“Ah! I can scent the consequences.”
“It’s quite simple. The Baron, completely trapped by the financiers to whom he had addressed himself, consented to put the affair in the hands of an anonymous company. An enormous fraction of the shares was attributed to him in remuneration for his contribution. Once the company was formed, however, the Baron died mysteriously. His heirs, of course, came to Paris for the liquidation. How amazed they were to learn that the company was legally constituted on a basis very different from the one that Rodock believed to have been agreed. By virtue of trickery, it transpired that not only did the Baron have no claim on the anonymous company, but that he owed money, perceived in the form of advances, to the Walesport bank, the promoter of the operation.”
“I recognize the method of Walesport and his associate, George Baruyer.”
“They are, indeed, the names that have been communicated to me, with those of Albert Baruyer and their mother, the widow Baruyer.”
“Hold on—I don’t know that individual!”
“Madame Baruyer remains in the wings, but she guides the operations of her children. Endowed with a prodigious intelligence, a subtle flair, and a powerful instinct that one might think to be multiplied by her infirmity...”
“What infirmity?”
“The mother has been blind for five years. Widowed very young, she was one of the most beautiful and spirited women in Paris. Her blindness, Master, doesn’t prevent her from divining, so to speak, better than anyone the hazards, dangers and favorable opportunities of life.”
Homo-Deus was listening with extreme attention to the hypnotized man; he found this story prodigiously interesting. “So,” he said, “this blind woman is an old rogue? If she guides her sons and one judges them according to their actions...”
“I inform you; I don’t appreciate.”
“That’s true. Let’s get back to Rodock.”
“Having returned to Dalmatia with little Hans, the Baronne saw a flock of vultures descend upon the castle. Creditors unknown to her surged forth from everywhere, obliging her to defend herself. She confided her interests to a rapacious businessman who cheated her, causing her to sustain lawsuits in which she lost everything that remained to her. When everything was sold—the land, the farms and the manor—she languished for three or four years, and then died, scarcely leaving enough for her son to continue his studies. He was charged by her with avenging his father, finding his despoilers and demanding a settlement of accounts—for the platinum mine, now being exploited, produces enormous profits. Madame de Rodock had no idea what had happened, but she had remembered the names...”
The hypnotized man seemed fatigued. Sweat was streaming down his temples, even though he was sitting down and not moving. Homo-Deus knew, however, the effort he was demanding of the automaton. He passed his hands above his forehead once again and ordered him to continue his story.
“With his mother dead,” the Commissaire went on, “the Rodock son, with no experience, and probably also because he had his father’s penchant for gambling, began by squandering the few thousand francs of patrimony that remained to him. When he was completely broke, he lived somewhat at hazard, allowing himself to be loved by mature women ecstasized by his beauty. Then he became ashamed of that life, and found employment as a dancer in a very chic hotel in Cairo, where he happened to be. It was there that he made the conquest of Alexane...”
“Quickly! The end of the story.”
“Hans confessed to the dancer all the misfortunes that had befallen his father. On learning that Walesport and the Baruyer brothers were the authors of the spoliation, she was gripped by a ferocious joy, for Albert Baruyer is in love with her, and she scented the possibility of rendering justice to her lover by means of some trap. If he were rich, she would be able to show Hans de Rodock on her arm proudly.”
“From which you conclude?”
“The Baruyers and Walesport must certainly have murdered Rodock, after having robbed him. Alive, he would have protested too much on learning that he had been cheated. But they have no suspicion of the enemy lying in wait for them. A woman in love is terribly dangerous, and that one has vowed to make her lover happy, at any price.”
Homo-Deus reflected momentarily, with his eyes closed in order to concentrate his thoughts, and with his head between his hands.
IV. From Four to Eight o’clock in the Evening
When the dancer Alexane went into Albert Baruyer’s apartment, four o’clock was chiming on the wall clock in the diningroom. The advocate and dramatic author, who had sent his valet away, had come to open the door himself. He took the hands of his bellissima and, while kissing them devotedly, said: “I’m happier than I can say.”
He had introduced her into a small drawing room. Without embarrassment, the dancer took off her hat and looked for somewhere to put it down.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” he said, radiant—and getting up, he hastened to take the delightful hat, her gloves, her handbag and her scarf. Then he took her to sit down on an Arab divan by a dainty Moorish table, bearing everything necessary for a light and delicate snack.
Alexane looked around. “Your home is charming,” she said. “The mere sight of it would be sufficient to attract many daughters of Eve. Where is this famous collection?”
“Next door. But allow me to believe that you have also come, a little, for the collector.”
“Conceit!”
“Come on, Alexane, we’re no longer children. I don’t want to flirt with you, as with just anyone. My affection for you is more than a banal fancy. I won’t tell you either that it’s the great immortal passion, but it’s a very profound and sincere sentiment of true love and admiration.”
“I believe you, and that’s why it’s repugnant to me to become your plaything, because afterwards, you’d have less esteem and admiration for me.”
“With a woman of your intelligence that could not be. It would be the veritable communion of two minds, united by the senses, two souls brought together by the same artistic tastes. Listen, Alexane, until now, I’ve lived alone. I’ve arrived at the age when one feels the need to be supported by an affection.”
“Ah! Is that a proposal of marriage? That sentiment would raise you considerably in my esteem.”
“What? Am I, then, so low otherwise?”
“Well, I’m neither deaf nor blind, and I know a certain Madame Vauclin.”
“La la! My dear, you’re straying from the point. That mundane liaison, virtually non-existent, has nothing to do with the love I feel for you. Certainly, I desire to possess you. It would be an insult to you not to have that attraction of the human antenna, but what I want in you is, above all, a kind of amorous amity, quasi-fraternal but incestuous, solid and durable.”
“It seems to me, my dear, that I’ve already read that speech in one of your plays. I hoped for better of your imagination. Come on, honor me with something unpublished.”
“Unpublished or not, I desire you ardently and I want you madly; I love you, in spite of the face that you insist on treating everything as a joke. Love me, my darling, and let’s not concern ourselves with literature.”
“Nor childishness, my dear.”
Seizing the young woman, Albert Baruyer pushed her down on the divan. To his great astonishment, she put up scarcely any resistance, contenting herself with deflecting too direct a movement on the part of the dramatic author. She started to laugh, very lightly.
“Like that, then? Immediately, in the fashion of a hussar? Why the classic preamble, then? Be careful—you’ll upset that pretty table where I can see so many nice things. You haven’t even asked whether I’m hungry or thirsty. Amour, amour, amour and more amour! What brutality!”
“You’re mocking me, Alexane,” he said, somewhat disconcerted.
“No, but I don’t see us quitting the entirely appropriate position that we occupy before this table in order to deliver ourselves to the amorous struggle the idea of which is bludgeoning you. C
ome on, friend—you look so good in that elegant indoor costume. And how do you like me in this nice summer dress?”
She got up, profiling her elegant figure against the somber Cordovan leather drape covering the wall of the drawing room.
“You’re adorable!” he exclaimed, seizing her arms and allowing his adventurous hands to take their course.
“Adore from a distance, and don’t touch,” she said, pushing him away gently but firmly. “Don’t you know how annoying it is getting dressed outside one’s own place? I won’t play the prude with you, but I hope that you’ll share my opinion. Remember that it’s five o’clock, and at six I have to be at the Opéra, where I have a meeting with Ida Rubinstein,29 and if we behave foolishly, I won’t have the time to dress myself decently... You should have come sooner, then,” she said, rather stupidly.
“I only came to see your collection,” he mocked, “and not to…the term embarrasses me a little…to…help me out a little, my dear…you’re more accustomed than I am to drumsticks.”
“Damn it!” she swore. “To make love, simply, as two individuals who feel the desire.”
“You daren’t say bestially, like two animals.”
Escaping his grip, she burst into laughter, with the result that he did not know how to react. Angrily, he poured himself a glass of port, which he drank in one gulp.
“That makes you feel better, eh?” she said, still laughing. “I’d like a little myself.”
“Alexane, Alexane! You’re making fun of me.”
“Do you think so? I wouldn’t dare.” She became serious. “My friend, my dear friend, I have a horror of these unexpected bodily tussles. But now that I know your Don Juan’s lair, I’ll come to surprise you here one evening, when I leave the theater.”
“Good! Tonight?”
“No, my dear author. I have a great deal of work to do—remember that it’s as much for you as for me.”
“All right! On the day of the première of my drama, which you’ll make illustrious with your dance in the second act...”
“All right—give me a key to your apartment. And when you’ve escaped the congratulations, you’ll find me here, waiting for you. And I’ll be more at my ease for that première.”
He was obliged to settle for that. For a long time he had coveted the artiste, who truly had the gift of enticing him, especially by means of a long resistance full of promises, which never ended. He had inserted a dance scene into his next play, and it had required his brother’s great influence for the Académie de Musique to consent to lend its principal dancer to the Gymnase. Obliged, therefore, to be careful of the artiste, he conducted himself as gallantly as possible, and, taking on the air of Bluebeard, he said: “This is the key to Paradise. If you forget to make use of it, a terrible punishment awaits you.”
And as Alexane politely offered him her cheek, he kissed her lips, while sliding the key into the artiste’s handbag.
If he had been able to see the star, once she was on the staircase and out of sight, wiping her mouth with disgust, he would have been rather anxious about the consequences of that gallant conversation.
After leaving Baruyer’s apartment, Alexane hailed a cab and had herself taken, not to the Opéra, but to number 56, Rue de Douai. Rapidly, she went up to the third floor and rang the bell of the door to the left, which opened immediately, and then fell into the arms of a young man, who carried her rather than guiding her into the bedroom. In an instant, the artiste had taken off her coat, her light dress, and appeared in elegant underclothing that made her seem more undressed than nude.
“Do you love me a great deal?” said the dancer, taking the young man’s head in her hands, kissing his eyelids and then his tongue.
The latter’s only response was to clutch her to his heart.
“I adore you,” she repeated.
He was handsome, that son of the Orient, as handsome as the males of the Lands of the Sun are. The Dalmatian could have served as a model for an Apollo, so reminiscent were the harmonious proportions of his body of the most beautiful ancient marbles. His head, especially, was a plastic poem, with the great dark eyes, luminous and soft, with the languorous appearance of women’s gazes; the imperceptibly hooked nose; the full cheeks as hard as amber, of which they had the color; the well-deigned lips revealing magnificent teeth; and the blue-black hair and eyebrows.
When the first outpourings were past, Alexane told her lover the result of her conversation with Baruyer junior.
“I know that he has to go to Lyon tomorrow to meet the director of the Théâtre Municipal to discuss a series of performances of his play. He won’t be back until Saturday for the première of his new play, All for Love. It’s probable that his valet will take advantage of it to go out. Watch the house, and as soon as you’re certain that the blackguard is out of the way, come to find me...”
“Oh, my love! How much trouble you’re going to for me! But I swear to you that if we succeed, you shall be the Baronne de Rodock.”
“No, my child, I love you—love me, that’s all I ask of you.”
“My dear Alexane! My...”
“Love me! Love me for as long as possible, and it’s me that will owe you gratitude.”
Drawing the young man into her arms again, she hugged him passionately. Hans returned her caresses, and night surprised them in amorous frolics in which prodigal youth flourished.
“Eight o’clock already!” sighed Alexane. “I have to leave you, my darling. When shall I see you again? I have to work at least until eleven. Come to pick me up at the Opéra. We’ll have supper together, and afterwards...”
Eventually, the two lovers separated. The last kiss never wanted to be the last.
V. The Fall of a Ministry is Prepared
The député Georges Baruyer was working in his study. It was nine o’clock, and the financier had been at his desk since seven a.m. He was undoubtedly pleased with his work because, putting down his pen, he rubbed his hands and uttered an “Oof!” of satisfaction. He sat back in his armchair, daydreaming.
Well, he thought, that Grandjean is a precious man. Thanks to him, I’ll make at least five million from the Barsac affair. But why the devil is he betraying him? Is it a matter of vengeance?
He rang.
“Ask Madame Baruyer to come,” he asked the usher who presented himself, “if it’s not disturbing her.”
A few minutes later Madame Baruyer came into the banker’s study. Although she was blind, she knew the house so well that she moved about there confidently.
Madame Baruyer was now fifty-eight years of age, and still retained, in spite of her cruel infirmity, the traces of a magisterial beauty. In spite of her precociously white hair, her complexion had retained the freshness of youth. Her eyebrows were black; her eyes, once brilliant, were now misted by a light misty veil. Her lips were flesh; the lower one, slightly emphatic, gave her a rather disdainful expression, quickly effaced as soon as she smiled. She had smiled often, once upon a time.
Such was the individual who had been, for a long time, the beautiful Madame Baruyer. Her husband, a former Undersecretary of State, had owed the rapid advancement of his political career more to the beauty of his wife than his own capacities. He would have risen higher if an unfortunate duel with the Comte de Simiane had not cut his career short. The motive for the duel had always remained obscure. In any case, his wife, free henceforth, had not abused that liberty overmuch, and although she was credited with many intrigues, she was clever enough to avoid scandal. She devoted herself entirely to the education of her sons, as she had worked for the rise of her husband.
She did not have the fantastical love that some mothers have for their sons, but, being ambitious, she had been able to profit from their aptitudes, and even their faults, to make use of them. Thanks to the high status achieved by their father, they had only to choose their targets, their trajectories assured. Georges Baruyer had followed the political track and soon entered the Chambre. He had already founded a bank
, with difficulty to begin with, but which, after a few well-handled affairs, had acquired a renown that was still increasing. He made use of his political connections adroitly to carry out operations whose fluctuations were regulated in accordance with certain indiscretions emanating from ministerial offices. Although he sat to the left, he had numerous friendships among the reaction, and knew how to serve them and make use of them when necessary.
Albert Baruyer, lighter and more Parisian in his character, had never been able to take the thousand tribulations of political life seriously, and his less flexible character did not lend itself to kneeling before and fawning upon the electorate. Very intelligent and a lover of the high life, the career of the bar and letters was the only one that attracted him. He would rapidly have accumulated a fortune by those means had his tastes, very luxurious and very artistic, not always led him to spend more than he earned. Thus, he was often obliged to have recourse to his brother, with whom, in spite of the difference in their character, he was always on the best of terms. They lent one another mutual support; malicious gossip even alleged that Georges, the député, had more that once had recourse to his brother in affairs to which he did not want to commit himself personally. Physically as well as morally, Albert was a man to take on any scabrous affair.
“You have need of me?” said Madame Baruyer, as she came in. She went to take her place in a comfortable English armchair placed next to the window. “I assume that it’s to tell me about your meeting at Vauclin’s,” she said. “How did it go?”
“Very well. Vauclin’s putting in a million. By the way, I’m wondering where he’s found that money. He was living on expedients only ten months ago.”
“It doesn’t matter—money has no odor.”
“Crémiot’s with us, ostensibly.”
“Let’s get back to the affair. This Grandjean doesn’t inspire me with complete confidence. Have you seen the letters?”
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