The Man Who Was Born Again

by Paul Busson

  Chapter Twenty Six

  In my great anxiety to save the girl Zephyrine from some danger that she seemed aware of but which was unknown to me, I again remembered Lorle, the friend of my early years, whom I had encountered by accident on the day of my arrival in Vienna. Even though I had the strongest physical desire for Lorle, my meeting with a girl who reminded me so much of Aglaia robbed these desires of their power. I now desired to see her for other reasons. She might be of the greatest help to me, I realised, in my investigations about the lovely girl and her hunchback guardian. For Lorle was clever, and if her ascendancy in the social world was any true index, she must have possessed valuable connections.

  I inquired the way to Schonlaterngasse, and was eventually directed to its oldest house. Like the gambling hall, this house had a street front which was misleading: you could not guess from it what comfort and beauty were to be found inside. A gracefully sculptured group, representing the Rape of Proserpine, stood at the foot of a marble staircase, and painted Venetian Moors stood in wooden immobility on the landing, holding torches in their hands. A neat-looking chambermaid with coquettishly arranged dress led me up the stairs, and ushered me into a room hung with pale yellow silk. Here she excused herself and disappeared into the neighbouring room through a curtain held by putti.

  As the door opened for her I heard a short shrill laugh that filled me with astonishment; never before had I heard such a horribly piercing voice. I gazed round the elegant chamber in which I had been left standing, casually inspecting its only picture. It represented a dark man, plain-looking, with an olive complexion, sharply-cut features and sad dark eyes. He was garbed in a canary-coloured uniform with red cuffs and a black breastplate under his unbuttoned coat. The maid-servant reappeared, lifted the curtains of the inner door, and with a curtsey bade me go forward.

  I entered a boudoir of costly furniture. Lorle, or Laurette, as she was now called, reclined on a brocaded couch. Smiling, she stretched her jewel-covered hand out towards me from a cloud of lace and fine silk. I was very moved by the uncommon charm that radiated from her handsome face under its elaborate headdress. But as I stared at her in delight, by no means to her displeasure, forgetting everything in my ecstasy, I again heard that sickening, shrill laugh, and only now learnt that it proceeded from the crooked beak of a grey parrot, bald and ruffled.

  Had my mind not been occupied by the long-vanished image of a sweet childish face and gold-red hair, I could scarcely have refrained from showing my delight in the presence of this splendidly developed woman, whose first feelings of love had been aroused by me, all the more since Laurette, with accomplished art, displayed to me first a part of her heavenly bosom, then a noble leg or a classically rounded arm. Indeed I gave myself the pleasure of reminding her of the days when she had been called Lorle, and had kissed me in the bushes behind her father’s house.

  But with charming skill she changed the subject, keeping me within the limits she chose to set for our conversation. When once I made as if to touch her bare arm she tapped my fingers warningly with her ivory fan, and with strangely significant earnestness she pointed to the parrot, now busy sharpening his beak on his silver perch.

  “Be on your guard with this bird, my all-too-eager cavalier,” she said in a low voice, as if she feared lest the ruffled monster might hear her. “Apollonius does not like any familiarities in his presence. Besides, my little finger tells me, cher Baron, that you have not made your appearance to make love to me, but because you want my help in some way.”

  “I cannot deny it,” I replied, rather impressed. “But it is inconceivable to me, worshipful Laurette, how you could have guessed the truth!”

  She laughed.

  “Have not I got my oracle, as well as my protector and guardian at my side?” she teased; and then in a lower voice she added:

  “It is lucky that the good Apollonius is just a little deaf and can’t overhear everything we say.”

  The fact that she lowered her voice seemed to anger the parrot. He rolled his eyes and began restlessly dancing from one foot to the other, and pecked angrily at his perch.

  “Louder,” the parrot cried. “Louder.”

  “Do you see?” said Laurette. “He is in a bad temper to-day,” she added, and looked at the bird timidly.

  “He looks like an old villain, this Apollonius of yours,” I answered aloud. “They say that brutes of this species live to be more than a hundred.”

  “He-he-he! Ha-ha-ha!” screamed the parrot. “You are a brute yourself! A hundred years! Tete faible!”

  I was astounded.

  “What? Does he speak French too?”

  “He speaks all languages,” whispered Laurette, “so be careful! He keeps an eye on me and tells everything to my friend the Spanish Minister whose mistress I am.”

  She added reluctantly, and blushed slightly.

  “Apollonius knows hidden things and can foretell the future.”

  Now I knew who her protector was, and to whom she owed her good fortune. It would have been natural for me to feel a little pang of jealousy at the news, but I could not. Instead I was moved to sorrow and remorse that, through me, a pure and good-natured maiden had been led away from the peaceful and secure shelter of her parents’ house towards the sham and insecure magnificence of such a life. But I could not fail to observe that her circumspection in my presence was not due to any loyalty to her present friend and lover; she feared the treacherous babble of the bird, to which she evidently ascribed human understanding and human malice. These observations of mine made the thoroughly hideous, bald-headed creature more repulsive and horrid in my eyes than ever.

  I felt inclined to pick a quarrel with the bird, or, at all events, to test how far Laurette’s delusion as to his intelligence was founded. How could there really be brain-matter superior to that of other animals or birds in the parrot’s small round head, behind those staring eyes rolling backwards and forwards in their sockets? The bird might repeat imposing words and by chance make sense with them and produce uncommon and startling effects; but I could not and indeed I refused to believe in a parrot possessing anything even remotely resembling a human understanding. The only thing that I understood and justified in Laurette’s attitude was her precaution to speak in an undertone, so that the slightly deaf bird might not catch up words and jabber them out on some untimely occasion.

  I had heard a story about a starling, which is also a bird that talks, betraying its mistress by repeating in caressing tones before her husband the name of a young man who had long been suspected of being her lover. I took no notice, therefore, of Laurette’s warning expression, and turned to the parrot, looked at him fixedly, and said:

  “Now, Apollonius, if you are really as clever as you pretend to be, just tell me this:who was it won most at a game of ‘faro’ that I took part in yesterday?”

  The bird ruffled up his feathers and squinted and coughed horribly.

  “Defunctus!”

  I could only stare. I was powerless to say a word.

  “Please, Melchior, leave him alone,” said Laurette in a rapid undertone.

  Her look expressed horror. Then aloud:

  “Baron, do not tease Apollonius, or else he tells me the nastiest things that take away all my sleep.”

  “No, no,” I exclaimed, recovering my courage. “It was I who won, you devilish brute!”

  The grey creature laughed, inclining his head, and looking at me malevolently.

  “Donum grati defuncti.”

  “Why does nobody wring this mischievous vermin’s neck?” I exclaimed in a rage. “Give him some peach kernels and make him hold his peace.”

  Laurette shook her head.

  “He eats no poison.”

  “Murderer! Murderer!” grated Apollonius, and he beat his wings.

  “I suppose it is you who have committed murder, you foul creature!” I shouted, and I shook my fist at him. “You must be a soul damned by God and atoning for your sins in your present form
.”

  At that a heavy, almost human, groan came from the perch, the groan of a tormented soul. The parrot gave me a terrible and hopeless look, and hung his head. He slowly drew his ugly lids over his eyes, and then I beheld, with a secret shudder, two tears fall from them! But the next moment he was staring at me with such horrid malice that any compassion I felt was instantly evaporated. Then I caught sight of the disturbed countenance of the beautiful Laurette, and I thought how disobliging and upsetting my behaviour must appear to her. To atone for my mistake, I decided to turn the affair into a joke. So I bowed to the bird with comic politeness, and said briskly:

  “Do not be angry, worthy Apollonius, I did not mean to offend your wisdom. I am converted. I doubt no more your marvellous gift for seeing the past and the future. Cannot we be friends, O king of all parrots?”

  The bird shook with laughter, noisily clapped his beak and whistled. Then, with dreadful distinctness, he shook his head in the negative, for all the world like a human being.

  “So we cannot be friends?” I went on, winking at the same time to Laurette. “I am sorry, for I wanted your assistance. I would have liked to ask you a question about a certain hunchback I am trying to find.”

  My question was, of course, intended for Laurette, and I was about to explain it to her, when a rattle came from the perch.

  “Dottore Postremo.”

  “What business have you with him?” Laurette interrupted quickly.

  Her tone betrayed astonishment.

  “Why, do you know him?” I asked; I was unable to conceal my eagerness.

  She blushed deeply.

  “Merely by chance,” she replied, with embarrassment.

  “What is the matter with him?”

  “He is an Italian doctor. Many women go to him to be rid of the unpleasant consequences of pleasant hours... He is a man of very bad reputation, and the courts have often been on his track. But it has never been possible to prove anything against him. You must not think, though, that he is my doctor.”

  I smiled politely.

  “How could I, my beautiful Laurette!”

  “He is also said to have a very pretty adopted daughter or niece who is with him,” she continued. And as if struck by a new thought, she looked at me searchingly. “Quite a young girl. He lives at a house called ‘zum Fassel.'”

  She lowered her eyes and looked at me from under her eyelids.

  “Be careful,” she added, “he is capable of anything.”

  “You are mistaken, Laurette,” I said, uncaring whether or not it was the truth, “I am not looking for an adventure.”

  The damned bird startled me by breaking in with a wild mocking laugh. Laurette sighed reproachfully.

  “Apollonius sees through you,” she said. “You always had an inclination towards youth and innocence, Baron von Dronte.”

  “Your remark arouses a memory in me,” I smilingly answered, “that has been so unforgettable and so precious that it has lit up the whole of my life, like a star.”

  “Oh you are as gallant as ever!” she cried.

  She offered me her hand to kiss, and rose up, eager and, it seemed to me, joyful. I too rose up, but it was to take my departure. I was bewildered by contradictory and disturbing feelings.

  “Tell me,” I said, turning and again addressing the bird. “As I have not succeeded in winning your friendship, how shall I fare in the future!”

  “Your head off! Your head off!” screamed the parrot, and leered at me with the delight of a devil.

  I turned my back on the uncanny creature and went out of the room. Laurette accompanied me. I found myself in the yellow room. Hardly had the curtain fallen behind us than I saw her turn pale. I had just time to prevent her from falling by taking her in my arms. I laid her down on a small sofa and looked round. On one of the tables was a golden flagon, and I moistened her forehead with the highly scented essence. She opened her eyes slowly.

  “The horrid creature frightened me,” she murmured.

  Then clasped her arms round my neck. But I gently disengaged myself.

  “I am a prisoner,” she suddenly whispered in a tone of desperation. “That satanic brute guards me better than any human being could do. Do you hear how angry he is there, screaming and beating his wings? This is his sign for the maid to come and take charge of me. But she is not at home, I have sent her away on an errand. We are alone...”

  Again her soft, round arms were clasped round my neck, and before I could realise my position her hot, red lips were on mine.

  “Lorle, poor Lorle,” I whispered... But all the time my thoughts were for Zephyrine, in the house of the hunchback doctor.

  Gently I unfastened Laurette’s arms and looked at her.

  “Forget me, Lorle,” I said. “Do not stake all your happiness for this one moment.”

  At once a flame flashed in her eyes.

  “Thank you for your kind consideration,” she answered harshly. “Now I know there is someone else, and that I am nothing to you.”

  “Lorle!” I stammered.

  “Go! Go!” she said, and the tears stood in her eyes. “It is no use trying to deceive me!”

  I went out of the room, shutting the door between me and a sobbing woman.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Ardently I pursued my search for Zephyrine. The house called “zum Fassel” was easy to find, but it would have been foolish of me to have attempted to enter Dr. Postremo’s lodging on any trivial pretext. After all, I would not be able to speak to Zephyrine in his presence, and, even if we succeeded in exchanging a few words, every one of them would be overheard. I reflected also that after the night at the gaming-hall the doctor might possibly have formed a bad opinion of me. My best plan, I decided, was to wait and watch for a moment when the doctor was away and his niece at home. Otherwise I had best leave all to luck, and hope to meet Zephyrine some time when she would be going out of doors.

  Therefore I spent all of my time outside the house, never losing sight of its door. But fortune was not with me. The opportunity I sought for did not come. Then something happened that deeply impressed me. It gave rise in my mind, moreover, to a series of puzzling and tormenting questions, and at the same time it filled me, strange though the fact may seem, with confidence. I was walking down the neighbouring Greek Street to partake of a hurried meal at an inn. Scattered groups of Greek and Turkish traders were discussing their business in the street, according to their Oriental custom, and I was obliged to slow down in order to make my way through the throng, so engrossed seemed everybody in their conversation.

  I was threading tortuously along, when suddenly at the further end of the street I beheld something that threw me into the greatest perturbation. A man in a black turban, his radiant eyes fixed in my direction, seemed to be advancing towards me. I distinctly saw his clear-cut features, the amber necklace, his red-brown gown. At once when I recovered my control I vowed that this time I would approach him. I began making my way vigorously through the astonished and annoyed crowd of traders, and was obliged momentarily to turn my eyes away from the man I was pursuing. When I again looked his way he had, alas, disappeared, just as he had done on every occasion that brought me within reach of him. I hurried on as fast as I could towards the turn of the street, but it was in vain. Neither to right nor left could my eyes discover him. I saw none but strange people, indifferently coming or going their way. My sense of bafflement was complete.

  Instinctively I felt that the apparition of this extraordinary man signified that an important and decisive event was close upon me. I decided to make inquiries from one of the Levantine merchants I had so rudely pushed aside. I felt that it was just possible that an Oriental living in Vienna and going about in Oriental dress must be known to some of them. Therefore I retraced my steps, and addressed an old Turk with a white beard and a good-natured face, who wore a sable-trimmed mantle even on that hot day, and, judging by the behaviour of the people about him, was much respected. Apologising as polit
ely as I could for my importunity, I proceeded to make my inquiries.

  The Turk touched his mouth and forehead with his right hand, and replied in tolerable German with equal politeness. He did not know the man, he said, nor had he ever seen him. But his eyes had turned to a tiny red scar which had been made on me by the broken glass case. He dwelt on it with an intent and unfathomable expression.

  Then in a voice full of respect he said:

  “You, sir, who bear the mark of Evli, do you put questions to me?”

  I did not understand his meaning. Again I described the stranger’s turban and mantle.

  “It is the dress of the Halweti Dervishes,” answered the Turk, bowing low. “Grant me your goodwill, Effendim.”

  He stepped back and away. Immediately the other Turks besieged him with questions, and his answers were given in an undertone. He seemed to be spreading an extraordinary idea concerning me, for when I had to pass the group again they all bowed before me and drew up on either side of my path. I could only hurry past in confusion.

  I took my simple meal in a chophouse, very disturbed within me, and puzzling my brain all the while about the apparition that I had never succeeded in approaching. After I finished eating I went again to take up my post before the sign of “zum Fassel.” On my way there I passed a Greek coffee-house and casually glanced into its shadows. To my joy and amazement, the first thing I saw there was the hunchback figure of Dr. Postremo. He was sitting at a backgammon board on which the pieces were scattered in disorder.

  He was gesticulating excitedly to a black-haired man with a long crooked nose, who sat smiling sarcastically. After a while the hunchback’s angry feelings were quieted, the pieces were again disposed in order, and the game recommenced. I realised then that the house of “zum Fassel” had another door which had escaped my notice, and which was used by the Italian. It was now or never. I entered and asked the first person I met the whereabouts of the doctor’s lodging. I received the surly reply that it was on the second floor. Without difficulty I found the door bearing his name. It had also a bell-handle in the form of a hand giving the fig. Just as I was reaching out to ring the bell a little grey woman came up from the street and opened the door with a latch-key. When she was inside, I pushed past her.