‘Excuse me,’ he said.
After all, for years and years Madeleine hadn’t known she was Pauline Lagerlac. It wasn’t astonishing if Renée didn’t yet know she was Madeleine.
‘I’m completely drunk,’ he said to himself.
And out loud, with a jerk of his head towards Almaryan:
‘Is he jealous?’
‘Far from it,’ she answered sadly.
‘Black market, I suppose?’
‘Of course. Are you in it too?’
‘No. I’m a lawyer… Is he very busy?’
‘Yes. He’s out a lot.’
‘Then I could see you sometimes during the day?’
She didn’t answer. He allowed his hand to slip down to her waist.
‘If you need me,’ he murmured, ‘I’m in Room 17. You won’t forget?’
‘No… I must go back to him now.’
Almaryan was smoking a cigar as he read the Dauphiné Libéré.
‘I think he gets along very well without you,’ said Flavières. ‘Till tomorrow, then.’
He bowed, then went upstairs, forgetting he hadn’t had any dinner. In the lift, he asked:
‘Monsieur Almaryan—what’s the number of his room?’
‘He’s got a suite. No. 11.’
‘What’s the name of the woman he’s got with him?’
‘Renée Sourange.’
‘That her real name?’
‘No reason why it shouldn’t be! It’s what’s on her carte d’identité.’
Contrary to his usual habit—he was inclined to be close-fisted—he gave a handsome tip. He would have given a lot more to know… Ah! If only he could know! He drank three glasses of water before going to bed, but without succeeding in dissipating the fog in which he was engulfed. He was frightened again: he had to admit it. Surely she must have recognized him! Unless… Drunk though he might be, the three alternatives stood out clearly: either she was pretending, or she was suffering from amnesia, or she wasn’t Madeleine.
He woke up in a fury. As he saw things now, it was obviously high time for him to get into the hands of that doctor at Nice. He blushed to think of his theories of the previous day. He had nothing further to do in Marseilles. Health must come first, and this girl who looked like Madeleine could go to the devil.
All the same, he watched for Almaryan’s departure, and promptly looked for No. 11. He knocked lightly several times, as though he was a familiar visitor.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Flavières.’
She opened the door. Her eyes were red, her eyelids swollen. She hadn’t dressed.
‘Well, Renée, what’s the matter now?’
She began crying again. He shut the door and bolted it.
‘What’s the matter, my little one? Tell me all about it.’
‘He’s had enough of me. He’s turfing me out.’
Flavières studied her without indulgence. It was Madeleine, certainly, a Madeleine who had been disloyal to him—with Almaryan, with others perhaps. He clenched his fists in his trouser-pockets. His smile was a little twisted.
‘What a fuss about nothing!’ he said with forced jocularity. ‘What do you want him for? Aren’t I here to fill the gap?’
Renée’s tears flowed faster than ever.
‘No,’ she cried. ‘No… Not you!’
‘Why not?’ he asked, bending over her.
THREE
Monsieur le Directeur,
I have the honour to inform you that the sum indicated has been paid into your account at Marseilles. Though this withdrawal cannot be said seriously to embarrass the firm, I am bound to point out the irregularity of the proceeding, a repetition of which might well have more serious consequences. I trust your health is no longer causing you anxiety and that we may shortly be seeing you in Paris again. All goes well here, and business is satisfactory.
The signature, after the assurance of the writer’s devoted sentiments, etc., was J. Traboul.
Flavières tore the letter up in a rage. He easily lost his temper. Particularly now.
‘Bad news?’ asked Renée.
‘No. Not really. Just another little bit of Traboul’s nonsense.’
‘Who’s Traboul?’
‘My junior partner. To listen to him, you’d think the world was coming to an end tomorrow. He’s always like that. And Dr. Ballard told me I needed rest… Rest!’
He paced angrily up and down for a moment, then said roughly:
‘Come on. We’ll go out for a breath of fresh air.’
He regretted his luxurious suite in the Waldorf Astoria. Here in the Hôtel de France the rooms were small and forbidding, and horribly expensive into the bargain. The only advantage of the place was that they didn’t risk running into Almaryan. Flavières took out a cigarette and struck a match. He didn’t dare use the lighter now… She was sitting at the dressing-table, doing her hair.
‘I don’t like it like that,’ he grunted. ‘Can’t you do it differently?’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know how. In a bun at the back of your neck, perhaps.’
He had said that on the impulse of the moment. And was already cursing himself for doing so. What was the good of provoking the same old quarrel which had been going on for days, with its exhausting scenes and deceptive reconciliations? They turned round each other like animals in a cage, growling and showing their claws, except when they slept to dream of the wide open spaces.
‘I’ll wait for you downstairs.’
He made straight for the bar and scowled at the smiling barman. Men were all alike behind their counters, falsely ingratiating, silkily whispering their wares as though to allay suspicion. Flavières ordered a drink. There was no longer any reason why he shouldn’t drink—now that he was sure! It was all very well for her to swear she wasn’t Madeleine: he knew she was. He knew it with an absolute certainty, a certainty not merely of the brain but of all his flesh and blood. As if she had been, not his mistress, but his child. And, as a matter of fact, she was so little his mistress. He could do without that side of her so easily. He was even a little shocked that Madeleine could lend herself to carnal pleasures. What he loved in her—and it had been so all along—was… it was difficult to explain… was that she wasn’t quite real. And now, on the contrary, she seemed anxious to prove that she was just like any other woman, that she was Renée in fact, a person without either mystery or grace. And yet… If only she would consent to yield up her secret, how wonderful it would be! He would be delivered from his solitude. For, in the last resort, it was he who belonged to the dead, she to the living!
She came downstairs. He saw her coming, her mouth twisted by a vague grimace. He didn’t like the colour of her dress. Not only the colour: it was badly cut and rather showy. She needed higher heels too… and then… well, the whole of her face needed to be slightly remodelled, the cheeks hollowed out a little to make the most of those touchingly prominent cheek-bones, the eyebrows faintly pencilled to restore to them the touch of bewilderment of someone who had strayed into an alien world. Only the eyes were perfect, only they were the absolute proof. Flavières paid for his drink and went to meet her. He would have liked to throw his arms round her, to embrace her; yes, perhaps to suffocate her.
‘I was as quick as I could be,’ she said.
He almost shrugged his shoulders. She no longer knew how to find the right words. Even her way of slipping her hand under his arm jarred on him. She was too timid, too submissive. She was slightly afraid of him. Nothing could be more irritating than that. They walked in silence side by side. He was thinking:
‘If I’d been promised this a month ago, I’d have died of joy.’
Now that it had happened, he had never been so miserable.
In front of the shop-windows she hung back a little. That annoyed him too.
‘You had to go without a lot of things during the war, I suppose?’
‘Everything.’
The accent of poverty touched him.
‘Then Almaryan rigged you out, I suppose?’
He knew very well the words would wound her, yet he couldn’t hold them back. By her grip on his arm, he knew she winced.
‘I was lucky to find him.’
Now it was his turn to be wounded. So it went on. That was the game. But he couldn’t chuck it up.
‘Look here…’ he began angrily.
But what was the good? He dragged her towards the centre of the town.
‘No need to go so fast,’ she complained. ‘As we’re only out for a walk.’
He didn’t answer. It was he who was now looking in the shop-windows. Presently he found what he was looking for.
‘Come on. You can ask questions later.’
A shop-walker bowed, his hands clasped.
‘Dresses,’ said Flavières curtly.
‘First floor. The lift’s over there.’
He had made up his mind. And Traboul would jolly well have to stump up. A sharp pleasure tingled within him. She would confess! She would be forced to!… The lift-boy shut the gate and they went up.
‘Chéri,’ whispered Renée.
‘Be quiet.’
He went up to one of the shop-assistants.
‘Show us some dresses. The most elegant ones you have.’
‘Certainly, Monsieur.’
Flavières sat down. He was a little out of breath, almost as if he’d been running. The girl produced several dresses, watching for Renée’s response, but it was he who chipped in:
‘That one.’
‘The black one?’
‘Yes. The black one.’
And to Renée:
‘Will you try it on?… To please me.’
She hesitated, blushing under the eyes of the girl, who was trying to size them up. Then she went meekly into the cubicle. Flavières got up and began pacing up and down. It was like old times: he was waiting for her. With the same throbbing anxiety, the same sense of suffocation. He was once again alive. At the bottom of his pocket he gripped the lighter fiercely. Then, as the time didn’t pass quickly enough, as the suspense became unbearable, he looked for a grey suit from a row hanging on a rod. It had to be grey. There were several, but none quite the right grey. No grey, of course, would ever be exactly like the one he remembered. Was that because he had idealized it for so long? Could he be sure his memory wasn’t playing him false?
The door of the cubicle opened. He swung round and received the same shock as at the Waldorf. There she was: Madeleine come to life again. Yes, it was Madeleine who stopped suddenly as though recognizing him, Madeleine who came towards him, rather pale and with the same wistful, enquiring look he knew so well. He held out his thin hand, but immediately dropped it again. No. Something was still wrong. How was it he hadn’t at once noticed those ear-rings which spoilt everything?
‘Take them off,’ he growled in an undertone.
As she didn’t understand, he took the arrogant things off with his own hands—a little too roughly. Then, stepping back, he examined her again with that despair of the painter who can’t get the exact effect he’s striving after.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Madame will keep that dress on… And we’ll take this grey suit too, if it’s the same size… Is it?… Well, do it up, please… and tell us where the shoe department is.’
Renée offered no resistance. Perhaps she understood why Flavières studied each pair of shoes with such a critical eye, rejecting one for this reason, another for that. He chose some neat shiny ones.
‘Now. Let’s see you walk in them.’
Perched up on high heels in the close-fitting black dress she looked another person, almost ethereal.
‘That’ll do,’ he snapped.
The girl who was serving them looked up in surprise and he quickly changed his tone to say:
‘They’ll do perfectly. Wrap the others up.’
He took Renée by the hand and dragged her over to a mirror.
‘Now look,’ he murmured. ‘Look at yourself… Madeleine!’
‘Please…’ she begged.
‘Come on! Just one more effort… That woman in black you’re looking at… that’s not Renée Sourange… Try to remember.’
She was visibly suffering. Fear distorted her face, and the other face, the real one, was only visible in an occasional intangible reflection.
He hadn’t finished. He dragged Madeleine to the lift. He’d see about the hair later. For the moment it was the scent that mattered. That would call up the past more than anything. Yes. He was going to see this through, regardless of the consequences.
They hadn’t got the scent he wanted. In vain he tried to describe it.
‘No,’ said the girl in the perfumery department, ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite see…’
‘I’m sure you’ve got it… How can I describe it? It smells something like freshly dug earth, like withered flowers.’
‘Unless you mean Chanel No. 3.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘It’s not being made any more. You might find a bottle in a little shop that had some old stock. I’m afraid we can’t help you.’
Renée tugged at his sleeve but he lingered there, thoughtfully fingering the bottles. Without that perfume the resurrection would be incomplete. Finally he allowed her to lead him away, but he didn’t leave the store till he’d bought her a little hat of very soft felt and subtle line. While he was paying, he looked out of the corner of his eye at the startlingly new yet familiar silhouette at his side, and a glint of indulgence warmed his heart. It was he who took Renée’s arm. No, Madeleine’s!
‘Why are you doing all these silly things?’ she asked.
‘Why?… Because I want you to discover yourself. Because I want to know the truth.’
She bridled. He could feel her aloofness, her hostility, but he held her tightly against him. She wasn’t going to get away again. She’d give in in the end.
‘I want you to be perfect,’ he went on. ‘Almaryan is wiped off the slate. He has never existed.’
They walked on in silence for a minute or two, but, try as he might, he was unable to leave the subject alone.
‘You can’t be Renée Sourange,’ he said. ‘No. You must listen to me. You can see I’m not angry; I’m speaking quite calmly.’
She heaved a sigh. That always maddened him, but he just managed to keep his temper.
‘Yes, I know… You’re Renée; you lived in London with your Uncle Charles, your father’s brother; you were born at Dambremont in the Vosges, a tiny village on the river… You’ve told me all that over and over again. But it’s not true. It can’t be true. You’re making a mistake.’
‘For heaven’s sake don’t let’s start that all over again.’
‘I’m not going over it again. All I want is that you try to remember. If you probe a little, you’ll find there’s a hitch somewhere. Perhaps you were ill at some time or other, seriously ill.’
‘I assure you…’
‘There are illnesses which do queer things to people.’
‘I couldn’t forget an illness. All I’ve ever had was scarlet fever at the age of ten.’
‘No. It can’t be all.’
‘I’m fed up with this.’
He was determined to be patient, as though Madeleine was an invalid, an extremely fragile person who mustn’t be jolted, yet her obstinacy infuriated him.
‘You’ve told me hardly anything about your childhood,’ he said. ‘I want to know all about it.’
And, as they were passing the Musée Grobet-Labadié, he added:
‘Let’s go in here. It’s a good place for a talk.’
But he was no sooner in the entrance hall than he knew it was a mistake: his inner torment would start again more cruelly than ever. Indeed, the sound of their steps, the silence of the things round them, the paintings and portraits, reminded him of the Louvre with aching intensity. And, as she lowered her voice so as not to disturb the sanctity of the empty rooms, she suddenly reacquired Madeleine’s
tone, the veiled contralto that gave such value to her confidences.
Flavières listened less to her words than to their strange music. She told him about her childhood. Inevitably it was similar to Madeleine’s. Like Madeleine she was an only child… And, dressed as she now was, he longed to take her into his arms. Stopping in front of a picture of the Vieux Port, he asked in a shaky voice:
‘Do you like that sort of painting?’
‘No. I don’t know. I’m quite ignorant of painting, you know.’
He sighed and took her on into a room full of models of boats and ships—caravels, galleys, tartans, and a three-decker complete with all its guns and an exquisite network of rigging.
‘Tell me some more.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Everything. What you did. What you thought about.’
‘Oh, I was a little girl much like any other, I suppose. Perhaps not so light-hearted as some… I read a lot. I liked old tales and legends.’
‘You too!’
‘Don’t all children?… I used to wander about on the hills. I told myself stories. I saw life as a fairy-tale… I was wrong!’
They went into the collection of Roman Antiquities. Statues and busts with blind staring eyes and short curly hair stood peacefully dreaming against the walls. Flavières’ uneasiness increased. Some of those consuls reminded him of Gévigne, even recalling snatches of his conversation.
‘I want you to keep an eye on my wife… I’m worried about her…’
They were both dead, but their voices lived on. So did their physical shapes… And Madeleine, as in the old days, was walking by his side.
‘You never lived in Paris?’ he asked.
‘No. I went through once, on my way to England. That’s all.’
‘I’m questioning her like a suspect,’ he thought, ‘as though she’d committed a crime.’
With that reflection he lost the thread, couldn’t remember what he’d been leading up to. He was bitter and disappointed. He listened to Madeleine absent-mindedly. Was she lying? What reason would she have to lie? And how could she glibly invent all the details she was now giving him? The most sceptical couldn’t fail to be convinced she was none other than Renée Sourange.
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