The first thing to catch my eye when I finally arrive on the scene by way of the avenue towards which only yesterday the flight of probably false pink-granite steps still descended is the fact that the very steps of this ostensibly stone staircase are no longer visible, nor is there anything left of the dense clumps of shrubbery that stood to either side of it. The entire mansion, which was to all appearances without a cellar, and its tiny garden are now reduced to a square of blackish mud, its surface broken by a few shapeless piles of dying embers from which the last wisps of smoke rise here and there, a quadrilateral the dimensions of which astonish by their smallness: it is hard to understand that there once stood on this site a splendid residence in which two dozen persons at least, masters and servants, dwelt in the greatest comfort.
That is not the end of the surprises, because there now appears, beyond this minute space cleared by the fire, the sloping street with the homely charm of centuries gone by, motionless and as if forgotten by time, that I came across on one of my extended Sunday strolls. And again it is that ageless tranquillity that strikes me. Motionless, I said, and that probably is the feeling still paramount today as one slowly climbs the pavement, the variable slope of which is so steep in places that two or three steps cut at an angle are necessary to restore a horizontal surface in front of each door.
It is already spring, the southern spring, and a pale, late-afternoon sun catches the first foliage, soft-green and beige, of the chestnuts, whose buds have just burst. The air is mild, all sounds far-off. There is no one in sight. The two-storeyed Directoire-style houses with their regular façades take on a pinkish tinge in the golden light, while through an open window the tinkling notes of a piano can be heard, the keys barely moving beneath the unenthusiastic fingers of a drowsy girl.
My nostalgic thoughts are suddenly interrupted when three people burst into view in front of me, coming out of an adjoining alley about twenty metres away and crossing the road at an angle with the slope; they are walking with evident haste, even a certain precipitation, towards the building that is exactly level with me on the other side of the street. I have just time, by starting back with a reflex movement towards the housefronts, to take cover behind a projecting staircase and its balustrade and to stoop down there, squeezing myself as far as possible into the corner. I am lucky to have been in this precise spot because such hiding-places—or even more scanty ones—are very scarce in this vicinity.
Fortunately the two men in raincoats and trilby hats seem to have little leisure to inspect their surroundings with any care, preoccupied as they are with holding up, or pulling along, or restraining a girl whom they flank securely; she is remarkable for her fair hair with its flame-coloured highlights (is this simply the effect of the setting sun backlighting the flowing curls?), and her elegance and glossy prettiness are sure indication of some such calling as cover-girl or film starlet. Her face, which is that of a disobedient doll, appears when for a moment it is turned towards me to be in the grip of the hazy effects of some narcotic drug.
It becomes quite obvious that her companions are conducting her by force to some unthinkable destination when, having inadvertently caught the heel of one of her delicate pale-blue shoes in the perforated cast-iron grating around a tree, onto which it is highly unlikely that she would have ventured of her own free will, she is literally dragged off it by her abductors with such brutality that she loses her shoe, which remains stuck in a hole in the grating, and has then to continue on her way hobbling on the toe of one black silk-stockinged foot, albeit for a very short distance: hardly have I had time to recognize to my great amazement that one of the men, whose face, half-hidden by his hat-brim, happens to be turned towards me, is none other than Inspector Victor Francis in person before the trio crosses the threshold formed by three stone steps that are cut off at an angle by the slope and disappears from view through an embrasure, the door having opened at their approach as if of its own accord, no doubt activated by some electronic device.
As soon as he is inside, feeling that he is out of sight at last, the false Inspector Francis leans back against the heavy steel door that has just closed behind him, the powerful machinery having as always made no sound during its four or five seconds’ rotation but that sort of deep murmur one would think came from some nocturnal bird, never seen. Once his eyes have become somewhat accustomed to the bluish darkness filling the entrance of the tunnel that leads through the series of cells, chambers, or chapels with their multiple systems of complicated and baffling passages to the temple proper, Francisco Franco (this is the inspector's real name) sees, standing against the left wall apparently all ready for dispatch, the heavy cabin trunk with corners reinforced with heavy brass fittings and, at each end, the usual strong handle made of the same shiny yellow metal.
Shut in this trunk, according to what will be established later, bound hand and foot, carefully drugged for the duration of the journey only and breathing as best she can with the aid of intermittent puffs from a tranquillizing oxygen cartridge, is Marie-Ange Salome, proof of whose sanguinary, vampiric activities came out at her trial; for nine months she was engaged to Lord Corynth, whose strength was seen to decline progressively throughout that period while the two little red marks at the base of his neck became more pronounced from week to week, marks that the family physician, the famous Dr. Morgan . . .
Could you, the interrogator's neutral voice interrupts, now make the requisite quick chronological résumé, accurate and complete but without getting bogged down in unnecessary detail, of all the events that took place from the morning of this important day? It is a very simple matter for me to satisfy this after all quite natural request, so I begin without further urging.
7 a.m. Sunrise. The narrator searches the ins and outs of his recent memory for a vanishing recollection. He has the impression he is losing ground.
7.12 a.m. On a beach near the town centre some civil guards kill, by mistake, little Temple, a thirteen-year-old equestrienne who displays her perverted talents at the Michelet Circus every evening and spends the rest of the night working in a private capacity for the chief commissioner of police.
7.24 a.m. The narrator, wishing to build his defence on solid foundations, sets out to describe his cell.
7.36 a.m. Late arrival of the fire engines at the scene of an accident reported in an anonymous phone call. Fire completely ravages a luxurious private house dating from the early years of the century, at any rate situated in a very ancient quarter, the demolition of which has already been negotiated between the council and a property-development group.
7.48 a.m. Encounter, down by the shore, with an alleged beggar-girl dragging a lion (or aurochs?) skin across the sand. In fact, as will soon become apparent, this is Marie-Ange, twin sister of Angelica von Salomon, from whom she is indistinguishable, apart from a get-up that can scarcely escape attention, except by the unvarying complexion of the pale redhead, her milk-white skin refusing to tan despite a life lived often in the open air.
8 a.m. A patrol picks out from various pieces of jetsam deposited by the high tide right at: the top of the beach several false beer-cans that evidently once contained white powder.
8.12 a.m. The chief commissioner of police, alerted immediately, gives orders for Dr. Morgan to be arrested. This decision is never in fact put into execution.
8.24 a.m. Lady Caroline wakes up. The young woman attempts to recount to her favourite slave an erotic nightmare that made her yell out loud in the middle of the night. She will discover yet again, to her cost, that dreams should be noted down on the instant, which would not have been difficult for her to do since for a good hour she remained tossing and turning in her too-warm bed before getting off to sleep again.
From 8.36 to 8.48 a.m. the narrator tries to make a slip-knot (to hang himself) with his wire coat-hanger. He does not succeed, the metal being too stiff.
9 a.m. An explosion of criminal origin destroys most of the factory that used to manufacture dubious tinned salmon a
s well as the whole neighbourhood for a long way back. The hydropathic itself is badly damanged.
From 9.12 to 9.24 a.m., capture (doomed subsequently to failure, as we know) of Vanessa, the student decoy, on the terrace of the Café Maximilian.
9.36 a.m. Discovery of the shoe with the mirror, wedged by the heel in a chestnut-tree grating not far from the Gainsboro residence. The investigation immediately takes on a fresh dimension.
9.48 a.m. The narrator recovers consciousness following a short black-out that he attributes to lack of food.
10. a.m. A cayman farm is devastated by fire. The giant reptiles escape. They will completely overrun the city's entire network of sewers.
10.12 a.m. The investigating officers take a faked photograph, in the ruins of the salmon factory, of the more than half-naked body of a pretty welding operative who has in fact been missing for several weeks, if not longer. However, there is every indication that she was in no way a victim of the deflagration. Questionable intervention on the part of the narrator.
10.24 a.m. Marie-Ange Salome enters the church in a gorgeous white dress, the translucent, filmy attire of the traditional bride. She is resplendently beautiful. Lord Corynth, on the other hand, her husband-to-be, appears to be more and more seriously affected by the strange decline that has kept him a recluse for the past few months. He is said to have wanted to bring forward the wedding ceremony, which was originally to have taken place at the beginning of May, for fear he might die of exhaustion before the happy day.
From 10.36 to 10.48 a.m. little Violetta, who on the pretext that she is ill is enjoying a lie-in after breakfasting in bed, leafs through an illustrated children's book recounting exciting episodes from ancient history. The child surreptitiously begins caressing herself under the sheets.
11 a.m. The fair Angelique arrives on the beach in front of the Café Rudolph, clutching her pink-and-white beach-ball under her left arm and a green apple in her right hand. The narrator opens the black notebook to jot this down, or perhaps merely to check a detail of this entrance written down earlier. First gust of over-warm wind heralding the brief tornado that is going to spread panic among the bathers.
11.12 a.m. The narrator looks at himself in the greenish, broken mirror fixed to the wall of his cell.
11.24 a.m. Lord Gainsboro receives an invitation card for a very special kind of hunt.
11.36 a.m. Franck V. Francis reaches the mouth of the tunnel, switches on his torch, and embarks on a tricky exploration. A steady, crystalline dripping sound (is it water?) punctuates the silence, revealing the existence of underground cisterns.
11.48 a.m. The coffin of Count David de G. is recovered, empty, on a piece of waste ground.
12.00 noon. Chief Commissioner Duchamp has him-self served a delicious meal by Angelica von Salomon, in the nude apart from the chains binding her hands behind her back. (The original version of the report had, in place of these last few phrases, the words “in an outfit at once simple and intricate”.) Brief description of the premises. Arching, contorsions of various kinds, and awkward postures necessitated by the prisoner's bonds (recommended to the chief commissioner by two interrogation warders). The lovely Angelique, condemned to death by quartering, is to be executed the following day; Duchamp, faithful to one of his favourite customs, has ordered that she be delivered over to him beforehand in order that he may spend the afternoon and then the whole night with her, deriving, as he says, great refreshment from sleeping in the warmth of a victim already destined for the executioners’ instruments. During lunch the girl will be punished for her inevitable clumsiness by various preliminary tortures involving a greater or lesser degree of burning or blood-letting but not permanently impairing the outward appearance of her body.
12.12 p.m. The stone falling.
12.24 p.m. Marie-Ange Salome enters the Church of the Holy Spirit in the dazzling, virgin-white costume of the traditional bride, etc.
12.36 p.m. At the Morgan Clinic, Lady Caroline enters her friend Angelique's monastic room. This is the first time she has been to see her since her accident. The girl, it will be remembered, very nearly drowned out towards the end of the wharf in somewhat confused circumstances. Dressed in a fetching pink nuisette, she is at the moment lying on her bed, propped up on the many pillows that are piled against the spirals and ogee arches of the elaborate wrought-iron bedhead. Caroline is struck by the rapid disappearance from the convalescent's face of the golden-brown colour gained not long since in the bright sunshine. In her new pallor Angelica appears to have even larger eyes, these being no doubt also accentuated by rings like those that pleasure produces. She lies motionless, greeting her mistress's appearance with no more than the vaguest smile of welcome. Resting on her outstretched thighs is a white plate on which there are three soft-boiled eggs, shelled but still intact. Slowly she reaches out a thin, tapering hand to begin, without appetite, her insipid midday snack. At this point Caroline notices red lines ringing each of her wrists; seized with an inexplicable fear, she tries to check the invalid's gesture. Angelique, however, believing that she is being reprimanded for eating with her fingers, starts to laugh in an odd, exaggerated manner—like a madwoman, Lady Caroline thinks.
12.48 p.m. The director of the Opera House receives orders to replace Tristan by The Firebird for the official gala reopening.
1 p.m. Angelique gradually inserts a whole egg in her mouth without biting or squashing it, much to her visiting friend's alarm.
1.12 p.m. Marie-Ange Salome enters the Church of the Holy Spirit accompanied by the whole procession in ceremonial robes. Followed by the six little girls supporting her long train, she goes and kneels on the magnificent red-and-black prie-dieu that has been set up facing the altar. Lord Corynth, as pale as death, does the same on an identical seat beside her.
1.24 p.m. In the course of his circumspect progress underground Franck V. Francis discovers several rooms adjoining the main gallery, comprising a series of upright circular panels, standing about two metres high (almost touching the irregular vault carved out of the rock) and each bearing seven concentric circles drawn in red paint, which look to him like targets for shooting practice. From the floor of beaten earth he picks up a large quantity of artificial pearls, remarkable for their size and perfection.
1.36 p.m. Arrival of Dr. Morgan in the experimentation chamber. He sits down at the patient's bedside. The ninth narrative is already in progress.
1.48 p.m. Kidnap of Marie-Ange from the Church of the Holy Spirit. As if this were the prearranged signal, the sudden appearance of the hired ruffians before the altar follows immediately upon the priest's gesture in inserting the host in the still half-open mouth of the young bride, who is very much afraid of biting the flesh of the god if she brings her teeth too close together. Her small, neatly ranged, perfectly regular incisors and her canines, as sharp as if they had been honed like awls, gleam dazzlingly white between her full lips, which look as if they have been freshly licked to make them shine more, and the tiny tip of an even moister tongue. The victim dare not even cry out during the abduction for fear of tearing the sacrament. Those present are petrified, none of them moving a muscle, all holding their breath in excitement at the miracle that is taking place. Lord Corynth faints, his body sinking to the granite flags with a thud.
2 a.m. Descending to the depths of the crypt of the ancient Gothic building, dragging their prey behind them, the abductors check that the latter's Titian-red pubis is indeed, as the report mentions, incrusted with nine black diamonds. The narrator puzzles over the meaning of this sentence, which cannot be a simple metaphor.
2.12 p.m. Again the stone falling, motionless.
2.24 p.m. The heavy trunk with the brass corners is loaded onto a funeral ferryman's mortuary bark that was waiting at the little postern closing off the end of the tunnel. The height at which this opening is situated in the sheer face of the cliff on which the cathedral stands has always suggested that it was used solely for throwing witches into the river, some more a
live than others after being put through a lengthy confession of their imaginary misdeeds, as recorded in the bill of indictment, with the aid of suitable tortures, an exhaustive inventory of which fills the twelve registers of the great codex. This spring, however, the flood level is so high that the water now washes the bottom of the three steps hacked out of the hard rock here and polished by bare feet.
2.36 p.m. Lady Gainsboro, returning home, inadvertently reads the invitation to the rather special hunt and suddenly realizes (as, in point of fact, she was beginning to suspect) that her young husband, far from being a homosexual as he lets people think, is a member of the Society of the Golden Triangle. On the other hand she knows already that the temple can no longer be kept supplied with fresh inmates, as it was at the outset, by captures made in the course of the regular mopping-up operations carried out in the districts infested with gangs of youths living wild, only the boys being on those occasions massacred systematically during or after the fighting. Carolina, whose apprehensions have been on the increase ever since she left the clinic, is now concerned for Lord David's very life. She decides nevertheless to keep the date with her lover in the bathing-hut right at the end of the beach.
2.48 p.m. Inspector Francis's electric torch all of a sudden goes out. Unable to relight it, he throws it away at random in the darkness that envelops him like a shroud, halting his slow progress through the tunnel at the very moment when he was at last nearing the end.
3 p.m. Appearance, yet again, on the presentation wall of the cell, still in the same silence with its crystalline dripping, of the ghost of Marie-Ange Salome. She is naked except for the arabesques of pearls or diamonds that here and there adorn her goddess-like body. In her left hand she holds the fleece of the slain lion, its heavy, red-brown folds trailing on the ground behind her. The magic violin in her right hand gleams like a dangerous present. Her green eyes, huge and staring, are fixed on the narrator.
Recollections of the Golden Triangle Page 14