Blood Dark

by Louis Guilloux

  The Clopper was there under the gaslight as usual, his chin in his hand. Cripure took his revolver and sighted: bang, bang . . . The Clopper didn’t even turn his head. “Impossible,” murmured Cripure. Bang, bang, bang . . . Three rounds. Bang. The last one. The magazine was empty, and the Clopper hadn’t moved.

  He finally did, he took a step, and with a gesture that shocked Cripure, he twirled something around his head . . . not his cane. What was it? A sword! Under the light of the gas lamp, the pure blade glittered, twirled so nimbly in the Clopper’s hands, so quickly it seemed to be a wheel, like those at the fair, for the raffle. Cripure jumped so much in waking that Maïa opened her eyes.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she said.

  “Nothing, a nightmare,” Cripure replied in a muffled voice. He searched under his pillow for a handkerchief to wipe his forehead.

  That it was possible to sleep so long, to forget, even a few hours before death, and dream of the Clopper and . . . What a dream! he thought, how he handled his sword! Maïa went back to sleep, but he understood that he wouldn’t sleep again until the eternal rest they wrote about in the inscriptions on gravestones—and they wouldn’t neglect to mention it on his own—and with great care not to wake Maïa, he got up, looking curiously around him and shivering.

  The fire had gone out in the stove a long time ago. Everything seemed sad, sordid, freezing. He got dressed, asking himself if he wouldn’t go back to bed, missing the warmth. He wrapped the goat-skin around him. With that over his shoulders, he could stay on his feet. What a dear old goatskin it was! He suddenly felt a rush of Prudhommesque[19] sentimentality for that goatskin which enveloped him from head to toe, filling him with soft and tender warmth. Enough! And so he realized the light was burning in his study.

  What? What light? He didn’t remember right away that he’d left the lamp lit, and when it came back to him, he let out a big sigh, as if the fault in his memory were proof that he wasn’t completely lucid, that something was starting to unravel in his skull. He walked toward it anyway, his look turning to Maïa. As he pushed open the door, the light came into the kitchen, climbing slowly, like the only illuminated spoke of an invisible wheel, brightening first a hand hanging over the bed, then the rest of the arm, discovering the shoulder, and then the face still thick with sleep. Cripure didn’t move. His own hand froze on the doorknob, and he watched the sleeper for a long time. He could barely hear her breathing. He let go of the door, but didn’t go into his study right away. He went back over to the bed as softly as he could and bent down, almost kneeling, and pressed his lips to that fat hand, abandoned in that moment and so innocent. He murmured twice, “good old hand . . . good old hand,” and placed a kiss on it. Then, his chin trembling, ready to sob, surprised at the gesture he had performed, and wondering if there wasn’t a bit of theater in it—for the benefit of whom?—he finally went into his study.

  Strange how empty this study was, emptier than ever before. That was undoubtedly because the lamp had stayed lit for so long while he wasn’t there.

  •

  It was very lucky, all things considered, that he’d woken up so early! They would come to get him in good time, and there were so many things to do! Shave. Wash. Which meant taking a shower. Get dressed. Not, of course, in the clothes he wore every day to that zoo, but groomed, back in his dressy clothes. Would there be time? And that hussy Maïa—hey, why call her a hussy?—who was sleeping with closed fists, she’d certainly made a fine fuss last night, but not for a moment did it occur to her that everything had to be got ready for the ceremony. He felt a new anger at her. Was it all the same to him to show up on the field with his shoes unpolished, his beard uncombed, in old clothes, so that they could make fun of him one last time before he was finally expedited to the worms?

  Calm down! Calm down! It was perhaps still very early, three or at most four in the morning. Just wait.

  He didn’t even seem to see the gold, though he thought distractedly that he would have to put it back in its bag, and the bag in its usual place in the drawer. There was no question anymore of using the gold to flee. Did one leave, did one run away? The gold would go quietly back into its drawer where it would pass into Maïa’s hands. For the moment, it was fine on the table. He could see it. Soon, he’d put it in the bag. Soon. There was no rush.

  With the same great care, he opened another drawer and this time removed not gold but a revolver. In his massive hand that little black object seemed extraordinarily useless: a toy. He looked at it for a long time, checked the safety, and slowly raising the weapon, a finger on the trigger, he sighted the doorknob and noticed with pride that his hand wasn’t trembling.

  It was trembling. And so much that he was in danger of dropping the gun—he relived his dream, the Clopper still and impenetrable at first, under the gaslight, then, the exhausted magazine, that sort of dance with the sword which had freed the phantom . . .“a prophetic dream! a prophecy!” Cripure repeated. And the blood went out of his face. “A dream of warning! Oh what a fool I am. It’s with swords they’ll want to fight . . .” He sat up, one hand pressing his heart, the other still on his revolver, in the grandiose pose of the dying man, of the judge who asks for someone’s head, and brandishes the final evidence under the noses of the jurors—the murder weapon. “With swords!” He sank into his chair like an ice cube melting instantly in water. The ice broke, banged the table, his head buried in his folded arms, his hair mixing with the hair of the goatskin. His elbow plunged into the middle of the gold, forgotten on the table, and the little hoard crumbled like a pile of sand, the coins bouncing, surrounding him like a marvelous rain of sparks, rolling at his feet and into the corners of the study. The gun tumbled to the ground. He didn’t even notice. “With swords!” The idea that they could demand swords hadn’t occurred to him, proof of his idiocy. “Me? Me? Me, fight with swords?” It was their right—wasn’t he the offending party? They had the choice of weapons. And all the pleas in the world, all the medical attestations and expertise proving that he was crippled, and whatever he might think in his suffering, wouldn’t stop them from taking him for a coward. He wept with rage.

  •

  The bell rang in the corridor. A discreet little ring, to start with, a single, light sound, as if the morning visitor feared as much as desired to wake the sleepers. But this shy ring was followed by a real blast, filling the whole house, and Cripure raised his head, his heart failing him, doubting still, or wanting to doubt.

  Already! They were here already! It wasn’t light yet and they were already there, like executioners, the car undoubtedly stopped in front of the door with the swords in it! He was paralyzed, incapable not only of getting up to open the door, but of even drying his tears. It was the idea that they would find him in this shameful state that brought him back to himself, to the use of his legs. But then, realizing the gold pieces were scattered around him, rolling all over the floor, he wanted to pick them up. Another ring of the bell sounded. He hesitated, looked toward the door. But he couldn’t open it yet. Quick, quick, bending down everywhere, like he’d done the day before in the corridor when he picked up Amédée’s scattered letters, he searched for his gold Louis.

  A call came from the kitchen. It was Maïa waking up. She woke roughly, torn from some delicious dream. In the depths of her sleep, the tinkling of gold rolling on the ground, the clanging of the bell in the corridor, had been transfigured into the lovely sound of wedding bells. She dreamed that Cripure had finally decided to marry her, and that the ceremony unfolded under the eyes of the celebrating town. And the bells were ringing all over. Alas, it wasn’t true! She’d barely woken when she understood, remembered everything, and this was the very morning that Cripure had to fight a duel, the moment they had come for him. She jumped out of bed crying, “Ah! My God!” and seeing there was a light in the study, ran to it.

  She went in wearing her nightgown, puffy with sleep, her eyes still half closed, uncombed, horrible—just at the moment when Cripure,
having finally gathered up his scattered gold pieces, threw the bag with both hands into the back of the drawer.

  “Open up! Hey, open up!” the shout came from outside.

  It was Moka’s voice, impatient but joyful, the strong voice which had sung so well:

  Kiss-es, more kiss-es,

  Kiss-es, always!

  Was that really the voice of a man coming to take another to his death?

  “Open up!”

  Cripure, still holding the bag of gold with both hands, looked toward the door like a man frozen in place.

  “Go open the door, Maïa,” he said in a shaky voice.

  “Like this? In this getup?”

  “Cover yourself with something!”

  She put on a dressing gown and ran to open the door. The operation was long and noisy. Cripure, still unmoving, the gold in his hands, heard the chain banging against the wood, then the click of the bolts, and finally the key grating in the lock and the mechanism turning with the dry click of a rifle loading.

  “God in heaven!” murmured Cripure, throwing the gold into the drawer. “Is it Moka alone? Great God!”

  Moka was alone.

  •

  Not noticing Maïa’s bizarre outfit, Cripure’s even stranger accessory, or his dreamy air, not even remarking on the mess which had taken over the room—it wasn’t about that!—Moka entered with a pirouette. He took off his hat with a generous sweep, saluted like a musketeer, straightened up, and shook his head, the little red forelock flaming on his milky brow.

  The handsome tuxedo was rumpled and undoubtedly dirtied beyond repair, looking as if it had been rained on for months, and the pretty polished shoes, the heeled loafers he was so proud of, they were now horribly scuffed and covered in mud. What a race he’d had to run—from the boardinghouse to the police, from the police station to the hospital, where Madame de Villaplane was dying at that very moment, from the hospital here, which he’d had to do on foot, since Corbin had refused his services. His placket shirtfront was buckling, the badly stitched buttons looked like they were ready to pop off his vest, and his tie was no longer very straight. There was still something hanging in Moka’s buttonhole, something that looked quite a lot like the head of an onion that had gone to seed, a sort of yellowish tumor that was scorched in places, which not so long ago had been a splendid and fragrant rose! Dressed like that, with his pale face and drawn features, his blue eyes widened by fatigue, Moka looked a bit like a reveler who’s lost his heroine and knocked on the wrong door. For the illusion to be complete, he only needed a couple of paper streamers around his neck, some confetti in his hair, and a kazoo. But it wasn’t a kazoo Moka held between his fingers—it was a sheet of paper he unfolded as soon as he entered, which he brandished with an air of triumph.

  “Sign it!” he cried. “Put your scribble on there, my dear professor, and all will be settled forever—sign it! Sign it!”

  Cripure didn’t move.

  “And he’ll be free of this mess?” Maïa asked.

  “Free, Madame. Yes, free! A little scribble, I’m telling you, and—”

  He couldn’t say anything more. Maïa had thrown her arms around his neck with such force that Moka almost fell over backwards. He dropped the paper, which flew around the room and softly settled on the floor.

  “Oh!” cried Maïa, squeezing Moka enough to choke him, “you’ve saved our lives! Benefactor! Benefactor!” shouted the unfortunate wench, who, in her emotion, stumbled upon a word she hadn’t used since childhood, when she’d learned it from her mother who must have heard it from a priest. “Benefactor! How can we thank you?”

  And tears ran from Maïa’s eyes while she smacked big childish kisses on Moka’s pale cheeks.

  He patted her back. “Come! Come!”

  But all the while mumbling unintelligible words, she gripped him convulsively against her wandering breast.

  Cripure lowered his head.

  He didn’t look at the curious couple, simply waiting for this to pass, and in fact it was over after a minute.

  Maïa lifted her head. Moka stopped patting her back. She sniffled, turned to Cripure, “Your hanky?”

  Since he didn’t have one and since it would take too long to go looking in a dresser, she dried her eyes and her nose with the sleeve of her bathrobe, and feeling calmer, she asked, “Where’d it get to, your bit of paper?”

  Moka was busy looking for exactly that. Cripure still didn’t move, a curious witness, spectator of a scene where in fact the drama was all his own. He took his chin in his hand and watched Moka with profound attention. Moka picked up the paper and looked for a place on the desk where he could put it. It wasn’t at all easy. The papers for the Chrestomathy were still all over the desktop, and, from the first glance, Moka had realized that these things had to do with his professor’s manuscript, an object for which he had the deepest, the most sincere respect. Wasn’t it a great thing for him to be brought here to see what no one could see, to contemplate the very papers where his master set down his thoughts? Hadn’t he wished a thousand times to be involved in this unknown life, this life of the mind and the soul, which was embodied for him by Cripure? Hadn’t he dreamed that Cripure wasn’t really the professor everyone knew, the odd character they saw wandering so sadly through the streets, but a real poet, whose genius would only be revealed after his death? Surely all those little bits of paper he saw were the fragments of that genius poem Cripure had dedicated his life to. He didn’t dare touch them. What if, through his mistake, something from the poem was scattered or lost, or even scrambled? It would have given him a feeling of endless remorse. No, it wasn’t for a Moka to do anything that might displace a single comma in such a work!

  Moka stopped moving. He still held his paper in his hand, his look moving from the table to Cripure’s eyes and back. Cripure finally understood.

  “Oh! That’s all it is?” said Cripure in the voice of a man who is already resigned, perhaps already indifferent, and who thinks that the best thing after all is to obediently play out the game. “Is that all it is, my dear Moka? One moment.”

  He made a space, as if ready to toss everything away, to brush all the bits of paper away with the back of his hand, and yet not doing anything of the kind, on the contrary, taking care not to mix them up, he stacked them on the edge of the desk.

  “Good,” said Moka with a knowing smile, “that’s your manuscript isn’t it?”

  Cripure whirled around all at once. “Manuscript?”

  What did he mean to say? What! Your manuscript? So he knew?

  But had he said a manuscript? Had Cripure been stupid enough to let slip a word about his Chrestomathy? Or was the other one thinking of some new Wisdom of the Medes?

  “That’s got nothing to do with it!”

  “Oh! Excuse me,” said Moka, “truly my dear professor, please pardon me, I . . . I had no intention, none at all of . . .”

  “Let it be, let it be!”

  Moka wasn’t offended. He thought it completely natural that he would be rebuffed on the question of the manuscript. Of course, it was none of his business and Cripure was right.

  He put the agreement on the table. “Voilà!”

  With the flat of his hand, he unfolded the paper, but as if he wanted to caress it at the same time. He was so happy with this outcome!

  “Here you go,” he repeated. “A little scribble my dear professor. Nothing but a little signature at the bottom of this document.”

  He could barely stop himself from a burst of laughter, and in the bottom of his honest heart, he was shocked his dear professor didn’t give him the signal to laugh, that he didn’t show his joy. Devil take it! Didn’t he have there something worth dancing about, even if he was crippled? Shouldn’t they fall into each other’s arms? But Cripure didn’t show the slightest intention in the world of falling into Moka’s arms. He’d returned to his silence and his stillness. Approaching the window, he leaned his shoulder against the frame, pretending to look outside—not
as before, as a spectator of the scene, but indifferently, like a man getting bored behind a curtain.

  His old face, or the bit Moka could see, since the way Cripure lowered his head left the profile only partly visible—a bit of forehead, the end of the nose, but not the eyes and chin, hidden in the goat-skin—this old face then, as far as he could tell, expressed nothing but an intense and perhaps suspicious meditation. In the end, Moka started to get worried. His look, which had become serious, searched out Maïa’s. She was standing there, her arms hanging, her hair loose, the bathrobe open over her nightgown, her two worried eyes fixed on her man.

  Catching Moka’s look as he stood in front of the desk, his hand on the document, posed in his ceremonial garb, creating a passing resemblance to a lecturer frozen with nerves, Maïa responded with a bitter frown.

  “Well then, you little fox!” she said, with a tone so harsh that Moka saw the whole of her large body tremble like a statue made of gelatin suddenly rocked by the passing of a car. And that trembling seemed to expand, to reach the other statue, Cripure, which also moved, but slowly. Cripure turned in place and his head lifted from the collar of goat hairs as if powered by a very gentle spring, and finally they saw his eyes, two dry eyes, hard, which seemed to have just changed color, to have shifted from blue to black.