Vertigo

by Pierre Boileau

  Gévigne’s face had a hard, businesslike look, the look he found useful at board meetings, no doubt. Yet, he smiled.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘There aren’t enough people in the world like you. I quite understand. But Madeleine’s safety takes precedence over everything else.’

  ‘Have you any particular reason for fearing anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Has it occurred to you that if your wife acts on the spur of the moment, as she did the other day, I might not be able to intervene in time?’

  ‘Yes… I’ve thought of… of everything.’

  He lowered his eyes; he clenched a fist so tightly that his knuckles went white.

  ‘But it won’t happen,’ he went on. ‘And if it did, at least you’d be there to tell the tale. That would be something. What I can’t bear is the uncertainty… I’d a hundred times sooner Madeleine was ill, desperately ill; I’d sooner she was undergoing the most dangerous operation. At least I should know where I was. Bon dieu! I could count the chances one way or the other. But in this fog… Perhaps you don’t understand that.’

  ‘Oh yes, I do.’

  ‘Then you’ll carry on?’

  ‘I will. Don’t worry… By the way, do you know if she’s ever been to Saintes?’

  ‘Saintes?’ exclaimed Gévigne, taken aback. ‘No. I’m sure she hasn’t. What put the idea into your head?’

  ‘She described it exactly as if she’d been there.’

  ‘What are you getting at now?’

  ‘Would she have seen photographs of the town?’

  ‘Anyone might see an old photograph of a place. That doesn’t enable them to describe it. We’ve never been down the west coast. We haven’t even got a guide-book of that region.’

  ‘What about Pauline Lagerlac? Could she have lived there?’

  ‘That’s more than I could tell you.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound improbable… with a name ending in –-ac. There are lots round there: Cognac, Chermignac, Germozac—oh, dozens of them.’

  ‘And you think—’

  ‘Of course I do. Your wife can describe places she’s never seen herself, but which were known to Pauline Lagerlac… And, wait a minute. This is what’s so interesting—she describes them not as they are now, but as they were a century ago.’

  Gévigne frowned.

  ‘How do you explain it?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t. I can’t. Not yet. It’s too extraordinary… Pauline and Madeleine…’

  ‘But we’re living in the twentieth century, you know! You’re not going to pretend that Pauline and Madeleine… Of course I know that Madeleine is obsessed by this great-grandmother of hers, but there must be a reasonable explanation of it. That’s why I turned to you. I was beginning to go off the rails a bit myself. I looked to you to steady me up, you with your legal mind.’

  ‘I’ve offered to withdraw,’ retorted Flavières, slightly nettled.

  He was conscious of his own irritation, and realized how easily he and Gévigne could fly at each other’s throats. But he wasn’t ready to make peace.

  ‘I won’t waste your time any longer,’ he said after a rather tense pause.

  He got up. Gévigne merely shook his head.

  ‘Come on, old man, we mustn’t quarrel about it. All that matters is to save Madeleine. I don’t care whether she’s ill, mad, inspired, or possessed, so long as we can keep her alive.’

  ‘Will she be going out today?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When will she?’

  ‘Tomorrow, surely. Today I’ll try to be with her myself as much as possible.’

  Flavières didn’t wince though a spasm of hatred darted through him.

  ‘How I loathe him!’ he thought. ‘How he disgusts me!’

  Out loud he said:

  ‘Tomorrow, then… That is if I’m free. I’m not so sure that I shall be.’

  Gévigne jumped to his feet, came round and took Flavières’ arm.

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,’ he said. ‘This business gets my nerves all jangled. I’m a bit tactless, I know, but it doesn’t mean a thing… Listen. I’ve a particular reason for wanting you to look after her tomorrow. Today I’m going to sound her about moving to Le Havre. I’ve no idea how she’ll take it. It may upset her. So be a sport. Keep tomorrow free at all costs. And in the evening give me a ring or drop in here. I’ve complete confidence in your judgment and am most grateful for all you’re doing.’

  Where had Gévigne learnt to speak in that grave, compelling voice so full of feeling?

  ‘All right,’ said Flavières.

  Too promptly—he could have kicked himself. He was putting himself in Gévigne’s power. But he had always been melted at once by a little solicitude, by a few kind words.

  Ill at ease, he took his leave. As he went out, he heard Gévigne saying:

  ‘I shan’t forget what you’re doing for me.’

  And then the long hours began again, empty, monotonous, meaningless. He couldn’t think of Madeleine now without thinking of Gévigne by her side, and each time he suffered the same rending, agonizing pain. He cursed himself. What sort of a man was he? He was letting Madeleine down as well as Gévigne. He was blind with jealousy, rage, envy, and despair. And yet, in the last resort, he felt himself to be both innocent and sincere. He had been straightforward throughout.

  He dragged himself about, sometimes accusing, sometimes defending himself, sometimes so overwhelmed by depression that he had to sit down on a seat or at the terrace of a café. For he had another cross to bear now. What would become of him if Madeleine went to live at Le Havre? Should he try to stop her going? How could he?

  He finished up in a cinema on the Grands Boulevards. The news was just beginning as he took his seat. Always the same subjects: marching troops, military parades, or manoeuvres. The people round him calmly sucked their sweets. Scenes of that sort were no longer of the slightest interest. Everybody knew that the Boches had had it! Flavières relapsed into an uneasy somnolence, like a forlorn traveller in a station waiting-room. He left before the end, afraid of falling asleep altogether. His neck was stiff, his eyes smarting. He dawdled home under a starry sky. Sometimes he passed a man in a steel helmet with a whistle lanyard round his neck, enjoying a furtive cigarette in a doorway. But a serious air raid seemed most unlikely. The Germans would need a really powerful air force for anything on a big scale, and that they simply hadn’t got!

  He lay down on his bed and lit a cigarette. And suddenly he felt so sleepy that he hadn’t the energy to take his clothes off. His body went numb, petrified like those statues in the Louvre… Madeleine…

  He woke up with a clear head, instantly recognizing the noise. Sirens. They howled in chorus over the roofs and the darkened city seemed like a hastily abandoned ship. In the house, a door slammed, then another. Steps hurried down the stairs. Flavières switched on his bedside lamp. Three o’clock. He turned over and went to sleep again.

  At eight next morning he switched on the wireless with a yawn to hear the news. The German offensive had begun. And curiously enough he could only feel a sense of relief. Real war, at last. That would soon shake him out of his own personal troubles, making him share the general ones, which were both more exciting and more legitimate. Events would now take charge of things, making decisions for him which he shirked making for himself. Yes, the war was coming to his rescue. He had merely to let himself go, float down on the stream. A new spark of life kindled in him. He was hungry. His fatigue was gone. Madeleine rang up. The usual rendezvous. Two o’clock.

  All the morning he worked briskly, saw clients, answered the telephone. He could detect in people’s voices an excitement akin to his own. News was scarce. The papers and the radio made a lot of fuss over some initial successes, but without giving any precise details. That, of course, was only to be expected. He had lunch near the Palais de Justice with a colleague and they lingered over their coffee, talking. Everyone talked, even to strangers, disc
ussing the situation, unfolding maps. Flavières enjoyed the free and easy atmosphere and the feeling of crisis, which he drank in with all his senses. He just had time to jump into his Simca and dash to the Etoile. He was drunk with words, with bustle, with sunshine.

  Madeleine was waiting for him. Why had she chosen the same little brown suit she had worn the day she had…? For a moment Flavières retained her gloved hand in his.

  ‘I nearly died of anxiety,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t very well. Can I drive?’

  ‘By all means. I’m living on my nerves today. They’re attacking. Have you heard?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She drove down the Avenue Victor-Hugo and Flavières realized at once she was still not quite herself. She changed gears clumsily, let the clutch in with a jerk, and jammed on the brakes. She had a bad colour.

  ‘Let’s go for a good long drive,’ she said. ‘It may be our last.’

  ‘Why?’

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘No one knows what’s going to happen now. In any case I may be leaving Paris.’

  So Gévigne had raised the question. Perhaps they’d had a row about it. Flavières didn’t talk. He didn’t want to take her mind off her driving till they were clear of the traffic. They left Paris by the Porte de la Muette and plunged into the Bois de Boulogne. Then he began:

  ‘Why should you leave Paris? There’s little risk of air raids, and this time the Germans won’t even reach the Marne.’

  When she didn’t answer, he went on:

  ‘Is it because of… because of me?… I don’t want to disturb your life, Madeleine… You don’t mind me calling you that now, do you?… All I want is that you promise never again to write a letter like that one you tore up… You understand what I mean?’

  She pursed her lips, apparently intent on overtaking a lorry. The race-track at Longchamp looked like a huge meadow, and the eye instinctively looked for cows or sheep. There was a traffic jam at the Pont de Suresnes and for a while they only advanced at a walking pace.

  ‘Don’t let’s talk about that any more,’ she pleaded. ‘And let’s forget all about the war for a moment.’

  ‘But you’re sad, Madeleine. I can see you are.’

  ‘Me?’

  She made a brave attempt at a smile, which wrung his heart.

  ‘No, I’m just the same as usual,’ she went on. ‘Really I am. I’m enjoying every moment of this drive. That’s what I like—just to take whatever road turns up, without thinking about anything. I wish it was possible to stop thinking altogether. Oh, why aren’t we animals?’

  ‘You don’t really mean that.’

  ‘I do. I don’t pity animals at all. On the contrary. They eat, they sleep, and they’re innocent. They have no pasts and no futures.’

  ‘Some philosophy, that!’

  ‘I don’t know whether it’s a philosophy, but I can’t help envying them.’

  For the next hour they only exchanged an occasional remark. At Bougival they found the Seine again and followed the left bank for a while. A little later Flavières caught sight of the Château de Saint-Germain. In the deserted forest, Madeleine speeded up, only slowing down a little when they came to Poissy. Then she drove straight on, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. On the far side of Meulan a woman with a handcart full of logs was right in the middle of the road. Without waiting for her to pull over to the side, Madeleine turned down a lane to the right. They passed a makeshift saw-mill, which had been erected on the site for some job or other, and then abandoned. Only the smell of sawn timber told of its recent use. Coming to some cross-roads, Madeleine chose the righthand turning, presumably attracted by the hedges which were in full flower. A horse with a white spot on its forehead gazed at them over a five-barred gate.

  Madeleine seemed to be in a hurry, though there was no reason for it, and the car bumped over the ruts. Furtively, Flavières looked at his wrist-watch. It was about time they stopped. Then they could walk together side by side. That would be the moment to question her. She was certainly hiding something. Possibly she had something on her conscience, something from long ago, perhaps before her marriage. Remorse could easily explain her obsession. She wasn’t ill, she wasn’t mad, she wasn’t untruthful. Yet there might be something she had never been able to tell anybody, not even her husband. The more he thought of this idea, the more plausible he found it. But what could she be guilty of? For it would obviously be something serious.

  ‘Do you know that church?’ she asked. ‘Have you any idea where we are?’

  ‘What?… I’m sorry… That church?… No, I don’t know where we are. Let’s stop, anyhow. It’s already half past three.’

  They drew up in the empty square in front of the church. To one side, on a lower level, some roofs were visible behind a few trees.

  ‘Queer mixture,’ said Madeleine, looking critically at the church. ‘Part Romanesque, part modern. It isn’t good.’

  ‘The tower’s too tall for the rest.’

  They went in. A notice over the stoup explained that the priest, having to minister to several other parishes, was only able to say one mass a week here, on Sundays at 11 a.m.

  ‘That’s why the place looks so neglected,’ whispered Madeleine.

  They went slowly on, between the rush-seated chairs. The clucking of hens came from a garden near by. The pictures of the stations of the cross were peeling. A wasp was buzzing round the altar. Madeleine crossed herself and knelt down on a dusty prie-dieu. Flavières stood by her, keeping very still. For what sin was she asking forgiveness? Would she have gone to hell if she had succeeded in drowning herself? Unable to hold out any longer, he knelt down beside her.

  ‘Madeleine… Do you really believe?’

  She turned her head slightly. She was so white he thought she was ill.

  ‘What’s the matter?… Tell me, Madeleine.’

  ‘Nothing,’ she whispered. ‘Yes, I believe… I’m obliged to believe that nothing finishes when we think it does… That’s what’s so terrible.’

  For a long minute she buried her face in her hands.

  ‘Come on,’ she said at last. ‘Let’s go.’

  She stood up and crossed herself again, facing the altar. He plucked at her sleeve.

  ‘Yes. We’d better go. I don’t like to see you in this state.’

  ‘I’ll be all right outside in the fresh air.’

  They passed a tumbledown confessional. Flavières was sorry he couldn’t put Madeleine into it. That’s what she needed: a priest. Priests forget. Would he forget, if she told her trouble to him? He heard her groping in the dim light for a latch. A door opened on a spiral staircase.

  ‘That’s the wrong door, Madeleine. It leads up into the belfry.’

  ‘I’d like to have a look,’ she answered.

  ‘It’s getting late.’

  ‘I shan’t be a minute.’

  She had already started up the stairs. He couldn’t very well stay behind. Reluctantly he followed, gripping the greasy rope which served as a banister rail.

  ‘Don’t go so quickly, Madeleine.’

  His voice resounded in the narrow vaulted staircase. Madeleine took no notice; her steps hurried on. Reaching a little landing, he saw through an aperture the roof of the Simca, and, behind a screen of poplars, a field in which women were working, their hair bound in kerchiefs. Already at this height he felt uncomfortable and, hurriedly turning away from the loophole, he went on up the stairs.

  ‘Madeleine!… Wait for me.’

  He was panting and his temples were throbbing. Another landing, another loophole. This time he took care not to look. Nor on the other side either—that was worse. For the stairs swept round so as to leave an open shaft in the middle, down which hung the bell-rope. Rooks were cawing round the tower. He didn’t know how he’d ever be able to get down again.

  ‘Madeleine!’

  His voice was hoarse with anxiety. Was he going to start yelling like a child in the dark? He
was coming to another landing; he could see a glint of the light of the loophole. He knew very well what giddiness awaited him there: yet, when he got to it, he couldn’t help looking. This time he was above the tree-tops and the Simca was no more than a little patch of black. The air came whistling in from everywhere, swirling round him. On the landing he found his further passage barred by a door. He tried to open it, but couldn’t. He wasn’t at the top. Looking across the bell-rope shaft he could see the stairs went on, though they were now encased, so there was no question of getting round the door that way.

  ‘Madeleine!… Open the door.’

  Frantically, he shook the handle and banged with his fist on the door. What was Madeleine up to? Could she be?…

  ‘No, Madeleine!’ he shouted wildly. ‘You mustn’t… Don’t do that… Listen to me.’

  His voice was picked up by the bells, which returned it with a slightly metallic resonance, a queer inhuman quality. Frantic, he turned towards the loophole. No, it was more than a loophole: on this landing it was quite a large aperture, divided in two by the door. Even the half was broad enough for a human body to squeeze through. Could a man pass the door that way, getting out one side and in the other? Yes, all the more so as there was a cornice on the level of the landing broad enough to offer a meagre foothold. Yes, it was possible… For a man!… Not for him! He’d fall: he knew it… No, he couldn’t face it…

  ‘Madeleine!’ he shouted. ‘Madeleine!’

  She answered with a shrill cry and a shadow passed across the opening in the wall. Biting his knuckles he counted, as, when a boy, he had counted between the lightning and the thunder. And the thunder came—a horrid dull thud from below. In the voice of a dying man, Flavières repeated:

  ‘Madeleine… Madeleine… No…’

  He had to sit down. He felt he was going to faint. Then, without standing up, he lowered himself from step to step. It was a slow progress, and all the way he couldn’t help groaning with terror and despair. On the first landing he risked a look. Kneeling, he peered out through the loophole. Beneath him, on the left, was an old churchyard, and straight below him, at the bottom of the horribly smooth wall, lay an ugly, shapeless heap of brown clothes. He wiped his eyes: he had to see at all costs. There was some blood on the gravel, a gaping black handbag from which a shining gold lighter had escaped.