“What! His grandfather?”
“Yes. You can go ask him. That’s him up the fig tree, picking the figs.
Soon, the Parisians reached the village, and in the house of the Maire, whom they were visiting, they met a green curé—black in his soutane, of course, but as white with age as Charlemagne. They told him the story, and the genteel Brabant said to the priest: “Do you know them, Monsieur le Curé, that sixty-year-old man who was crying by the roadside, his father and his grandfather?”
“Of course I know them, Mademoiselle. It was me who baptized all three of them.”
Where would we be if macrobites had the right to go on as long as Methuselah? Old Montaigne—he would be three hundred years old and it would be necessary to poison him if he were still alive and continued to write—proclaims: “As for me I deem that our souls are denounced at twenty. Of all the fine human actions that have come to my knowledge, of whatever sort they might be, I would swear that the greater number of them, in the last six centuries and our own, have produced more before the age of thirty than afterwards.”
Like Michel de Montaigne, I think that it is necessary to love youth, which is the charm of the world. Old age is the setting sun, the twilight, night, and youth the dawn and the light, a new sun rising. In spring, things are brighter, and youth—Gioventù! Gioventù! Mussolini and the Fascists chant in Italy—youth is the laughter, the straightness, the clarity of a land. Oh, how I love you, how I understand you, young people, handsome young people, the old people of tomorrow.
XII. The Womb and the Child in the Sun
That afternoon, in the gardens of the Villa Bellarosa in Théoule, Madame Aubert was sitting on a wicker divan in the shade of a clump of mimosas, the golden clusters of which were warmed and made to sparkle by the bright March sun—that month being, in the paradise of the Côte d’Azur, a furnisher of spring, like April in Paris—and the perfume of which was always delightfully pleasant, seemingly paradoxical with her black Botticelliesque hair amid the tomboyish fashion of women’s hair cut short to leave the nape of the neck bare, was breast-feeding a new baby, three weeks old, garlanded with lace. Beside the young mother, a pram garnished with a pink silk coverlet awaited the nursling.
“Look at that glutton,” said Madame Desambez, who was also sitting in a wicker armchair knitting a pair of dainty socks for the child. “And what a grip! You can say, without boasting, that you have the most beautiful child I’ve ever seen.”
“He takes after his father, who was big and strong.”
“Poor child. This is a house of orphans,” said Madame Desambez, sadly. “Of the four children we have, not one will have known their father.”
“Yes, Ulette remembers hers, because I’ve maintained his memory piously. Her true father was, for her, Papa, but Antoine Aubert was Papapa—a superlative. When will Marcelle arrive from Nice?”
“She’ll be in Cannes at three o’clock. I’ve asked Marius to take the car to pick her up at the station, because the express doesn’t stop at Théoule. You’re impatient to see Ulette. She’s adorable, your daughter.”
“It’s the first time that I’ve been separated from her—but it was necessary.”
“I’m curious to see how she’ll welcome her little brother.”
“She’ll adore him. He’ll be such a beautiful doll.”
“He’ll be everyone’s little brother. Simone and Robert will be content, too.”
“Someone won’t be, though. I’m a little afraid of Etienne Aubert.”
“I understand, given what you’ve told me—so I’ll renew my proposition. Don’t go back to Paris. Your personal fortune is sufficient, and you’ll be at home here.”
“I accept as wholeheartedly as I sense that you’re making the offer, but I can’t disinterest myself entirely in the Aubert factory; I can’t disinherit my son. He has rights that I need to safeguard out of respect for the father.”
“You haven’t received a letter from Etienne Aubert since the laconic telegram he sent you congratulating you on the birth of his brother Antoine, as he’s been baptized.”
“The name of brother, applied by Etienne, caused me to shiver involuntarily.”
“It’s necessary not to magnify the suggestion of bad thoughts. The boy fell in love with you. In sum, given his age and yours, there’s nothing extraordinary about that—but absence leads to forgetfulness, and with forgetfulness passion calms down.”
“I hope so with all my heart.”
Madame Desambez put down her knitting and picked up a regional newspaper, the Eclaireur, which she began to scan. Having placed the baby in the pram, Madame Aubert rocked him gently, singing in order to send him to sleep.
“Oho!” said Madame Desambez, charming and rosy with her crown of white hair. “The paper’s giving a lot of publicity to those two charlatans. Today there’s an article signed by Georges Maurevert, who’s a writer of merit.”67
“Excuse me but I haven’t read a line of print since my churching. This little monsieur has taken up all my time. Who are the two charlatans?”
“A couple of thought-readers. The man—the manager, it seems—is called Thomas Keysar, and the woman, Souriah. She is, it seems, astonishing, another Madame de Thèbes.68 There are always diviners turning out dupes.”
“The marvelous doesn’t tempt you?”
“Yes, but not via superstition and mystification. These two new sorcerers practice somnambulism and suggestion, but they don’t predict the future; they limit their research to the present and the past. According to the paper, they’ve enlightened the law with regard to the murder at Le Mas de la Pinède, and brought about the arrest of the murderer.”
“Well, that rehabilitates your charlatans.”
“My word,” said the old lady, laughing. “I owe them an apology.”
“If they come to Cannes,” said Madame Aubert, “I’ll go to consult them.”
“You? Why?”
“On the subject of my husband’s death.”
“But since he was the victim of an accident...”
“I’m beginning to doubt that, my dear friend.”
XIII. It’s Never Over
For three months, Thomas and Berthe had been the guests of Sixte Coutan on the Côte d’Azur. The new “businessman” had rented a beautiful villa in Nice, on Mont Boron, where he entertained politicians, bankers and schemers passing through the Riviera, all those who live on bluff and glamour. Josette was enthroned there in all her glory, doing her best to make a splash, and to dazzle the two former Bohemians with her luxury. By way of compensation, Toto, who had rapidly insinuated himself into the various large and small newspapers of Nice, was obtaining “echoes” of the parties and receptions at the villa on Mont Boron, Les Papillons.
Thomas Keysar frequented a tavern under the arcades in the Place Masséna in Nice, an environment of vague predators of letters, uprooted from Paris, old whores with theatrical connections, where a respectable man gone astray, despite being on the Côte d’Azur, indulging in pleasure and sunlight, would be miserly with his handshakes: an environment of emaciated corsairs, harpies and Parisian bandits run aground there, wrinkled, bald or painted, more venomous than old toads; merchants of publicity, who nevertheless believed in their wit, in the yellow press of the Riviera—which is publicity nevertheless. Keysar, the thought-reader, needed it, for himself, for Souriah and for the double-dealing household of his friends the Coutans. In that fashion, he paid for the hospitality offered to the murderous couple in the villa on Mont Boron.
So, the two thought-readers, by sprinkling that gang with aperitifs, had become popular. They had given séances at the Ruhl and the Negresco. Their success in Paris was nothing compared to the enthusiasm of the coastal population of the Mediterranean, or, rather, the dubious cosmopolitan society that comes every winter to parade in the sun.
“We needed the sun to put us in the light,” said Thomas, one day.
“You wouldn’t be here without me,” Josette pointed out.
“You said it, my beauty,” said Berthe, who now addressed Josette as tu, and had the compliment returned. “So, in recognition of your kindness, what would you say to a party at Les Papillons, for the benefit of the war-wounded of Nice, which you patronize, which will put you in the limelight on the Riviera—not to mention that it would be useful to your husband, to bring all the wealthy people in this paradise together. Coutan can give us a few tips about his guests, and we’ll read their thoughts.”
“Oh, yes! Thanks for the idea. I’ll arrange it with Sixte.”
A domestic came in carrying a tray laden with letters and newspapers, for the masters of the house and the magician.
“Look!” exclaimed Josette. “A letter from Etienne Aubert—I recognize the handwriting. It’s addressed to you at the Rue Huysmans in Paris; it’s been forwarded.”
Thomas and Berthe exchanged an anxious glance. “Bah!” said Keysar. “It won’t be anything interesting. I’ll open it later.” And he slid the letter into his pocket.
“Is my presence embarrassing you?” said Josette, vexed, getting to her feet.
“Are you joking?” said Berthe. “We don’t have anything to hide from you. Read your letter, Toto.”
Thomas had reflected. It was impossible that Etienne had been imprudent enough to write anything compromising in a letter, at the risk of gong astray. He took the envelope out of his pocket and opened it. It only contained a few lines. Having scanned them, he held it out to Josette. “Here, look.”
She took the piece of paper and read aloud: “My dear Thomas, how are you? I’ve telephoned the Rue Huysmans in vain; I’d be obliged if you could arrange a meeting with me. I know you’re very busy but I need to see you, the sooner the better. Cordially, Etienne Aubert.”
Josette burst out laughing and continued: “Well, he’ll have to wait. There’s a good joke to be made, though. Tell him that you’ll meet him in Nice, at my house...”
“What if he comes?”
“I’ve no fear of that. The dear friend’s given me the cold shoulder since his father’s death, since he has the whole factory. Au revoir, children, I’ll leave you and go to talk to Sixte about this soirée.”
Left alone, the two accomplices looked at one another.
“It must be a matter of the stepmother,” said Berthe. “She must have given birth. Etienne, I’m sure of it, must have a little brother. So, naturally, he has need of us.”
Thomas shivered. “A kid...a baby...”
“Exactly. It’s less heavy on the conscience. Think about it. What we’ve done serves no purpose if the widow’s succeeded in laying. It’ll be necessary for him to share. Confess that that’s annoying. So I know in advance what he wants.”
“Me, too,” said Thomas, darkly, “and I don’t want anything to do with it.”
She burst out laughing. “Don’t be childish. I haven’t made it clear. It’s another job for Baudard and the slut. He’s running short—it couldn’t have come at a better time. Only this time, it’s necessary to make him cough up a million. You can give two hundred thousand to them—after that, the beggars will leave us in peace.”
“And we can go to America, to New York. France is chic, but the New World is better. I’m always scared now that in our somnambulistic double state you might say something stupid—and also afraid of Dr. Vanel, Homo-Deus.”
“That nonsense again. Look, whether I’m asleep or awake, how it is possible that I’m not me? Me, Berthe Jafaux of Panam!”
“No, a thousand times no. It’s no longer you—it frightens me. It’s for that reason, more than any other, that I’m thinking of leaving the country. Perhaps, in traveling, you’ll end up leaving the other behind.”
“You’re driving me crazy with all that. Don’t put me to sleep any more, then. We’ll take in the mugs as before, that’s all. One more reason, anyway, for working for Etienne. With the big payoff we’ll go away, and the devil with the trade. How do we arrange the meeting with Aubert, then?”
“I’ll send him a telegram and arrange a rendezvous in Lyon. That way, we’ll be meeting half way. Go fetch me the P.L.M. timetable and I’ll take the dispatch down to Nice right away.
XV. One Crime Leads to Another
On the day after next, Sunday, Etienne and Thomas met in Lyon at the Hôtel Terminus. As soon as they were alone in a room, each with their red ribbons in their buttonholes, with the door closed, Etienne said:
“You have some inkling of what it’s about? My stepmother has given birth to a son, and you understand my situation, at the point where I am. If I could correct the past, I wouldn’t recommence what I’ve allowed to happen. You and Berthe have been the two tempters; you made me consent to and sign a horrible pact. Oh, I don’t want to dramatize my sin, but in having my father killed, I made a bad mistake. I’m not posing as a man racked by remorse; my hatred of this miserable kid will efface it. And then, there’s also the woman I love, in spite of everything, whom I desire, whom I want. And that toad, who has been baptized Antoine, will always be between us. The kid has to disappear. It’s necessary.”
“It’ll be expensive,” said the other, coldly.
“You consent?”
“For your happiness, I’ll do the impossible. We need another accident. It will be more difficult.”
“My stepmother has gone to stay for the birth with her godmother, Madame Desambez, at Théoule, between Cannes and Saint-Raphaël.”
“Damn! That’s annoying; I don’t know anyone there. There are locations to study, my operator to displace. How much are you offering?”
“The same price.”
“Impossible. There are too many risks. Then again, people who don’t recoil before the death of a man hesitate before a child. It’ll need double.”
“A million! Are you mad?”
“What’s a million today? You’ve inherited, without counting the old man’s cash, a factory that’s worth several. Go elsewhere, then; I don’t need it. If I’m still willing to run the risk, it’s purely to do you a favor. You know, anyway, that I won’t do it myself. I’m an honest man. I can aid destiny, that’s all. Times are hard and rogues are demanding.”
“All right. How will you do it?”
“I don’t know, and that’s not your concern. Let us take care of it, Berthe and me—and Baudard. It’s not my fault, or his, that you witnessed your father’s accident. Chance did that.”
“I won’t be there this time; I won’t be able to see anything, fortunately.”
“One more reason; it’s an advantage—and no risk for you.”
“Understood, my dear. You’ll take charge of the affair?”
“It’s necessary, since I worked on the other. By the way, you’ll have to make an engagement, like the first time. Here’s the stamped paper. You can see that I suspected what was bringing you here.”
Without responding, Etienne wrote, to the dictation of his accomplice:
I, the undersigned, Etienne Aubert, factory owner of Pais, Quai de Javel, declare that I owe Monsieuur Thoms Keysar, man of letters and thought-reader, domiciled in Paris, Rue Huysmans, the sum of one million francs, payable in ten monthly checks of a hundred thousand francs (100,000 francs) each, from the date of the death certificate of my brother, Antoine Aubert, in the year 1924.
Lyon, 14 March 1924.
Etienne Aubert.
Then, handing over the fatal piece of paper, he said: “When shall I have news?”
“As soon as possible.”
“And will I succeed in making the mother love me?”
“You’re sick, my lad? You have that woman in your blood, then? What microbe has ruined your eyes for her to get under your skin like that? I’ll leave you now; I’m in a hurry to get back to Nice, where I’m staying in a splendid villa on Mont Boron with your old friend Josette Coutan, who retains a fond memory of you. There’s a pretty woman who wouldn’t give you as much trouble as Madame Aubert. By the way, on my way back to Nice I’ll stop off at Théoule to inform myself
as to the lie of the land. But a baby is susceptible to so many maladies, you know. A young life is so fragile...”
XV. The Land of Golden Fruit
On returning to Les Papillons, the villa on Mont Boron, as soon as Thomas was alone with Berthe, he had her read the engagement signed by Etienne Aubert, written entirely in his hand and signed by the factory owner.
“That’s it.” said the seeress. “We’ve got the happy ending. Now, I think, poverty is well and truly over. I’ll write to Baudard and tell him to come alone, without my sister. You’ve put the wind in my sail with your Marc Vanel, Homo-Deus. Let’s get the money, leave for New York and exchange the land of oranges for that of dollars. When you go to Nice, book a room in a small out-of-the-way hotel for my brother-in-law manqué. When he’s there you can give him the information about the Villa Bellarosa that you brought back from Théoule. You’re an ace, and don’t waste time—but Baudard’s sentimental and he’ll jib when he knows that it’s a matter of a kid.”
“I’ll give him a hundred thousand francs, as for the father.”
“Yes, that’s reasonable. It’s settled, then?”
Thomas Keysar, all the more delighted because magnificent sunlight was filling their room with radiance and adding a pink tint to the palm trees with ivy-clad trunks that were outlined against the blue sky outside the two windows, embraced his mistress joyfully; they sketched a dance step, while singing the final refrain of the carnival: Nice en folie.
XVI. The Painter of the Sun
At the Villa Bellarosa in Théoule, meanwhile, there was bliss. The arrival of Marcelle Ossola and her two children, Simone and Robert, and the mischievous Ulette Jousselin, in the life of the excellent and worthy Madame Desambez provoked a redoubling of joy. The three women were certainly not short of reasons to be melancholy, but the sight of the children running around them prevented them from being absorbed by it. Ulette, in her capacity as the eldest, also more intelligent and alert, had quickly obtained an ascendancy over Simone and Robert; she organized all the games, the fantasy of which often made the three women laugh.
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