whole world knows we’re here, that we’re working! The newspapers have said so; there’s no secret in that!”
“Calm down uncle, and tell me the rules I must follow in your house. I’m at your disposal.”
Lerne resumed his internal debate. “Well,” he said, when he raised his head again, “that’s agreed. An uncle such as I have always been to you could not possibly send you away. That would be giving a lie to my entire past. Stay then, but on the following conditions: we’re conducting research here that has almost reached its conclusion; when our discovery is an accomplished fact, the public will learn of it at a stroke; until then, I don’t wish to inform it about certain trials whose revelation might alert rivals capable of anticipating us; I don’t doubt your discretion, but I would prefer, nevertheless, not to put it to the test, and I beg you, in your own interest, not to try to discover anything, rather than be forced to conceal it.
“I said in your own interest. That’s not only because it’s easier not to pry than to keep silent, but also for other reasons, which are these: our business is fundamentally commercial; a businessman with our experience could be useful to me; we shall be rich, nephew—millionaires—but it’s necessary to leave me in peace to forge the instrument of your fortune; you must show yourself henceforth to be the tactful man, respectful of my orders, that I need as an associate.
“Besides, I’m not alone in this enterprise. You might be made to repent your actions, if they transgress the rules that I lay down…repent cruelly, more cruelly than you can imagine…so practice indifference, my dear nephew. See nothing, hear nothing, understand nothing, in order to achieve wealth, and to stay…alive…
“Oh, indifference is not such an easy virtue, at least at Fonval…there are now things outside, since last night…things that should not be there and are only there by virtue of carelessness…”
As he pronounced these final words, an unexpected anger took hold of Lerne. He waved his fists in the air and muttered: “Wilhelm! Imbecilic ass!”
I was now sure that the secrets were important, and would be very surprising once they were winkled out. As for the doctor’s promises and threats, I didn’t believe them, and his speech hadn’t aroused either covetousness or fear, by which two means my uncle would have liked to guarantee my obedience.
“Is that all you ask of me?” I enquired, coldly.
“No. But this prohibition is of another sort. Shortly, Nicolas, at the château, I shall introduce you to someone. It’s someone to whom I’m giving shelter…a young woman…”
I started in surprise, and Lerne divined my inference. “Oh!” he cried. “She’s like a daughter, nothing more. In spite of everything, her friendship is precious to me, and it would hurt me to see it diminished by a sentiment that I can no longer inspire.” He added, very quickly, with a certain shame: “In brief, Nicolas, I demand that you swear an oath not to pay court to my ward.”
Distressed by such debased thinking and even more by such a lack of delicacy, I nevertheless thought that there is no jealousy without love, any more than smoke without fire.
“What do you take me for, uncle? The fact that I’m your guest is sufficient…”
“That’s good. I know my physiology, and how to make use of it. Can I count on you? Do you swear it? Good.” With a thin smile, he added: “As for her, I have no worries for the time being. She has recently seen how I treat suitors…I advise you not to try it.”
Having risen to his feet, with his hands in his pockets and his pipe between his teeth, Lerne looked me up and down, mockingly and provocatively. This physiologist inspired me with an indomitable aversion.
We continued our tour of the grounds.
“By the way,” said the professor, “do you speak German?”
“No, uncle—only French and Spanish.”
“Nor English, either? That’s a bit thin for a future merchant prince. You have not been very well-educated.”
Tell that to the marines, uncle! I thought. I’ve begun to keep these eyes, which you ordered me to close, wide open—and I can see your satisfied expression belies your criticism.
Going along the cliffs, we arrived at the far side of the grounds, facing the château, which seemed from there to be extending its two wings toward us, outdoing the undergrowth with its dilapidation—and it was at that exact moment that my attention was attracted by an unusual bird: a pigeon, which was spiraling rapidly through the air, flying ever more rapidly as its circles tightened.
“Look at those roses on the ground, on that long briar stem,” said my uncle. “Pretty, and interesting. Free of cultivations, they’ve run wild.”
“What a strange pigeon!” I remarked.
“Look at those flowers,” Lerne insisted.
“One might think it had a lead pellet in its head. That sometimes happens during a shoot. It will climb up and up, and die at the greatest possible height.”
“If you don’t watch your feet, you’ll trip up among the thorns and break your neck, my friend!” This useful warning was muttered in an entirely uncalled-for tone of menace.
Up above. The bird reached the center of its spiral, and began not to climb, but to descend, fluttering madly, and whirling around. It struck a rock not far away and fell, inert, into a thicket.
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