‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re in black today.’
‘I love black. If I had my own way I’d wear nothing else.’
‘Why? It’s a bit mournful, isn’t it?’
‘Not at all. On the contrary, it gives value to everything; it makes all one’s thoughts more important and obliges one to take oneself seriously.’
‘And if you were in blue, or green?’
‘I don’t know. I might think myself a river or a poplar… When I was little, I thought colours had mystical properties. Perhaps that’s what made me want to paint.’
She took his arm, with an abandon that almost submerged him in a wave of tenderness.
‘I’ve tried my hand at painting too,’ he said. ‘The trouble is, my drawing’s always so weak.’
‘What does that matter? It’s the colour that counts.’
‘I’d love to see your paintings.’
‘They’re not worth much. You couldn’t make head or tail of them: they’re dreams really… Do you dream in colour?’
‘No. Everything’s grey. Like a photograph.’
‘Then you couldn’t understand. You’re one of the blind!’
She laughed and squeezed his arm to show him she was only teasing.
‘Dreams are so much more beautiful than the stuff they call reality,’ she went on. ‘Imagine a profusion of interweaving colours which penetrate right into you, filling you so completely that you become like one of those insects which make themselves indistinguishable from the leaf they’re resting on… Every night I dream of… of the other country.’
‘You too!’
Pressed close together, they skirted the Place de la Concorde, not looking at anybody. Flavières hardly knew in what direction his feet were taking him. He was lost in the sweetness of this intimacy, though another part of him was alert and watchful, never losing sight of the problem.
‘When I was a boy I was obsessed myself by that unknown world. If we had a map here I could show you the exact spot where it begins.’
‘That’s not the same one.’
‘Oh yes, it is. My end of it is dark, yours full of colour, but they join. It’s the same world.’
‘That’s when you were a boy. You don’t believe in it any longer, do you?’
Flavières hesitated. But she looked at him so trustfully, and she seemed to attach so much importance to his answer, that he couldn’t help saying:
‘Yes, I do… Particularly since I’ve known you.’
They walked on for a little way in silence—walking in step seemed to make them think in concert. They crossed the immense forecourt of the Louvre and went up some narrow steps and through a dark entrance. Soon they were sauntering among Egyptian gods in the coolness of a cathedral.
‘With me, it’s not a question of belief,’ she began again. ‘I know… That world is just as real as this one. Only, one mustn’t say so.’
The statues, their feet one behind the other, looked at them with their great blank eyes. Here and there were sarcophagi gleaming like cellophane, blocks of stone covered with indecipherable inscriptions, and, in the solemn depth of the vast rooms, grimacing faces, heads of animals scratched and worn down by the ages, a whole fauna of monstrous, petrified forms.
‘I’ve already walked through these rooms on the arm of a man,’ she murmured. ‘That was long ago, very long ago… He was like you, only he had sidewhiskers.’
‘That’s an illusion, no doubt. It’s a well-known one, the “seen-it-before” illusion, and quite common.’
‘I don’t think it is. I could give you details with startling precision. For instance, I often see a little town whose name I couldn’t give you—I don’t even know whether it is in France—and in my reveries I walk through it as if I had always lived there… A river runs through the middle of it… On the right bank there’s a Gallo-Roman triumphal arch, and if you go up an avenue of huge plane-trees you see an amphitheatre on your left, some vaults and crumbling steps. Behind the amphitheatre, I can see three poplar trees and a herd of sheep…’
‘But… but I know that town,’ cried Flavières. ‘It’s Saintes and the river’s the Charente.’
‘Maybe.’
‘But they’ve cleared the ground round the amphitheatre. You wouldn’t see any poplars now.’
‘There used to be some… in my time… And the little fountain—is that still there?… Girls used to throw pins into the water wishing they’d be married within the year.’
‘The fountain of St. Estelle!’
‘And the church, behind the amphitheatre… a tall church, with a very old tower… I’ve always loved old churches.’
‘St. Eutrope!’
‘You see!’
They made their way slowly past enigmatic objects in a state of ruin, round which floated an odour of wax. Sometimes they met other visitors, attentive, learned, reverentially contemplating the exhibits; but these two had no thoughts for anyone but themselves.
‘What did you say it was called?’ asked Madeleine.
‘The town? Saintes. It’s not far from Royan.’
‘I must have lived there once upon a time.’
‘When you were a child, perhaps.’
‘No,’ said Madeleine calmly… ‘In a former existence.’
Flavières couldn’t bring himself to argue about it. Her words had raised too many echoes in himself.
‘Where were you born?’ he asked.
‘In the Ardennes. Quite close to the frontier. Every war comes that way. And you?’
‘I was brought up by a grandmother not far from Saumur.’
‘I’m an only child,’ said Madeleine. ‘My mother was often ill. My father was away at the works all the time. It wasn’t much fun.’
The next room was hung with pictures in glowing gilt frames. The portraits gazed at them fixedly, following them gravely with their eyes to the far end of the room—a nobleman with an emaciated face, a general smothered in gold lace, one hand on his sword, the other holding the bridle of a horse.
‘When you were young,’ asked Flavières softly, ‘did you already have your… your dreams?’
‘No. I was just a little girl like any other, except that I was very silent and reserved from being so much alone.’
‘In that case… when did you start?’
‘Quite suddenly, not very long ago… It seemed to me that I wasn’t in my house, that I was living with a stranger. You know the feeling of waking up and not knowing where you are. It was rather like that.’
‘There’s another question I’d like to ask you, only I’m afraid you’d be angry.’
‘I’ve no secrets,’ answered Madeleine pensively.
‘Can I?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do you ever think… of trying to… to disappear again?’
Madeleine stopped and looked at him with those eyes which always seemed to be beseeching someone.
‘You haven’t understood,’ she murmured.
‘That’s no answer to my question.’
A small group of people were clustered in front of a picture. Flavières had a glimpse of a cross, a white body, the head hanging down over one shoulder, a trickle of blood under the left breast, a woman’s face lifted towards the sky.
‘You mustn’t insist on an answer.’
‘I do. I must. In your interest as well as mine.’
‘Please… Roger…’
The words were spoken so quietly that he only just heard them, yet he was profoundly disturbed. He put his arm round her shoulders and drew her towards him, saying:
‘Can’t you see that I love you? I couldn’t bear to lose you.’
They walked like two automatons between the Madonnas and Golgothas. She gave his hand a long squeeze.
‘You frighten me,’ he said, ‘but I need you. Perhaps I need to be frightened… to teach me to despise my petty existence…’
‘Let’s go.’
They went through two empty rooms, looking for the way out. She was still hangi
ng on to his arm, clinging more tightly than ever. They ran down some steps and found themselves, somewhat breathless, in front of a lawn in the middle of which a sprinkler was shedding a rainbow. Flavières stopped.
‘I’m wondering whether we aren’t both a little mad… Do you remember what I said to you just now?’
‘Yes.’
‘I told you I loved you. Did you hear that?’
‘Yes.’
‘If I told you so again, would you be angry?’
‘No.’
‘How extraordinary!… Shall we walk about a bit? We’ve got such a lot to say to each other.’
‘No. I’m rather tired. I think I’ll go home.’
She was pale and seemed afraid.
‘I’ll call a taxi,’ suggested Flavières. ‘Meanwhile, I want you to accept a little present.’
‘What is it?’
‘Open it and see. Go on. Open it.’
She undid the packet, slowly shaking her head. She saw the lighter and the cigarette-case. Opening the case she read the three words on the card.
‘My poor friend,’ she said.
‘Come along.’
He dragged her into the Rue de Rivoli.
‘I don’t want you to thank me,’ he said. ‘I knew you needed a lighter… Shall we see each other tomorrow?’
She nodded her head.
‘Good. We’ll go into the country… No, no. Don’t say anything. Leave me with the memory of this afternoon just as it is… Here’s a taxi… Eurydice chérie… You don’t know how happy you’ve made me.’
He seized her hand and kissed her gloved fingers.
‘And stop looking back into the past,’ he said, shutting the door on her.
He was tired out, with that peaceful exhaustion he had known as a boy when he had been running the whole day along the banks of the Loire.
FIVE
The whole morning Flavières had been waiting for Madeleine’s telephone call. At two o’clock he was at their usual rendezvous at the Etoile. She didn’t come. He rang Gévigne up at his office, only to be told he wouldn’t be back from Le Havre till ten o’clock the following morning.
It was a horrible day, and the night was just as bad. He couldn’t sleep. Well before dawn, he was up, wandering about in his room assailed by ghastly suppositions which he laboured to disprove. No. Nothing could have happened to Madeleine. It was impossible, unthinkable.
Yet he could think of nothing else!
He clenched his fists, trying to fight down the rising panic within him. Of course he’d been a fool: he should never have made that declaration to Madeleine. They had been disloyal to Gévigne, both of them. Who knew to what lengths remorse might not drive her, unstable as she was? As for him, he detested himself. For there was nothing with which he could reproach Gévigne. Gévigne had trusted him, had committed Madeleine to his care.
It was time to call off the whole stupid business. High time… But when Flavières tried to envisage life without Madeleine, he crumbled. His jaw dropped; he had to lean on his desk to prevent himself falling. He felt like hurling insults at God, destiny, the chance that had thrown her across his path, the occult powers—whatever they might be—which had woven this hideous tangle. He was doomed to be an outcast. The army had rejected him, and now…
He slumped down in the armchair Gévigne had sat in on that first visit. Wasn’t he, Flavières, making rather heavy weather of it? Passion, a real passion, doesn’t develop in a couple of weeks. With his chin in his hands, he looked coldly at himself. What did he know about love, he who had never yet loved anybody? Of course he had hankered after it, like a poor wretch gazing into a shop-window; he had, so to speak, made passes at it. But there had always been between the good things of life and himself a sort of hard, cold obstacle. And when he had entered the police it had seemed that he was now committed to the defence of all those things in the shop-window, which were thus, for him, more forbidden than ever. Madeleine was one of them. No, he had not the right to stretch out his hand. He couldn’t pass into the camp of the thieves… All right, then. He must give her up… Coward! How could he ever enjoy his share of life if he knuckled under at the first hint of difficulty? Perhaps Madeleine was on the point of falling in love with him.
‘Enough of this!’ he said out loud. ‘Enough of this! Why can’t they leave me in peace?’
To dope himself, he made some strong coffee. From the kitchen he drifted back to his office, then back to the kitchen again. This strange new pain which gnawed at his entrails, constricted his chest making it difficult to breathe, and prevented him thinking clearly about anything, was the thing they called love. He felt himself ready to commit every extravagance and stupidity, and was almost proud of it in spite of his misery. How had he been able to receive that string of clients, study so many dossiers, and listen to so many confessions, without understanding this elemental thing, his mind obstinately closed to the truth? He had felt like shrugging his shoulders when a client, with tears in his eyes, had cried:
‘But I love her!… I love her!’
He had felt like answering:
‘Go on. You make me laugh with that stuff about love. Love indeed! A childish dream! Very pretty, no doubt, and exquisitely pure, but unrealistic. I’m just not interested in your bedroom stories!’
What a fool!
At eight o’clock he was still in his dressing-gown and slippers, his hair tousled, his eyes too bright. He hadn’t made up his mind to any course of action. He couldn’t telephone to Madeleine: she had forbidden him to, on account of the servants. Besides, what would be the use if she didn’t want to see him? Perhaps she was afraid to…
He shaved and dressed, his thoughts elsewhere. Without it being in any way a conscious decision on his part, he knew he must see Gévigne as soon as possible. He suddenly wanted to be sincere, though at the same time making unavowed reservations. Why shouldn’t he be able to find a way of reassuring Gévigne so that he could go on seeing Madeleine? That thought broke through the fog in which he was floundering.
With it, he noticed that the sun was shining outside, filtering in between the slats of the shutters, which he had forgotten to open. He switched off the electric light and flooded the room with sunshine. He was regaining confidence—just because it was a fine day, and because the war hadn’t yet turned nasty. He went out, left the key under the mat for the charwoman, and, at the bottom of the stairs, greeted the concierge with an almost cheery ‘good morning’. Yes, everything was going to turn out well after all. He could have laughed out loud at his qualms and terrors of an hour ago.
But then, he had always been like that, a prey to that mysterious inner pendulum which swung from despair to hope, from misery to joy, from timidity to audacity. No respite. Never a day of real relaxation, of moral equilibrium. Though with Madeleine…
No. He mustn’t think of her, or he’d get all muddled again. To distract his attention he looked about him. Paris shimmered like a mirage; never had the light been more tender, more sensually palpable. One would have liked to touch the tree-tops, touch the sky, and take the whole magic city to one’s bosom. Flavières went on foot, walking slowly. At ten sharp he entered Gévigne’s office, to find that the latter had just arrived.
‘Come in, old boy. Sit down… I’ll be with you in a moment. I must just have a word with my Paris manager.’
Gévigne looked tired. In a few years he would have bags under his eyes, flabby, lined cheeks. He wouldn’t get past fifty unscathed. Flavières couldn’t help feeling secretly pleased. He had hardly settled down in his chair before Gévigne came back. He gave Flavières a friendly slap on the back as he passed.
‘You know, I envy you,’ he said. ‘I’d just love to spend my afternoon escorting a pretty woman about the place—particularly if it was my own wife… The life I lead! It’s no joke.’
He sat down heavily, swivelled his chair round, so as to face Flavières.
‘Well?’
‘Nothing. Nothing much. The
day before yesterday we went to the Louvre. Yesterday I didn’t see her. I was expecting her to ring me up, and I confess that her silence—’
‘Nothing serious,’ said Gévigne. ‘Madeleine’s been a little out of sorts. When I got back this morning I found her in bed. Tomorrow she’ll be as right as rain again. I know her.’
‘Did she speak about our afternoon in the Louvre?’
‘She just mentioned it. She showed me some baubles she’d bought… a lighter, I think… She seemed all right to me.’
‘I’m so glad.’
Flavières crossed his legs, threw an arm over the back of his chair. The sudden stab of relief was almost like a pain.
‘You know, I’m wondering whether there’s any use in my going on,’ he said.
‘What on earth are you saying? What an idea! You’ve seen for yourself what she’s capable of doing.’
‘Yes. Of course,’ said Flavières awkwardly. ‘But… Well, the thing is I’m beginning to find it a bit embarrassing going about with your wife. I look as if… Put it this way: it’s an equivocal situation.’
Gévigne was fidgeting with a paper-knife.
‘And what about me?’ he growled. ‘Do you think I like the situation any better? I appreciate your scruples, but we’ve no choice. If I had the time, I’d take on the job myself. But I’ve got myself so tied up…’
Dropping the paper-knife he folded his arms. His head seemed jammed down on his shoulders as he looked steadily at Flavières.
‘Give me another fortnight, old man. Three weeks at the outside. Things are moving fast. I shall probably have to enlarge my shipyard and that’ll mean settling down altogether at Le Havre. I hope Madeleine will agree to living there. Until then, keep an eye on her… I can see your point of view; I’ve given you both a delicate task and a thankless one. But don’t chuck it up, I beg you. For the next two or three weeks I need to be free of all outside worries, so that I can concentrate on our new plans.’
Flavières made a pretence of hesitating.
‘If you really think it’s only a matter of two or three weeks.’
‘You have my word for it.’
‘All right. So long as you understand my position. I don’t approve of these outings. I’m an impressionable type… You see, I’m being completely frank with you…’
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