Just then, the sound of the doorbell caused me to anticipate that I was about to find out why Floriane had made herself so beautiful. Of course! It could only be him!
“Monsieur Ferval is in the drawing room,” Maria announced, in fact.
“I’m coming.”
I feared for a moment that I might not be able to witness their conversation. Floriane moved to the door hastily, without giving any further thought to me. Before going out, however, she called: “Come on, coco.”
And it was in her arms that I confronted the thief of my honor. He was standing in ecstasy before the portrait of Floriane by André Devambez,30 a magisterial work that represented her lying on a sofa, her eyes dreamy, one hand turning the page of a book whose thought she was meditating: an attitude typical of her, perfectly rendered by the great artist.
Georges had not heard us come in. He remained riveted to the beautiful image for some time, while Floriane, also prolonging her silence contemplated for her part, in anima vili, with equal admiration, the sportive silhouette of her visitor. Oh, he knew what he was doing, that friend, dressed in his seductive naval officer’s uniform, which is not usually worn when on leave.
Was I about to know everything?
He finally sensed her presence. He turned round, and expressed his joy by kissing her hand for a long time.
“To what do I owe our presence at such an early hour?” Floriane asked, with a hint of mockery.
“Bad news, mon amie.”
Mon amie. Before me, he called her “ma chère amie,” Was not the suppression of the adjective, the emphasis on the masculine possessive pronoun already an indication of property?
“You’re frightening me. Is it about Jacques?”
“Jacques? Why Jacques?”
“Can you imagine that he hasn’t come back from the Rouvions, where, as you know, he spent yesterday?”
“Bah! He’ll have missed the train. No need for you to be alarmed by that.”
“I’m not alarmed—but all the same, I’d like to know whether he did miss the train, and the real reason for his lateness.”
“What makes you think there’s another?”
“Oh, nothing...”
That “nothing,” revelatory of the interest that they had in me, fell upon my heart like a funeral oration over an insignificant tomb. I was not even worth a suspicion of anxiety. The bad news concerning Georges was much more important.
“I’ve just received orders to return.”
“You’re going back to Toulon without finishing your leave?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the reason for this abrupt recall?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t yet had time to call in at the Ministry to find out whether it’s a matter of a cruiser in the squadron.”
“They can order you to embark just like that, without warning?”
“They can when international difficulties crop up—but I don’t think that’s the reason this time. On that side, at least, things are quiet for the moment.”
“When are you going?”
“Tomorrow evening. So I came to confirm my telegram, to apologize again for having to let you down the day after tomorrow.”
Finally, the revelation! They had a rendezvous arranged for the day after tomorrow.
The day after tomorrow, those wretches had decided to find some infamous refuge, perhaps even Georges’ hotel. Their confession went through me like a drill.
Alas, I was obliged to recognize that Floriane was the more impatient.
“Can’t we do it today?”
“Unfortunately, no. Today I have to go to Le Havre to see the notary who’s settling the inheritance, as you know. That will take me all day.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
“Tomorrow, I have to make another trip, to see Maman, as you also know.”
She knew many things that I did not. But what escaped me even more, and which confused me, was the sudden change of direction their dialogue took, devoted exclusively to the fashions of the coming winter. Were they fearful of indiscreet ears? Not mine, at any rate. Ardent as I was to penetrate their secret, they could not suspect it. Or were they making use of conventional language to signify other things? At any rate, they talked about fabrics, he with a competence that confirmed his futility so far as I was concerned, while rendering him more agreeable to Floriane; she had a frenzy or coquetry of which I was well aware.
“I only want to wear silk crêpe,” she declared.
“You’re right. It’s more becoming.”
Crêpe—the apparel of widows…as if they suspected an imminent mourning.
“In sum, you can’t see any means this time?”
“None—but I suspect that it won’t be long before I return to Paris.”
“It’s very annoying nevertheless. Will I be able to wait?”
“Yes, yes…,” Georges calmed her. It was only then that he noticed me. “What! So you’ve got a pooch?”
“Since yesterday evening. He arrived instead of my husband. Pretty, isn’t he?”
“Yes, he’s delightful.” He put out a hand to stroke me. I replied by showing my teeth.
“Aha! He doesn’t seem friendly. Is he jealous of you already?” Without suspecting how truly he spoke he added: “I can understand that.” Then he asked: “What’s he called?”
“I don’t know.”
“Call him Zizi, then. That’s a charming name for a dog.”
“You’re forgetting that Jacques, in intimacy...”
“Giky, Zizi—that’s true. But my God, you won’t get them mixed up, even so!”
“Zizi it is.”
“And I request the favor of offering him a collar.”
Baptized by my rival! Garroted by my rival! That was too much. I manifested my resentment more ferociously. He judged it prudent not to insist. Besides which, the time of his train was approaching.
“I’ll go. I’ll come back tomorrow morning, at about ten o’clock, to say my goodbyes.”
“I’ll see you then, my friend.”
She left me to escort him to the door. I don’t know what they said to one another in the antechamber.
Chapter V
The separation from Georges Ferval in the antechamber lasted for some time, unless Floriane was distracted by some household occupation. I was beginning to think that I had been forgotten when she returned to the drawing room.
She looked at the old clock on the mantelpiece, whose face was dominated by a Venus on a Roman chariot, guiding two mares with long reins. For my part, I thought it singularly appropriate to the circumstances.
“Eleven o’clock and he isn’t here yet. It’s incomprehensible...”
She sat down at the telephone in the bedroom and asked for the long-distance operator.
“No 117 at Bourbon-Marlotte, if you please.” The number of the friends with whom I was supposed to have spent the previous day.
When she had Madame Rouvion on the other end of the line she enquired after me prudently. Nestled on her knees, I heard the reply.
“But we waited for him in vain...,” said the lady, nasally.
“What! You haven’t seen him?”
“All day. That was very annoying for us, because I’d ordered the chicken with olives that he adores especially for him, and we were obliged to eat it overcooked—hard, dry and detestable. One doesn’t do things like that! I had to console our poor cook as best I could; she was in tears. She has her self-respect, the girl, which is understandable…but I swore that next time, we’ll replace the chicken with something grilled…”
Then the distant voice become pitying. “He let you down as well last night, then, my poor dear?”
“He has business affairs and obligations to travel at the moment, which disrupt all his plans.”
“Men’s affairs...we know what that means. I’m sincerely sorry for you, my dear friend. But a piece of advice...”
Floriane did not wait for the advice. She hung up, abruptly. When, t
hree minutes later, the ringing of the bell caused her to pick up the receiver again, she hung up once more on hearing the voice of the obstinate counselor again.
I complimented her on my behalf. That Rouvion woman was a venomous parrot. I only tolerated her out of sympathy for her husband. The business reason that Floriane had given her to excuse my absence also testified to a respect for our conjugal façade on my ex-wife’s part, of which I approved no less.
She waited a little longer. Then, sure that Marlotte would not bother her any more, she recommenced her investigation. A little more nervous at each rotation of the dial, mistaking numbers, demanding the correction of errors of her own making, she made enquiries of my parents, my brother Jean, my sister Marie-Thérèse, our cousins Pigeois and my bank.
Might not an accident have taken me to a hospital? She questioned the Assistance Publique, then our doctor, and then, successively, all the railway lines. From public transport she passed on to my editor, the newspapers for which I wrote and, as a last resort, consulted the Morgue.
At every negation she became more annoyed. “Oh, what does this mean? Might that viper Rouvion have been right?”
I saw her finger sketch out the number of Mademoiselle Rose Vilon, the principal interpreter of my last play. The actress had been the cause of a small jealous scene the year before—oh, very slight, and the only one that Floriane had caused throughout our marriage—when Madame Rouvion, still under the guise of looking out for our marital harmony, had confided gossip, the pure product of her imagination, which alleged that I was the artiste’s protector. I had had no difficulty demolishing that perfidious invention, but it was not surprising that Floriane remembered it. This time, however, as soon as she heard the voice dear to the public, the fear of ridicule made her hang up before even exchanging a bonjour.
She did not eat lunch. She replaced her organdie dress with a somber outfit—already!—and left the apartment, confiding me to Maria.
“I don’t know why the boss has a fire up her backside,” Maria reflected to the cook. “Can it be because of Monsieur?”
I did not see Floriane again all afternoon. She must have been continuing her search. I could not fault her obstinacy. Was a residue of tenderness its only stimulant? Was she not also obedient to anxiety regarding a material situation of which my disappearance threatened the loss? Not that she was particularly self-interested. She was even endowed with a natural generosity that drove her treat others with a largesse for which I had sometimes reproached her. But ultimately, she appreciated above all, for herself, the good living, the comfort, the impeccable service, the automobile, the teas in which delicacies were unspared, the oft-renewed wardrobe and the ostentatious gesture of putting twenty sous into the hand of a professional beggar—so many petty follies which, in the current financial climate, were disconcerting for a husband. Now, her dowry was modest, as was the ease of her parents, to whom my disappearance would force her to return, while waiting a new marriage at the reduced pay of a naval lieutenant. In that regard, I won a considerable triumph of banknotes. That would be my vengeance.
Her absence weighed upon me. In order to be patient, I undertook several investigations in the direction of my cadaver. To think that I was there, behind that locked door, and Floriane had not even thought of opening it! I found that negligence inconceivable. I put more courage into it than she had. I pointed my muzzle at the interstices, noisy breathed in the tragic air. No odor yet; my meat was too fresh. As long as they did not take too long to discover me! As long as I did not become, after my death, an object of repulsion!
At about seven o’clock, Floriane came back. She was accompanied by a notary of our acquaintance. He stayed for a long time conversing in the drawing room. I was not admitted to their conference, but I heard its conclusion in the antechamber, while Floriane was showing her counselor out.
“No, believe me, my dear Madame, there’s certainly no monetary question that might have determined Monsieur Perdunier to…absent himself. All his financial affairs, of which I have the care, are perfectly healthy. I can guarantee that. It’s necessary to look elsewhere.”
“Where?”
He did not offer an opinion—but I understood by a casual gesture that he was corroborating the opinion of Madame Rouvion. Floriane interpreted it in the same way, for she said: “You’re mistaken, Monsieur. Of him, it’s not possible.”
The lawyer made a further gesture, which signified: Oh, men…! and he withdrew.
I don’t know what happened afterwards. Floriane abandoned me completely. I was banished to the kitchen, where I became reacquainted with my improvised bed and the string binding me to the table. I saw the meal taken to Madame come back in its entirety, lacking only a bunch of grapes.
“Perhaps she’s ill,” said Mélanie compassionately.
“More likely she’s overstuffed,” Maria corrected.
I was the one who benefited from the leftovers; Mélanie did not spare them. And in truth, I didn’t shirk the pâté with which she’d filled a deep plate. Unlike Floriane, I had no reason to lack appetite. I knew how things stood on my account.
My night was similar to the one before.
At about nine o’clock in the morning I had just come back from my little tour of the street when Floriane came into the kitchen to give instructions for lunch. Ordinarily, she issued them from her bed. She was wearing a mauve peignoir and seemed to be in a tranquil mood, but the circles around her eyes revealed her insomnia. She picked me up and caressed me limply, wondering whether I had accomplished my matinal canine duties, which Maria confirmed.
Immediately, though, the hussy enquired: “Should I set the table for two, Madame?”
“Certainly, Floriane replied simply—only to retract it immediately: “Unless Monsieur is still traveling.”
“Ah! Monsieur in traveling?”
“Where do you think he is?”
“One never knows…with men...”
Always the same sly criticism of my former sex, proffered by that ancillary slut, as by Madame Rouvion and the notary. I don’t believe, however, that we were interpreted so very unjustly.”
“And then,” Maria persisted, with false pity, “Madame seems so tormented.”
“What makes you think that, Maria?”
“Everything, Madame... Madame didn’t eat anything yesterday evening... Madame hasn’t slept...”
“Not slept?”
“Madame only has to look at herself.”
“I did sleep badly, in fact, Maria, but for another reason. I was battling all night with a flea. You’ll search for it, won’t you?”
“And there it was! Those eloquent circles around my beloved’s eyes, which I attributed to the anxiety of my hypothetical escapade, derived uniquely from the fact that I had been replaced in the conjugal bed by a minuscule insect!
I owed to that insect, of which I might have been the carrier, my immediate replacement in my basket and that of the cord around my neck. That was about to prevent me from witnessing the imminent farewell visit promised to my wife by Georges for that very morning: a visit in the course of which I was sure to be definitely enlightened. Exasperated, I had the idea of appealing to the good heart of Mélanie. I started running madly around the table leg to which my tether as fixed, so that it diminished progressively, to the point that my neck was soon tight against the item of furniture.
“But he’s going to strangle himself! It’s not permissible to keep the poor beast tied up like that!” cried the candid cook, liberating me.
Now free to wander as I pleased, I decided that it was time to put an end to the ignorance of my entourage as to what had become of me. I was the only one able to put them on the right track, since no one had thought of the study where I was nursing my last slumber. I went in that direction and started leaping up furiously at the door, howling mortally.
They did not understand at first. Maria fetched me back to the kitchen twice, smacking me, and twice I returned to the same howls of dist
ress. On my third trip, Floriane shouted from her bed, where she had gone to lie down again: “Why is he barking like hat? Come here, Zizi!”
I did not obey, but continued my performance. Then she got up, came into the corridor, and remarked: “What’s in there, to put him in that state?”
She tried to go in.
“Why, it’s locked.”
She put her eye to the keyhole. The key was on the other side, and she could not see anything.
“It’s locked from inside! Oh, what a bother!”
She went into the drawing room, where there was a door communicating with the study. She repeated her attempt to open it, in vain. Then a presentiment gripped her, which caused her to suspect, certainly not that I was lying inanimate behind those doors, but that she might find, there where I worked, the key to the enigma. Even if one no longer loves one’s husband sufficiently to have been excessively upset by his absence, and one has only suffered insomnia because of an avid flea, marital negligence nevertheless demands to be clarified.
“Quickly, a locksmith!” she went into the kitchen to order.
It was Mélanie who brought back a portly practitioner, the bearer of a goatee, a bunch of keys and a lock-pick. The door ended up yielding.
And then...
Then, if I had been able to believe in Floriane’s love, I would have had striking evidence of it. On perceiving my cadaver, still holding the murderous weapon in the right hand, she stood still at first, dazed, rooted to the spot, her eyes widened by terror, her entire body agitated by a tremor, while scarcely comprehensible words collided in her throat.
The Exploits of Professor Tornada (Vol. 3) Page 26