Melusine

by Maurice Magre

  “Cut,” she said to me.

  Then she made me choose and align the cards. One always listens to what is said to you about your future, even if it presents itself under the aspect of the greatest banality.

  “You’ll make a journey. You’ll receive a letter. One, two, three, four... Look, there’s an evil woman in your array. I don’t invent anything. One, two, three, four. You must mistrust her. The postman again.”

  Madame Tournadieu was prey to a prophetic muse. She uttered a sigh of relief, as if she were emerging from the anxiety in which she had just been enveloped. The evil woman was combated by another. I saw that her finger, the nail of which was painted bright pink, was posed on the queen of clubs.

  She looked at me with shining eyes and resumed laughing. Her girdle had skipped down.

  “And there’s a union. That’s definite. One, two, three, four. And it’s even imminent. It’s a fortunate union. The queen of clubs. Happiness is before you.”

  “Don’t the cards always announce imminent unions?”

  “Don’t believe that. The cards don’t always speak. Thus, for example... For myself, I draw the cards almost every day in order to know the petty events that are going to happen. And moreover, they always tell me. Well, for many years—many years, I say, long years—there has been no union in my cards. They announced solitude. And now, since this morning, Friday, at sunrise, everything has changed. Isn’t that curious? The same thing is announced to us on the same day.”

  “Yes, there are coincidences...”

  “Coincidences is the exactly the right word. There are things that are coincident. Beings encounter one another by coincidence.”

  I had risen to my feet, and I thanked Madame Tournadieu for having used the faculties of her inspiration on my behalf. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help telling her that there was very little chance that the predictions of the cards would be realized.

  “At my age, you see...”

  Madame Tournadieu almost leapt up.

  “But that’s the beautiful age! The age of amour! What is the most beautiful month of the year? The month of August, the month of fire, the month when one burns...”

  Saying those words, Madame Tournadieu actually seemed to catch fire. She burned on the stone of her terrace, under the spirals of the wisteria intersecting above her head, alongside a spurting laurel.

  When I quit her, her thumb was placed on the queen of diamonds, the evil woman vanquished, whom she was crushing against the iron table.

  ENCOUNTER WITH A MASTER

  Now, with the reaction of hindsight, I have a sharp regret at not having called out to that passer-by with the noble visage...

  There is a host of small actions that one would accomplish if one had an accurate sentiment of their importance. But one always thinks that one has time. One does not know that given circumstances will not present themselves again in the same fashion, and that there is a order of admirable things that only come to you once with their infinite possibilities, and which go away never to reappear.

  The sadness of opportunities that are offered and never reproduced again! One is timid, one feels ill-disposed, one prefers to put it if until tomorrow. But tomorrow never comes. And because of that opportunity lost, there is a different organization of life, another enchainment of causes and effects, which lead you into gray regions instead of the light that you might have been able to attain.

  One fine afternoon, I saw a man going by under the pines and I knew, without any doubt, that I ought to run toward him, extend my hand to him, and talk to him. But I knew it too late. The necessity of knowing that passer-by was at first just a confused sensation to which I refused to pay any attention. Is it customary to speak to someone that one does not know, that one passes on a road? One might be poorly received, or received with an offensive coldness. What tone should one give to the first words? A correct politeness is not engaging. Many people mistrust the amicable joviality, the false cheerfulness that permits talking to everyone. One tells oneself that it is better to adjourn to a subsequent encounter.

  When the necessity of knowing that unknown man became clear to me with a certain force, he was already far away, too far for me to be able to run after him.

  Only then did I see again the gaze that he had cast over me in passing: a clear, profound gaze, which saw a long way, and in which I had discerned sympathy at the same time as curiosity. But then, I said to myself, if there was curiosity and sympathy, why did he not speak to me himself?

  From the top to the bottom of the scale, the law is the same and it is immutable. It is necessary to take the first step. It is incumbent on the man who wants to climb to make the effort to reach the next step on the ladder. The master does not come to you. It is necessary to go to him.

  But there was nothing to make me think that the passer-by in question was a master. He was dressed like anyone else. There is no master costume, and, if there were, one could be certain that the man who put it on would really be what he is pretending to be by means of his costume. He was neither handsome nor ugly. A certain pallor attested to cerebral labor. The oval of the face and the crease of the lips were the sign of a nobility of character, a rectitude that cannot be deceptive. Perhaps the hair was a little longer than normal. But in the flash of the eyes and their movement, there was living intelligence in the pure state, unalloyed intelligence.

  How many times I had thought about encountering a master! Fortunate are those who have one, and what a pity that religions cannot produce even a fictitious image of one, because of their limitations and their rules, to which the spirit cannot accommodate itself.

  Every time that it has occurred to me to expose my desire to encounter a master to people of some education, I have always seen the same expression of disappointed surprise on their faces. The master was in front of me, but I was unable to distinguish him. My blindness prevented me from distinguishing the transcendent merit of my interlocutor. For everyone believes himself to be a master. It requires a great artistry of conduct in life, and no small quantity of wisdom, to remain a pupil, the only title that it is ever necessary to claim if one has any hope of elevation.

  So, I did not accost the unknown man; I did not run after him; and when I asked various people the following day who a pedestrian might have been, dressed like anyone else, with slightly long hair and an intelligent gaze, I was indicated by turns the grocer of Bouloris, who had studied in Paris, the schoolteacher, and various individuals from the surrounding area who had no connection with the man I had encountered.

  If I had not been the victim of my imagination, why had nature whispered to me the secret knowledge that the passer-by in question had things to teach me, would be a master for me—and why had she whispered hose things a few minutes too late? Are souls the playthings of an invisible director of souls who whispers useful or false intuitions at random? Must I cross the path of wisdom and let it draw away through the pines, as one crosses the path of amour in one’s youth, under the appearance of a delightful woman who smiles and draws away? But life is full of delightful women who pass by. One thinks that one will never see them again, and one perceives a little later that they retrace their steps easily. How many times in life does one encounter a master?

  THE GNOMIDE

  Roseline says singular things and sometimes lets herself go, telling curious stories. She speaks then as if involuntarily. It seems that she is prey to a force that obliges her to recount.

  That morning, she caused the bell suspended from the wooden gate of my garden to resound authoritatively.

  “I’ve come,” she told me, volubly, “to know what you think about caves. You know the caves of this region, don’t you?”

  I was caught somewhat on the hop. I asked her what caves she meant.

  “You don’t know the caves? But the region is full of caves! Everything is explained by the caves.”

  The caves! I asked her whether she meant, for example, the hole in which Gaspard de Besse had hidden a treasur
e, alongside the chapel of Saint Pilon.14

  “It’s not a matter of Gaspard de Besse!” exclaimed Roseline, scornfully. “I’m taking about the caves that descend into the depths of the earth, and of which one can only see the narrow opening. There are some in the gorges of Verdon, along the Artuby, and all over the place in the region of Comps. Have you read a book entitled Unknown France?15 A certain Martel has described them and given such a sensation of mystery that when I read the book, when I was about fifteen, I swore to visit the caves and explore them one day. Time passed and I didn’t think about it again. One has so many other things to do in life than occupy oneself with caves. But I’ve been obliged to occupy myself with them. I’ll tell you everything. You’ll see.

  “It was last year, on the evening of Pentecost. Take note that something always happens on the evening of Pentecost. Why? I don’t know, but if one is attentive one perceives that something happens. You’ve seen the window of my room that overlooks the park. It’s at the height of a low first floor. Just opposite there’s a flower bed of geraniums, bordered by a clump of mimosas and laurels, which is extremely thick in spring. Well, on the evening of Pentecost I was on the little balcony of my room at about ten o’clock. It was particularly warm and there was no moon. I heard my name pronounced in a low voice several times, but it was modulated as if it were sung, by someone with a slight accent. That accent stressed the first syllable, which made it Rou instead of Ro: ‘Rouseline! Rouseline!’

  “My surprise was extreme. I thought it was a joke on the part of my sister, although it wasn’t her genre. Then I heard a noise in the clump of laurels. Someone parted its branches and I saw a human form. Human, certainly, but not entirely, for the form seemed to be crawling. It was against the ground and lifting its upper body with its arms. But that upper body was strangely elongated and gave the impression of being nothing but a head. For several minutes I heard the modulation of my name: ‘Rouseline, Rouseline...’

  “That modulation was followed by a phrase, also sung: ‘Come and find us in the subterranean waters...’

  “Then it was replaced by another: ‘We’ll give you a crown of emeralds...’

  “The accent was so curious, the form so abnormal that I had a sentiment of fear. I tried to see the face, but there was only the light of the stars and an oblique light coming from a window in the drawing room, the shutters of which weren’t closed. I knew that my father and my sister were there, chatting, and for a moment I was tempted to call them. But it seemed to me that in doing so I’d be accomplishing a sort of treason and I remained still.

  “Then I heard: ‘With the blue and black lotuses that flower in the darkness...

  “Then untiringly, the form resumed: ‘Rouseline...’

  “It was oppressive. There was a silence. The branches creaked and I heard a speech that was equivalent to an invitation to a rendezvous: ‘Come to find us near the Duoi wood, near the Avellan wood where the river is born; the cave is deep; we’ll wait for you there and we’ll tell you to way to the lake...’

  “I’ve been able to remember those words because they were repeated many times, in the same monotonous tone. There was a long slithering sound and everything fell silent. I didn’t dare move. I closed my shutters and my window with great care. And yet, take note that in doing so I was struggling against myself. Yes, there was a force within me that incited me to go downstairs precipitately and respond to the appeal that had been made to me. There was even more. I experienced a sentiment of fraternity for that scarcely-human unknown.

  “The next morning I went to examine the clump of laurels. Visible traces of footprints remained. The geraniums were crushed. But there were no human footprints. No one had placed human feet on the soil of the flower bed. One would rather have thought that a form had been dragged. But what form?

  “Reflecting on the words I had heard, I told myself that the words had invited me to go somewhere with the promise of an emerald crown, woven with blue and black lotuses. I had never seen such lotuses and I thought that, since there had been mention of caves, it was a matter of lotuses flowering in subterranean regions, perhaps above the waters of the lake to which someone was going to show me the way.

  “The rendezvous given to me was not so uncertain. There’s an old gardener in our park who is always interesting, and when I was talking to him about flowers and plants, never failed to talk to me about the region of his birth, and the village of Comps. He had often mentioned the Avellan wood, where a little stream called the Bruyère has its source.

  “I questioned him on the subject, which was dear to him. It’s a matter of an area not far from here. Although the roads are poor, it only takes an hour by car to get there. And what an area! The aspect of the rocks is terrifying, the forest trees are twisted and grimacing and the streams flow through impenetrable gorges. One might think that the creator of landscapes had wanted to make a contrast by placing side by side an abode of mimosas, olive groves and roses and the evil access to a world of subterranean things.”

  “But haven’t told me the nature, in your opinion, of the creature that came to call to you by name, under your window.”

  “I think it’s a gnomide.”

  “A gnomide? In truth, I’d have the same opinion.”

  I knew that we were in the domain of fiction and I didn’t think that Roseline was talking seriously. Nevertheless, she replied to me: “It’s certain. Gnomes are small and ugly, but gnomides are beautiful, and moreover, unlike their husbands, they live on the water, on underground rivers and lakes. That one had emerged from one of the caves around Comps.”

  “Have you seen it again since?”

  “In spite of the fear that I experienced, I couldn’t resist going to the rendezvous. I took a car, which I left in Comps and it wasn’t very difficult for me to find, between the Duoi wood and the Avellan wood, the deserted region where the stream known as the Bruyère has its source. I spent nearly a whole afternoon looking for it. I only found it toward evening. The cave opens in the side of a ravine and at one time, doubtless following the disappearance of some imprudent visitor, a grille had been placed there, which sealed the narrow cavern, in which there is a chasm. The grille must have been there a long time. The lock is entirely rusted and no longer works. One only has to pull it to open it. That’s what I did. But then I stopped, because I was afraid. I confess that I was very fearful. It seemed to me that I could hear the voice that I had heard on the evening of Pentecost singing, far underground: ‘And we’ll tell you the way to the lake...’

  “I had the sensation that the voice was drawing nearer and I didn’t listen to it any more. I put the grille back as before and I started running as fast as I could through low and very old box-trees, whose trunks scratched my feet. For that’s a curious particularity of caves: box-trees always grow around their orifice.

  “I found the driver of the car, who had been waiting for me for several hours in a little farm where there’s a family of shepherds, and I went home as quickly as possible.

  “Afterwards, I questioned my father. He believes that there are gnomides who live underground, but as no one ever sees them, it’s as if they didn’t exist. He also said that if ever one were to be seen, it would be in the vicinity of Canjuers and Comps, because, according to geologists, under the part of the earth that one can see, which is uninhabited and sterile, there is an entire world of corridors, channels and waters that are invisible to us. And in that world, which no light reaches, there are doubtless subterranean creatures, trees without leaves and tenebrous lotuses.”

  Roseline was speaking with great seriousness, and I was obliged to set aside any idea of a game. She remained silent for a long time, and then said, pensively: “Perhaps I missed an opportunity, last year, at Pentecost, to learn the way to the lake. Will that opportunity ever return?”

  THE ENTRANCE TO THE CAVE

  I went to see Monsieur Spéluque again. He received me in his study, in the midst of his books, as one receives someone with w
hom one has a secret in common.

  At first I broached the subject timidly.

  “The caves! The wild region of Comps! But all that is of passionate interest!” exclaimed Monsieur Spéluque.

  When I told him the story of Roseline and the gnomide, somewhat in the manner in which one tells a fairy tale, Monsieur Spéluque paced back and forth for a while, prey to a keen agitation. He finally paused.

  “That could only happen to a daughter of the Lusignans. A gnomide wouldn’t come to offer an emerald crown and black lotuses to just anyone. But is the gnomide the fruit of a dream or a reality?”

  “What! You could believe…?”

  “I believe nothing, but everything is possible. The most extraordinary things happen, the furthest outside any known reality, but they only happen to certain individuals, and not to others. And what is rigorously true for some is folly for the others. If you don’t believe in gnomides and creatures of another world, celestial or subterranean, you will never see them. If you believe in them, your faith can constitute, albeit in very exceptional cases, a sort of appeal, a favorable milieu susceptible of making creatures come, and then, it’s necessary to take account of the Lusignan legend. Every legend has a basis in reality.

  And Monsieur Spéluque began holding forth about Melusine and the legendary history of the Lusignans.

  “But in sum,” he concluded, “although we have no serpentine heredity in our family, perhaps we might learn something by going to the cave, whose precise location we know. An old grille in the side of a ravine, not far from the source of the Bruyère, constitutes precise information. Let’s not waste any time and go there tomorrow.”