Merlin started.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… And, after all, if you’re sure you saw somebody…’
Oh no! They weren’t going to go through all that again.
‘Three thousand? Four?’
Merlin threw his cigarette down on the tiled floor and stamped on it. He suddenly seemed very old, needy, and pitiable.
‘Whatever you like,’ he muttered sheepishly, looking the other way as his fingers closed on the notes. ‘I should have liked to be of use to you, Monsieur Ravinel… In fact, if anything turns up, I shall always be at your disposal. Here’s my card.’
Ravinel took him to the gate, and the next minute the man had been swallowed up by the fog. But for quite a long time the squeaking of his shoes was audible. He had been right about one thing: fog certainly didn’t blanket sounds.
Going back into the house, Ravinel shut the front door, and the silence came down on him like a pall. He almost groaned, he almost reached out to the banisters for support, for once again he felt sure something had moved. It was all very well treating him as a sick person: he knew he wasn’t suffering from delusions. And Germain. What about Germain? Hadn’t he seen her?
On the other hand there was Lucienne. She had seen Mireille’s dead body. And she was a doctor. Didn’t that prove conclusively that Mireille was dead? Well then?
Ravinel pinched himself and looked at his hands. There was no possibility of mistake: a fact is fact. He went back into the kitchen. The clock had stopped and that gave him a sort of bitter satisfaction. It supplied another confirmation—for would a mentally sick man notice a thing like that? Once again he stared out of the window. Perhaps it would happen again.
His eye caught something—a little splash of white in the mailbox. He went out again and approached cautiously as though stalking a butterfly. A letter. And that fool of a Merlin hadn’t noticed it.
Ravinel opened the box. No, it wasn’t a letter. Just a piece of paper folded in two on which was written:
Darling
I’m terribly sorry I can’t explain yet, but I’ll be back for certain some time this evening or during the night.
It was only a scribble in pencil, but there was no doubt about one thing, none whatever: it was in Mireille’s handwriting. When had she written it? Where? On her knee? Against a wall?… As though Mireille had a knee! As though a wall could offer resistance to her touch! The paper, however—that was real enough, a sheet that had been hastily torn from a block, so hastily that part had been left behind. There had been a printed heading, but all that had come away was Rue Saint-Benoît. Just the street. No number.
Ravinel spread the sheet out on the kitchen table. Rue Saint-Benoît. His forehead was burning, his thoughts in a turmoil, but he mustn’t give way. He must keep tight hold of himself. He would. He was determined to.
The first thing was to have a drink. That would help. There was an unopened bottle of brandy in the cupboard. He looked in vain for the corkscrew. Never mind! Seizing the bottle he brought the neck down sharply on the edge of the sink. Some of the brandy splashed onto the floor, but he didn’t bother about that. He filled a glass and drank half in one gulp.
He seemed to swell. A burning sensation, as though molten lava were welling up within him. Rue Saint-Benoît. He’d got it now. It was the address of a hotel. It couldn’t be anything else. In that case he must find it. Whether or not it would do any good was a question which could be left to answer itself. For the moment he must find it—that was all that mattered. Of course she couldn’t have taken a room there. That didn’t alter the fact that she was putting him on the track of it. She was sending him there. Perhaps it was there that she would make the definite sign for him to cross over and join her.
He filled his glass again, spilling more, but he had more important things to think about than that. He felt as though he were advancing towards a kind of religious initiation.
I’m terribly sorry I cant explain yet…
Quite understandable. There were secrets that couldn’t be imparted without certain preliminaries. Particularly as she had only been in possession of them herself for a few days. Perhaps she had hardly had time to grasp their significance.
She was coming back that evening, was she? But that didn’t mean that he was simply to sit and wait for her. On the contrary. She had taken the trouble to deliver that note; she had given him the name of a street. That wasn’t accidental. It couldn’t be. It had a meaning, and what it meant was that something was expected of him. They had each to make an effort to reach the other—he mustn’t leave it all to her.
Poor Mireille! How well he understood her now. She wasn’t angry—not in the least. She was happy in that unknown world where she was waiting for him, and her one wish was that he should share her joy. And there he was, frightened out of his wits! And there was Lucienne who could only think of the body! The body simply didn’t count, though the people of this world were so obsessed by it they couldn’t see beyond their noses. Lucienne was a materialist whose mind was shut to all that was unseen. Like everyone else for that matter. Like Merlin for instance.
All the same it was odd he shouldn’t have found the letter. Wasn’t that solid enough? Or was it only visible to certain people?
It was after two. Ravinel went and opened the garage. He’d think about lunch later. Food: that was another thing that didn’t really matter. He started up the engine and backed out the car. The fog had changed color. It was now blue-gray, as though darkness were already falling. He shut the garage again, as a matter of habit, then drove off.
A strange journey suspended in the clouds. For there was no solid ground, no road, no houses, nothing but wandering lights, floating like himself in a world of cold, damp smoke. It was hard going, and Ravinel felt heavy and dull. A vague nameless pain gnawed at his guts. At last he reached Saint-Germain des Prés, where he parked the car and made for the Rue Saint-Benoît.
A short street, fortunately. Ravinel started down the left-hand side, and almost immediately came to the first hotel, a small residential one with no more than twenty-five keys hanging up behind the reception desk.
‘Can you tell me if there’s a Madame Ravinel staying here?’
A cool, critical look. For he was unshaven and carelessly dressed. It wasn’t surprising if he didn’t inspire much confidence. All the same the register was consulted.
‘No. There’s no one of that name here.’
‘Thank you.’
The second hotel, a little more luxurious but still modest. No one at the desk. He went into a small empty lounge. A few wicker chairs, a plant in a pot, a few dog-eared timetables on a low table. Retreating, he called out: ‘Is anyone there?’
His voice echoed strangely. He could hardly believe it was his own. They certainly seemed pretty casual in this hotel. Not only could people walk in and out freely, but anyone could ransack the drawers of the desk if he felt inclined to.
‘Is anyone there?’
A sound of dragging feet, in slippers. An old man with watery eyes emerged from behind the scenes. A black cat circled round him, rubbing against his legs, its tail erect and trembling.
‘Can you tell me if there’s a Madame Ravinel staying here?’
The old man held his hand up to his ear.
‘Madame Ravinel.’
‘Yes, yes. I heard you.’
He shuffled up to the desk onto which the cat promptly jumped. It sat there staring at Ravinel with half-closed eyes, while the man put on some metal-rimmed glasses and began turning over the pages of the register.
‘Ravinel… Yes. The name’s here all right.’
The cat’s eyes were now reduced to tiny slits. After trying various positions, it coiled its tail round in front over its white-spotted feet. Ravinel undid his raincoat, then his jacket and thrust a finger inside his collar.
‘I said: Madame Ravinel.’
‘Exactly! I’m not deaf. Madame Ravinel—Here you are.’
‘Is she in?’
<
br /> The man took off his spectacles and with his watery eyes studied the set of pigeonholes for letters, which served also as key board.
‘Her key’s there. She must be out.’
Which key was he looking at?
‘Has she been gone long?’
The old man shrugged his shoulders.
‘If you think I’ve got time to keep an eye on everybody. They come and go, and it’s no one’s business but theirs.’
‘Have you seen Madame Ravinel?’
The man stroked the cat thoughtfully, his eyes wrinkling.
‘Let me see now… Still young, isn’t she? And fair. With a fur collar on her coat…’
‘Has she spoken to you?’
‘Not to me. My wife booked her in.’
‘But you’ve heard her speak, I suppose?’
The old man blew his nose and wiped his eyes.
‘From the police, are you?’
Ravinel was taken aback.
‘No. No. She’s… she’s just a friend… I’ve been looking for her for the last few days. Did she have any luggage?’
‘No.’
The tone had become curt. But Ravinel risked one more question.
‘Have you any idea when she’ll be back?’
The old man shut the book with a slam and put his spectacles back into a case that had gone green with age.
‘There’s no knowing. Least of all with her. When you think she’s out she’s in. When you think she’s in she’s out. Afraid I can’t tell you anything about her.’
‘Just a moment. Can I leave my card for her?’
He pulled one out of his wallet, and the man put it in the pigeonhole of No. 19. Ravinel left and plunged into the first café he came to. His mouth seemed like leather.
He sat down in a corner.
‘Cognac.’
Was she really there? From what the man said, he didn’t seem any too certain of her existence. When he thought her in one place, she’d be in another. And no luggage, nothing tangible to confirm her reality. It fitted in with the rest. What would that old dodderer say if he knew what sort of a visitor he had taken in? Of course Ravinel ought really to have talked to the man’s wife. She was the one who had actually dealt with Mireille. But it was like that all along the line. At first sight the evidence seemed overwhelming, but when you looked closer it turned out to be slightly oblique.
Ravinel paid for his drink and went back to the hotel, which was only a few steps away. Once again there was nobody about. His visiting card was still there, with the key of No. 19 hanging just above it. He crept up on tiptoe, holding his breath. Cautiously he unhooked the key, making sure it didn’t click against the attached number plate.
No. 19 would no doubt be on the second floor. The stair carpet was old and worn, but the stairs didn’t creak. He had to feel his way up, as there was no light burning. Altogether there was something queer about this dead-and-alive hotel.
The first-floor landing was so dark that Ravinel took the risk and lit his lighter. It showed him a brown-carpeted corridor, which certainly couldn’t serve more than eight or ten rooms, so on he went, up to the second floor. Now and again he looked down over the banisters. Right at the bottom, in the basement, was a pale sickly light and in it something which was probably a bicycle… Had Mireille singled out this hotel as the most suitable place to take refuge in? Refuge? You didn’t need a refuge—not where she was. It was different with him, and if he could summon up the courage…
The second-floor landing. Holding up his lighter, Ravinel studied the numbers on the doors. 15… 17… 19… He put the lighter out and listened. Somewhere or other some water was gurgling down a waste pipe. Should he go in? Perhaps he’d find a dripping-wet body on the bed… No. He banished the thought, or did his best to by trying to concentrate on some concrete object. He was trembling. And his breathing was no doubt audible in the room.
Striking a light, he found the lock and inserted the key. Then he waited again. Nothing stirred. How absurd it was, this nameless terror! What had he to fear? Were not Mireille and he the best of friends now?
He opened the door and went in.
There was little light in the room, but he could see at a glance there was nobody there. All the same he had to muster all his strength to cross over to the window and draw the curtains. With that done, he switched on the light.
An iron bed, a table with a stained tablecloth, a painted wardrobe, a seedy easy chair. One thing, however, proved that the room had been recently occupied—scent. What’s more it was the scent Mireille always used. He couldn’t be mistaken. Sometimes it was very faint, at others he got a strong whiff of it. It was only an ordinary Coty perfume, and admittedly there were thousands of women who used it. So perhaps it was only a coincidence. But what about the comb on the glass shelf over the washbasin?
Ravinel picked it up and his pulse quickened. No. There was no room for coincidence here. He had bought it himself at Nantes in a shop in the Rue de la Fosse. Moreover the last tooth was broken halfway up. There couldn’t be two combs like that in Paris. Lastly, there were some golden hairs clinging to the teeth.
Then there was still another piece of evidence: a half-smoked High-Life cigarette lying in an ashtray. Mireille never bought any other brand. It was the name that attracted her, for she didn’t like them particularly.
Ravinel sat down on the bed. He would have liked to bury his head in the pillow and sob his heart out.
‘Mireille,’ he kept muttering, ‘Mireille…’
If it hadn’t been for those hairs it wouldn’t have been so painful. For they were golden. The hair that kept haunting his memory was dark with wet and plastered down on her forehead.
Apart from the scent, there were only these two things of Mireille’s. She had made him a sign which had brought him to the hotel. Were these signs too? And, if they were, what was she wanting of him?
He stood up. He looked in the wardrobe and in all the drawers. Nothing. He put the comb in his pocket. In the early days of their marriage he had sometimes combed Mireille’s hair in the morning, when it would fall onto her naked shoulders. Sometimes he would bury his face in it to inhale its scent of new-mown hay.
Yes. That was the sign. Mireille didn’t want to leave that comb at home where it had become something prosaic by contact with everyday things. Here it was different. In this dreary impersonal room it shone brightly in token of the days of their love. It was quite clear now. Quite clear too that she couldn’t explain a thing like that. He had to come halfway to meet her before she could come to him.
For she would come. He could no longer doubt it. She had said so in her last note and she would be as good as her word. Come? At all events she would make herself visible to his eyes. The initiation was practically over now. This was to be their nuptial night. Feverish as he was, he was suddenly calm. He put the half-smoked cigarette in his mouth, trying not to think of the lips that had held it before. Striking a light, he inhaled a deep draught of smoke. There! He was ready. He took a last look round this room in which, in spite of himself, he had made a resolution, though it was one he dared not put into words.
He went out and shut the door. Darkness. Except for two phosphorescent points of light at the end of the passage. A little earlier he might have fainted at the sight of them. Now he walked steadily towards the two eyes which, as he came closer, turned out to be the cat’s. It came down with him.
Ravinel now made no attempt to silence his steps. On the ground floor the cat gave one heart-rending mew, which promptly brought the old man out from what was doubtless the kitchen.
‘She wasn’t there, was she?’ he asked simply.
‘Yes,’ answered Ravinel, hanging up the key.
‘Just what I told you. You think she’s out and she’s there all the time. She’s your wife, isn’t she?’
‘Yes. My wife.’
The old man nodded as though he’d known all along. Then, as though talking to himself, he added:
‘With womenfolk you need a lot of patience.’
With that observation, he slouched off, followed by his cat. Ravinel was beyond surprise. He realized he had stepped into a world in which the normal laws of existence no longer applied. As he went out into the street, he could feel his heart beating quickly, as though he had drunk several cups of strong coffee. The fog was thicker than ever, and with every breath a damp chill penetrated right to the bottom of his lungs. But funnily enough it wasn’t disagreeable. On the contrary, it was friendly, and he felt he would like to dissolve and become merged with it. That was another sign. The fog had started at Nantes on the night they had… It was a sort of protective covering. Though to see it that way you had to understand.
Ravinel found his car. It looked as though he’d have to drive all the way to Enghien in second gear. It was just after five.
As a matter of fact the drive home was rather peaceful, but that was because he had a feeling of deliverance. What he had shaken off, however, was not so much a load as boredom, the boredom that had dogged him throughout life. His job was boring, the people he dealt with were boring, and all this hail-fellow-well-met stuff that had to be gone through was boring to a degree.
He thought of Lucienne, but without the least warmth. She was far away; her features were blurred. She had served her purpose in bringing him in contact with the truth. But if he had never met her he would sooner or later have found it out for himself.
The windshield-wiper flicked rhythmically backwards and forwards. Ravinel was quite confident of not losing his way. His sense of direction seemed infallible. As for collisions, there was little danger of them, as there were practically no vehicles left on the road. Ravinel didn’t even keep to the beaten track, but cut through unfrequented byways. He couldn’t go wrong: he was omnipotent.
He didn’t allow his mind to dwell on what was waiting for him at Enghien, but his heart was full of gentleness and mercy. He accelerated and the engine began knocking. Normally he would have made a mental note to have the trouble seen to. Normally. But nothing was normal any longer, and such petty things as that were bereft of all significance.
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