Blood Dark

by Louis Guilloux

  A sound of iron steps rang out, reminding Cripure of the steps of the police pursuing the little Chinese man, but instead of gunshots and the sinister cries of the unfortunate man, it was a little laugh he heard from the depths of the night. Surely it wasn’t the Clopper laughing, it was the little hunchback. And hunchback though she was, old, ugly, and in love with only her haggard little dog in all the world, her laugh rang out into the night, a young, mocking laugh, feminine, a laugh which he had to admit—dear God!—was not so different from the way Toinette’s laugh had been when Toinette still laughed. It was the devilish laugh of a woman in love who flees but encourages, and the laugh echoed into the night, piercing, cruel, overwhelming, so overwhelming that the Clopper himself must have been shocked into stillness, since you could no longer hear his steps. Somewhere on the edge of a sidewalk, he must be listening to that laugh, interrupted in his pursuit by that call and doubtless dreaming, letting the little hunchback run for all her might. There was a moment of silence, but from the depths of that silence a clatter of steps suddenly erupted: clop, clop, clop! And the pursuit began again.

  She could laugh, and flee, and tease him, and squeeze the little yellow dog in her wasted arms, he wouldn’t give up! And Cripure found a sort of comfort and happiness in hearing the iron steps battering the pavements of the night. Courage! Courage! He murmured, as if to brace himself. And his face pressed up next to the window, his body bent, gripping with two hands for support, he searched through the shadows, listening as hard as he could. The steps grew nearer. The little hunchback—gritting her teeth, no doubt, he imagined—reappeared in the circle of light, galloping, out of breath. The Clopper followed her closely, brandishing his cane, as long ago the skinny little man had brandished his before bringing it down on the dead man’s bloody face! But Cripure guessed, without knowing quite how, that this brandished cane wasn’t a threat. Even in this movement, there was something soft and innocent he couldn’t describe, and in fact, at the moment when the Clopper got close enough to the hunchback to grab her or strike her, the cane fell out of his hands. Cripure understood that it wasn’t entirely an accident. The cane hadn’t slipped from the Clopper, he’d thrown it away. He placed his fat, deformed hand on the hunchback’s shoulder with the gentleness of an angel. They looked at each other under the gaslight. That flight could have been nothing more than a childish game, since now that the Clopper had finally reached the hunchback, he was so tender. And she knew it. Not the slightest fear in her, not the slightest suspicion that she was afraid of whatever it was. She let the Clopper tenderly put a hand on her shoulder, not far from her hump, both of them absorbed in a silent and profound dialogue. They must be looking into each other’s eyes. But everything changed once again, the hunch-back tore herself away with a bat of the Clopper’s hand, and still holding that sad little dog in her arms, she ran away like she had a moment ago. He didn’t think to pick up his cane; he only thought of catching up to her. Cripure saw that he set off with a leap, as agile and fearless as a young man of twenty. The hunchback was his equal in agility. Despite being hampered by her cherished little dog, she ran like a young girl, and this time, instead of running toward the shadows at the other end of the street, she ran straight toward Cripure, ready, it seemed to him, to ask him for help and protection. He hid himself, pulled back, covered himself as best he could, and waited, his heart pounding. The iron steps filled the night. No doubt dizzy with excitement, the Clopper ran with all his might on the hunchback’s tail, holding out his arms in a gesture that was both pleading and menacing, desperate. Almost beneath Cripure’s window he caught her, but far enough away that Cripure could sometimes see only two shadows. She stopped, turned towards him, still holding the yellow dog to her chest, and once again he approached her gently, since she had given up running. He took something out of his pocket and offered it to her. She hesitated, shaking her head, but she held out her hand all the same, and the Clopper, making a deep bow, handed her the object after first holding it up to his lips. She looked at it for a long time. In her turn, she raised the object to her lips, ready to kiss it, when suddenly a little laugh rang out, as before, no longer joyous but terrible and crackling. The little object she held so close to her lips went flying into the shadows. It fell to the sidewalk with a tinkling of money. Then, for the third time, she fled, holding the little dog in her arms.

  He no longer thought to run after her. He remained standing there for a moment longer, while the hunchback’s laugh echoed still and was lost in the night. Then Cripure heard the heavy, troubled steps of the Clopper who went off the same way.

  •

  Cripure stayed for a long time, leaning out his window, facing out at the night in which there was nothing left to trouble him. From the kitchen he could still hear Maïa’s snoring. The hunchback and the Clopper never disturbed her one bit! He finally turned: night inside, night outside. He groped for his matches and lit the lamp. Once more, the gold Louis sparkled on the table, but Cripure barely looked at them. That was his hoard sure enough! What had the Clopper grasped in his hand? What had he kissed with such emotion? What was that object the hunchback in turn had brought to her lips and then rejected, tossed with such a heartrending laugh? To go out was quite an adventure for Cripure. Besides the fear of running in to the Clopper, since he knew he was gone, there was that of being killed by some evildoer hiding behind a patch of the wall—going out, that meant unbarring the door, pulling up the chain, opening the padlock, undoing the double bolt. He was barely capable of it. That task wasn’t his, but Maïa’s. He would have to take care of it in silence, like a thief, and surely he wouldn’t succeed. That left the window. It was low enough that he might be able to step through it. And once again, so that no one could surprise him in such an unusual act, he approached the lamp, not putting it out all the way, but shading it. Then, in that feeble glow, he went to the window. Not impossible at all, with a bit of courage and a lot of luck. He wouldn’t fall. But the hoard? Was it really wise to leave it alone with the window open to thieves? “Bah! Bah!” And he stepped through the window. Once he sat himself on the sill, which was not without difficulty, all that he had left was to slide down, and his long legs, his huge feet would reach the sidewalk all on their own. He didn’t dare decide yet, despite having accomplished most of the job. Would getting back inside be as easy? And if someone attacked him? “You enormous coward, what was he holding in his hand?” he murmured to himself. And without further hesitation, he slipped to the ground.

  How changed everything was! How abandoned he felt, despite touching his own house with his hand! He hadn’t expected that, or that his squeamishness would go so far as to make him think he was risking his life in this little nocturnal jaunt. That might be what he thought, but it wouldn’t stop him. Tearing himself away from the house in one movement, letting go of the windowsill as someone else might let go the edge of a ship’s deck to plunge into the sea, he bent down, moving toward the sidewalk, advancing as quickly as he could toward the place where just moments ago the scene had unraveled. While he walked, he held his eyes fixed on the ground. It wasn’t at all convenient to be searching the night for that mysterious little object. Perhaps it was simply crazy, since the night was dark, the gaslight was far away and feeble, and Cripure’s eyes were bad. If he had lost his pince-nez in that moment, there would have been no mayor to come and take his hand and rescue him. But he still looked, understanding that despite the duel and all the rest, he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he found it.

  The night was cool, and he shivered. His monstrous slippers, more like socks, resized by Maïa, made a little whispering on the stones, like a mute parody of the galloping iron steps he’d heard earlier. Here and there, Cripure stopped and crouched, bent over, his pince-nez held between his thumb and forefinger. It couldn’t be far, that thing. Whatever force the hunchback had used to throw it wouldn’t be more than twenty or so feet from where the scene had taken place. With a little patience, he’d know.

  �
�

  He finally noticed something shining in the middle of the road. He thought at first that it was just a piece of glass, so impossible had the recovery this mysterious object seemed. A simple piece of glass! He thought at first it wasn’t worth going to take a look. The object, piece of glass or not, glowed, and glowed alone in the shadows, touched by the last rays of the gas lamp, proof that the hunchback had thrown it pretty far. Who would have suspected that there was still so much force in those old skeletal arms? But who would have suspected that Cripure still had so much suppleness in his big, rusty body either? He’d barely noticed the little glittering object, when, despite all the precautions he’d given himself, he rushed over, as if it threatened to fly away, as if there wasn’t a moment to lose in trapping it. And like a child smacks a net over a butterfly perched on a wall, Cripure’s heavy hand came down on the shiny object and closed over it. I have it, I have it! And without even looking at that much-coveted object, but feeling its flat and pointy form, grasping it in his hand and smiling in the depths of himself and of the night, he went back to his window, puffing a little on his way.

  He didn’t even open his hand to climb back in, a more difficult operation than getting out, but he achieved it not only without falling but without ripping his clothes, without bruising himself.

  The night-light created the effect of an everlasting fire on an altar, and, in that weak glow, the little pile of gold was barely gleaming, like embers dying in the ashes. He turned up the flame. The gold glittered, sending out its sparks. Cripure went forward, opening his hand under the lamp—a schoolboy’s medal, shaped like a star.

  •

  For a moment, he was ashamed of his gesture, which seemed, through some godforsaken means, like a parody, but he raised the little school-boy’s star to his lips. The cold metal, which was neither gold nor silver, but probably nickel, stayed frozen to his mouth, as it had been to the Clopper’s—the same motion the hunchback had refused. But this furtive kiss, voluntary or not, he took it back. And the little star fell back into his hand, suddenly losing all its charm.

  A little nickel-plated star! A schoolboy medal! He was tempted to repeat the hunchback’s gesture, to throw the ridiculous star as far as he could forever. For the second time, the little tinkling of a moment ago would ring out in the night, for the second and last time.

  “They made a fool of me . . .”

  But he didn’t throw away the star, though he had approached the window with that intention. He held it in his hand for a moment longer, then dreamily put it on the table, murmuring, “Who knows?”

  “WHO KNOWS?” he went on. And this time, the words spurting out of his mouth made him perceive the silence more deeply. Nothing, not a murmur, not a breath, not a creak of wood. Maïa had even stopped snoring. Her sleep must be peaceful and wholesome, with that light breathing he so envied, he whose sleep was more and more often filled with nightmares. Why not go to sleep as well! Why not mark the end of this night of mistakes by stretching out as usual next to Maïa, since there was a Maïa!

  Wasn’t that common sense? He started to feel that particular tiredness which he’d so often felt during his nights of debauchery in Paris, that little fever and that numbing of all the senses, making him think he was moving through clouds, a cloud himself. He passed a hand across his forehead as if to chase away a fly. His head hurt. It was definitely time to go to sleep. Perhaps he only had a few hours before the fatal moment . . .

  The time? No point in looking at his watch. He knew it had stopped. What was it, a moment earlier . . .

  “Yes, it’s true. But so?”

  And he listened.

  Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. Was that really what it was? “That’s astonishing . . .” He picked up the watch, lifting it to his ear: nothing. “I’m not . . . all the same . . .” He pressed the watch to his ear a second time . . . still nothing.

  “That’s so . . .”

  It couldn’t be the alarm clock either, and for a reason! Maïa insisted that the ticking of the alarm clock prevented her from sleeping and in the evening she took care to put that object further away, placing it on the sill of the garden window. She’d done that a little while ago, without thinking that today, an alarm . . .

  But then, what was this godforsaken tick-tock?

  He heard it as clearly as if he were carrying the watch it came from in his waistcoat pocket. But he didn’t have a watch in his pocket, he knew that perfectly well.

  “So what? What is it? In the end, how wonderful . . .”

  He was standing in front of his desk. The little star glittered next to the treasure. What was the connection? The little star had nothing to do with the tick-tock. Besides that it had come from the same madness. The wine he’d drunk perhaps? The wine? “It isn’t the wine,” he murmured again, daring to lift his eyes to Toinette’s portrait, with the little watch pinned to her bodice. His arms opened like those of a man who abandons himself and gives up, his lips spasming, his chin and shoulders trembling.

  “Oh Lord!” He begged Toinette and took her as a witness. The tick-tock still in his ears. And Toinette’s smile, that adorable smile, seemed inquiring. “Do you want to? Do you want to start over? The watch is already ticking . . .”

  He let himself fall into a chair.

  If he started to believe, or to make himself believe, that the watch pinned to Toinette’s breast had started to tick all by itself, that would mean he’d gone crazy. It was fine to play with ghosts when he had ten glasses of Anjou in his blood, but at a moment like this! He’d lost track of which parts were theater and which were real. That sort of ticking or nibbling was the worms chewing the wood somewhere, maybe even Toinette’s frame itself.

  “I’m losing my mind,” he groaned. “You know well that I don’t believe . . .”

  Do you want to?

  He looked away, searching in the shadows. For what?

  “Oh Lord!”

  His big red muffler unraveled and hung down along his arms. Head lowered, his hands on his knees, he didn’t move, pleading for mercy. “Oh Lord!” he cried for the third time. And he brushed himself off, shook his head like a man getting out of the water. “But you’re dead!”

  The little tick-tock still went on insistently. But Cripure no longer dared to look at the portrait.

  “Damn it to hell! I’ll settle this for myself!”

  Clenching his teeth, his forehead striped with a fat crease, shaking from head to toe, he got up, stood on a chair and took down the portrait. He held it up to his ear. But he dropped it right away, falling off of the chair where he’d perched. Hastily, he propped the portrait on the chair with little “ee, ee, ee” cries of sacred terror, and he fled into the kitchen.

  MONSIEUR Marchandeau, finally escaped from the crowd, had taken refuge in the square. It was there that night came upon him, sitting on the same bench where the peasant and his wife had disappeared, his suitcase at his feet as their bundle had been. He’d gotten up finally, and since then he’d been wandering, passing from one street to the next, night against the night, with a stammering but relentless stride. How could he reappear before his wife, how could he tell her?

  Like everybody else, Monsieur Marchandeau had often perused, with a hand that was sometimes distracted, those war tabloids offering to the world such a list of horrors it was unbelievable that anyone could bear to look. In those tabloids, some of which would pay any price for interesting documents, he’d stumbled upon photos of an execution: a spy put before a firing squad. The man, his head lowered, his hands tied, a last cigarette on his lips, marched between his executioners, and Monsieur Marchandeau noticed that there was always one who smiled. It was as if there couldn’t be an execution without that smile! Which one would be smiling in just a few hours?

  Then came the actual execution: the man, blindfolded on his knees before the post. And then, finally, the line of soldiers in front of the corpse.

  He’d looked at these pictures, not without emotion, but with the fee
ling that these things didn’t directly concern him, that these horrors took place in a universe that wasn’t connected to his own, his peaceful one where he’d never be shot, nor anyone he knew. Now . . .

  It had happened to him as to so many others, a crisis he wasn’t prepared for: he was at the theater, comfortably seated in an orchestra seat, and now someone was asking harshly for him to get out of his chair, to shuffle onto the stage, dragging his wife and son with him. He hadn’t expected that. Naively, until August 2, 1914, he’d taken life for a fairy tale. Today they were asking, whip in hand, that he take an active role in the spectacle, without even asking if he’d at least learned some of his lines, if he knew what made up the scene as a whole and for whom this gala was being staged. But he didn’t know anything. He only saw that it wasn’t about the play anymore at all, that the comedy was turning into a drama—a real drama—that the bullet was a real bullet, the sword was really covered in blood, the corpse was really dead.

  They were shooting spies—so be it! But nobody told him they also shot protesters, or that there were any. They’d led him to believe that everything was going wonderfully, and that the thousands of young men thrown into the manure joyously accepted their deaths. He let himself be fooled without thinking for a second that the murdering machine could turn against him and his son. He’d let it happen, he’d consented. He was complicit—alas!—with that smile which in a few hours would walk with Pierre to the stake, complicit with the prayers a tender chaplain would make sure to say over his son so that all the rules would be satisfied and the dead attended.

  Night was rolling its fat clouds full of spray over the town and the principal walked. He’d wanted so badly to fool himself. He understood now that in addition to the sorrow of losing his son, snatched from him in such a dishonorable way, another misfortune would be added which would complete his ruin—Claire would never forgive him. She’d stop loving him, and maybe she’d even hate him. He’d betrayed both of them. That was why he was so sure of Claire’s disgusted look. She’ll never forgive me and she’s right.