“Yes. Madame Desambez lost her two sons at the front.”
“It would have been preferable for a bachelor like me to perish instead of a man with two children.”
“Oh no!” protested Ulette. “For one thing, you know that you’re my intended husband.”
Madame Aubert intervened. “You’re still playing with dolls, and you want Etienne to marry you?”
“Ulette’s right. It’s necessary that I legitimate her doll. What are you going to call her?”
“Antoinette. That way, she’ll remind me of my good Papa.”
The maid came in to announce that diner was served, and they went into the dining room. Etienne complimented the flower arrangement and neatness of the table.
“Go on, Big Brother,” said Ulette, “sit down here. It’s good Papa Antoine’s place, and you’re the master of the house now.”
“We’re really intruders at present,” added the young stepmother.
“You’re joking, I hope. If I’d had the good fortune of knowing you a little earlier, it’s probable that you’d still be named Madame Aubert.”
“It’s you who are joking, Etienne,” she said, blushing.
But Ulette chipped in: “That’s not possible. If you’d married Maman, you couldn’t marry me.”
“That’s true, but you’d be my darling daughter.”
“Oh no, I’d rather be your wife. And then, Maman won’t remarry again. She’s going to buy me a little brother. She’ll have enough to do then. You don’t know, Monsieur, what it’s like to bring up a child.”
“And you do, Mademoiselle?”
“Of course. Before Antoinette I had many others.”
“Damn it! That’s not amusing for your future husband.”
“Oh, but they’re children to make you laugh. They’re dolls. Real children are dolls to make you cry. Ask Maman if I haven’t been the cause of worries lately. She was afraid of losing me, you know.”
“Let’s not talk about that wretched illness any more,” said the mother. “It’s necessary to make up for lost time and get your strength back. Your future friends in Théoule, Simone and Robert, are very robust, and you have the air of a poor little thing.”
“They live by the seaside, and they haven’t been ill. Don’t worry, though; I’ll catch up to them. Can I have another piece of chicken?”
Etienne listened to that puerile chatter, directing all his desire at the mother. Before that marvel of beauty, grace and charm, and the cause of envy of his father, there was no other obstacle now than the will of the young widow. Etienne sensed that she was sympathetic to him, and he had sufficient self-control to conceal his envious and domineering character, hiding his faults and gaining in the estimation of his beautiful stepmother by exaggerating instead the qualities of his father.
He had no doubt about it; in time, a physical influence would awaken—if not love, at least a need for love—in the young widow’s senses. The amiable and obliging woman whom he had initially mistaken for a relative of the concierge, was Madame Louis Lafon, and that was a further means of gaining ground in Aline’s heart, for Adrienne Lafon had quickly become a friend for her, and Etienne’s conduct with Lafon had completely won the confidence and esteem of the wife of the new director. She and her husband never tired of singing the praises of “Monsieur Etienne.” So, everything was on the right track.
“Are you content, Etienne?” asked Madame Aubert. “Is the factory progressing as you would like?”
“Very well. I believe that we’ll have a splendid year. If this continues, it will be necessary to expand. Fortunately, we have another plot of land on the Rue des Entrepreneurs, two thousand square meters, which only needs to be employed. My father would have used it already if it hadn’t been for his discord with Coutan, the associate from whom he finally separated.”
“What is Monsieur Coutan doing now?”
“‘Business.’ It’s a rather vague word, which seems to astonish you. It consists of all the means of making money without practicing any industry of commerce. One can make money very rapidly that way. Sixte Coutan has everything necessary for that kind of business: an intelligence for intrigue and the luck of the devil.”
“It can’t always be very honest.”
“Oh, honesty! A very relative word nowadays. If there were only honest people, life would probably be very difficult and tedious. Thus, for instance, last week I obtained an order for five thousand aircraft engines. The intermediary, a senior bureaucrat at the Ministry of War, knows very well that I only manufacture separate components. However, I got the order, to the detriment of the Penaud factory, not because I submitted a tender lower than our competitors, but because I gave twenty per cent to the bureaucrat, who passed on half of it to someone else—because in those sorts of bargains, the responsible party is unknown. Well, it’s those types who do business, and it’s the Princess who pays the commissions.”
“Which is to say the taxpayers—everyone.”
“Everyone—of which I’m a part myself. But I make a profit from it. Today, take note, there are thousands of people who do business and make a lot of money by such traffic, spending without keeping count and not finding anything too dear. Hence, the increasing price of everything and an exceedingly hard life for those who can’t make money in proportion.
“To get back to the factory, though, I can say that the idea of associating all the workers was a stroke of genius. One can visit all the factories, but nowhere will you find the enthusiasm and activity of ours. At Penaud’s, for instance, they do a lot for the workers: co-operation for food, premiums for the fathers of families, insurance against accidents, and so on. Well, when I’m hiring I can take my choice of his workers, and if I need a hundred, I can get them from him.”
During that serious conversation, Ulette had become drowsy. Aline rang for Madeleine, who took the little girl away without waking her. In the meantime, Madame Aubert served the coffee and offered Etienne the use of his father’s smoking room.
“With a little imagination,” said the young man—who was still wearing his mourning clothes, as was his stepmother—laughing, “I could believe that I was with my wife and child here. How unfortunate it is that I didn’t meet you sooner!” As Aline did not appear to have heard, he went on: “The two of us are almost the same age, whereas my father could almost have been yours.”
“I never perceived that difference, for misfortune had formed a character well in advance of my years for me. You can’t imagine how great my mental distress was at Jousselin’s death, left alone with a five year old child. I needed then to learn to direct my own life, something my husband had done previously.”
“You can marry again. You’re still so young, so pretty, so...”
“You’re forgetting that I’m going to have another child.”
“Are you certain about that? Nothing is detectable.”
“Quite certain.”
“I’ve heard you say that it was a blessing for Ulette to have a second father like mine. You might meet someone who loves you enough to be a father to your two children.”
“I don’t want that. Two dead husbands gives me the impression of being a bringer of bad luck.”
Etienne made a gesture of annoyance. She definitely did not want to understand. He decided to burn his boats and make himself clear.
“You’re too intelligent, Aline, not to have realized that I love you, and have for a long time, since the day I first saw you. The second time, there was an insurmountable obstacle, and I had to lock away that passion. A catastrophe, as frightful as it was unexpected, has left us free, and I can admit, today, an amour that has ceased to be criminal. I can be happy, and you can share that happiness. I swear to devote myself entirely to that goal, of being a father to your children as affectionate as if they were my own.
“Don’t reply to me immediately—think about it... Weigh up your situation and your future carefully; think what a woman as young as you might have to suffer in isolation.
The love of children can’t replace that of a husband, and Nature has laws that can’t be transgressed. After my churching, I’ll remind you of this evening and you can give me your response. Until then, let me hope.”
The ephemeral Madame Aubert thought that she had a duty not to alienate the bold fellow any further, to smile pleasantly if she could, and not to annoy him, for one can only ever be reconciled with the indifferent, and some words let slip are irrevocable. She could not judge, as a tribunal, that hero who was unconscious of being a swine, that ambitious and amorous individual who was devoid of shame, scruples and remorse—and who was not even an artist. As a bourgeoise, she reflected that it was necessary to handle chimeras carefully, like stockings—and the valiant brute was really not worthy of suffering.
“I’ve always counted on your affection, my dear Etienne, so believe that I’m very sensible to your sentiment, but my character is too mature in relation to yours, which is very advanced. Realize your father’s vague dream, and mine; you’ll find later, if you wish, in Ulette, a younger, prettier Aline suitable in every respect for a sagacious hard worker, an industrialist like you. By then, I’ll have become an old woman, for the years count double for the majority of women. Think about all that, my dear, and you’ll understand that if I accepted your seductive offer, I’d be doing you a disservice.” She laughed frankly and added: “And then, one can’t marry one’s stepmother.”
“One...” He dared not say the rest, which could be divined—one can sleep with her—and rose to his feet.
“Love has no reasons, like the heart. It dominates everything, because it is love. If you loved me, no objection could stand up. I love you, and I listen to none. I love you, and to possess you, I’d do the impossible. Yes, if more obstacles loom up between you and me, I’ll break them as...”
Disturbed and frightened by that sudden explosion of anger and the increasing vehemence of that frenetic excess, she said: “So be it. The future is unknown to anyone. Let’s both hope. But after these emotions, I’m exhausted. You’d be kind, Etienne, to leave me alone and to think.”
In the ancient tragedy and that of Racine, Phaedra, the wife of Theseus, falls in love with Hippolyte, the son of the king, her husband. In Paris, on the Quai de Javel, it was the other way around. Where, then, could that madness have germinated? During the five years of the war? Then, almost everywhere on the globe, people had been killing, stealing—every man for himself!—and raping, when it was necessary, but not often. What leaven had that wild firebrand of civilization…that international return to primitive brigandage with the most modern of means—aircraft, long range bombardments, poison gas—while taking shelter in trenches, as during the Caesar’s Gallic wars and the warfare of insects…what virus had all that ignominy left in the veins of that young man?
A novelist, expert in analysis, cannot, in spite of his wishes, explore all the depths of the unconscious, to discover there, in the human mystery, the furious and compressed impulsions, the erotic desires, the unhealthy hidden dreams, all the unspeakable lumber swarming and buried in the meanders and subterrains of the soul, to uncover all the passions and expose them to the light of day in their chrysalides—to discover, in sum, in a heart laid bare, the being who ceases to lie to others and himself. On what viscous germs is mad love alimented? From what microbial miasmas, from what realities, sometimes filthy and sticky, do many dreams take flight?
VII. A Question Mark
Having returned to the drawing room, where the bronze bust of her husband was gazing at her from the mantelpiece, after sending the young man away gently, smiling at his incandescent eyes, and allowing him to kiss her hand, Madame Aubert thought:
I suspected as much, but I didn’t believe that he’d ever dare to declare it. The window of Antoine Aubert become the mistress or wife of his son!? He’s not entirely mistaken. His father awakened in me a sensuality that I believed to be dead. I’m suffering in my flesh. What does it matter? He bears little resemblance to his father. He’s violent, impulsive, jealous, brutal. After the mother has refused him, will the daughter refuse him one day? What did he mean, ‘if more obstacles loom up between you and me, I’ll break them as...’ Oh! What a horrible thought!
No, it was an accident…an accident…nothing more...
VIII. Suspicions Regarding the Crime
It was a Monday morning. Work resumed with enthusiasm at the factory—an enthusiasm a trifle mitigated by Sunday’s little extras. Once, Mondays had been less active because a substantial fraction of the workers had stayed up late in the local drinking dens, debating at the counter or rolling the dice in games of Zanzibar, or sitting at tables and playing cards. Often, the morning, and sometimes the whole day, were afflicted by that, but since everyone now had an interest in the factory, defections were rare, and those who were tempted to go on the spree resisted, in order not to be treated as “shirkers” by the others.
Lafon made his tour of inspection, leading a hand or offering advice here and there. Everyone liked him and held him in high esteem, so he was welcomed more as a friend than the director. He arrived at the vice of a planer, who was smoothing off a piece of steel with the aid of a file and a great deal of elbow grease.
“Well, Albaret, was the fishing good yesterday?”
“Not bad. Three pounds of roach. You’ll eat some at midday—I sent a plate round to your wife this morning.”
“Thanks—you’re really too kind.”
“Bah! It’s the least one can do to give a treat to one’s friends. But guess who I ran into at Vilennes—for that’s where it’s necessary to go nowadays, if you want to bring something back.”
“It’s worth the trouble. Who did you run into, then?”
A fellow who didn’t gather any moss at the factory, although one has reason to remember it, because it was the week that the boss was crushed. Do you remember the guy?”
“Yes—the one recommended to me by Monsieur Etienne. I can find his name in the books.”
“Not worth the trouble. Listen—I was with my brother-in-law, a chair-maker who knows the guy; it appears that he’s an old pike63 from the Avenue Gambetta.”
“What are you telling me? Did you talk to him?”
“I wanted to, but as soon as he saw me, he hopped it. That’s what intrigued me—so, without appearing to, I followed him. He was suspicious, and looked behind him, but there were plenty of people about, and to put him off the track, I’d put on Octave’s hat—Octave’s my brother-in-law. Anyway, I saw him go into a property of which he had the key. For a former worker, I thought was odd.
“In brief, I went into the neatest bistro, ordered a glass and asked: ‘Doesn’t that property whose gate has the big iron nails belong to Monsieur Pigeollet?’—that’s my brother-in-law, Octave Pigeollet. ‘No, it belongs to Monsieur Armand Baudard, a good customer.’ I left. I knew enough to satisfy my curiosity. All the same, the clown’s a boor. If he’s a rentier today, that’s no reason for him not to recognize an old workmate.
“With that, I went back to my pitch and I found Octave, who’d taken the other’s place, and I told my brother-in-law what I’d learned. ‘Yes, it’s fishy, if you ask me. If that fellow’s rich now, it’s because he’s brought off some nasty coup. Anyway, the main thing is that he’s put out bait for us.’ So, my old Louis, it’s thanks to that Baudard that you’ll be eating friendly fish today.”
“But you’re the one who fished it out and brought it. Thank you.”
Lafon shook the worker’s hand and went back to his office. Involuntarily, a thought was hammering in his head. It’s Monsieur Etienne who had that fellow hired, and he quit the factory immediately after Monsieur Aubert’s death. He came to be paid that same Saturday, and we never saw him again.
Lafon revived that tragic morning, and the enigma of the curiously open grille. Let’s see, did someone go to the storage bay that day? Closing his eyes in order to concentrate his thoughts, Lafon made an effort to recall. No, it was a Friday, almost the end of the
week. Everyone had a job under way. Oh, I’ll find out...
He took a thick cardboard file out of a drawer, one which was written in large letters: Metals Register June 1923. It contained the records of the work benches, with the names of the workmen occupying the places, the work completed and the time that each job had taken. He flipped through the file until he found the name of Armand Baudard, bench 47. The sheets told him that benches 46 and 48 had been occupied by old hands of the factory with ten years’ experience: Albaret, the man who had just recognized the former pimp in the rentier of Vilennes, and Jean Ouchy, a first-rate fitter.
At the meal break, Lafon waited for the two workers to emerge. “Would you care for an apero?”
Once they were at the counter, he said: “What you told me, Alberet, has been running through my mind. When Baudard was between the two of you on the day of the Boss’s death, do you remember whether he left his workstation at about a quarter to noon?”
“For sure,” said Ouchy. “The imbecile went to the reserve to fetch a bar he didn’t need, forgetting that he’d gone to get one the day before. He put the bar down behind the bench, stated to laugh and said to us—do you remember, Albaret?—‘Look at that! I’m going daft. I went to fetch a bar to make a piston-rod, and I already had one.’”
“What are you thinking, Lafon?” asked Albaret.
“I’m making connections between the recent good fortune of that individual and the Boss’s death.”
“It’s impossible! Why would Baudard have done that? And who would have paid him for doing it?”
Lafon drew the two men outside. The street was deserted for the moment. He seized his two comrades’ hands: “Your testimony, the two of you, might explain a lot of things. For the time being, don’t mention this Baudard to anyone.”
“You think he caused the Boss’s accident?” said Albaret.
“I’m beginning to think that it wasn’t an accident. Until further instructions, all this stays between us. It would be stupid to say anything before being absolutely certain. Complete silence.”
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