The Lynx

by Michel Corday

  “Precisely.”

  “But I can’t grasp the interest...”

  “Capital, Monsieur Nitaud, capital. For my master, Professor Brion, who has just died...”

  “Brion—yes, I know, a great scientist...”

  “Well, Brion, among other biological endeavors, has studied the microbe of yellow fever.”12

  “And that microbe can still be found in the blood?”

  “Science has denied it until recently. It believed that once the malady was over, the microbe disappeared with the organic debris, but Brion, among other prodigious discoveries, found the means to vivify—to resuscitate, so to speak—the bacillus, although it seemed to be annihilated.”

  “That’s…amazing.” The policeman thumped the table to signify his admiration. His eyes recovered all their intelligent mobility. He pushed his skullcap back over his head with a conquering gesture.

  “So,” Mirande concluded, “if I don’t find the trace of yellow fever in this bloodstain, Lacaze can’t be the murderer.”

  “Understood,” said Nitaud.

  For a long moment they contemplated the little piece of glass silently. Then Mirande added: “There’s one point on which I’d still like to be informed. Does the law keep all the pieces of evidence for a time.”

  “Certainly.”

  “So it possesses other analogous debris, similarly bloodied…”

  “You’ll be able to repeat your experiments, which will then take on an official character.”

  “That’s sufficient for me,” said Mirande. “I’ll take away this piece of glass. And thank you again for having found it and picked it up.”

  Nitaud offered him a little cardboard box filled with cotton wool, in which Mirande carefully packed the precious splinter. Feverish and buoyant, he extended his hand cordially to the policeman, who shook it energetically before letting it go.

  “Well then, eh? If you succeed, it’ll be one in the eye for Dutoit. Oh la la!”

  Outside, Gabriel headed for the boulevards. For her part, Jeanne had been invited to dine with friends, and he had promised himself an evening at the theater and music, a relaxation from his labors and cares. Nitaud’s discovery added to his glad disposition. He gazed at the passers-by with an ingenuous affection. He was tempted to proclaim his confidence to them. He walked slowly, at random, in quest of a restaurant.

  The display windows were lighting up. A mildness descended from the sky, and the murmur of the crowd seemed to acclaim the imminent success of his cause.

  But a hand gripped his arm, and a cheerful voice behind him said: “Decidedly, then, it’s a great life!”

  “You, mon Commandant!”

  He had just recognized Delacoste, whose overcoat revealed a white cravat. Undoubtedly, the Commandant had retained a benevolent memory of the evening in Dorville, for he immediately intimated to Mirande: “You’re free, eh? You’ll dine with me?” For the sake of discretion, Mirande risked a timid lie: “I was about to go home...”

  “No, no—no protests! Passive obedience! I’m taking you to dine in the Bois, and then we’ll go spend the evening at Lambrine’s.”

  “Mademoiselle Lambrine? But I haven’t been invited...”

  “I’m inviting you. You’ve been introduced to her; that’s sufficient. She’s promised us ancient dances. It’ll be curious, it seems. Then, I think a little bac will take us pleasantly through until dawn.”

  “Ah! Right,”

  Mirande now understood the Commandant’s insistence. His luck at cards had earned him this excessive good grace. A despicable prestige. He was about to make a further excuse, when Delacoste went on: “Come on, then. You’ll meet interesting people. There are more Parisians in Paris that one might think, at present. You don’t know, then, that Lambrine receives the cream of the magistracy, the arts, science and politics? That can always be useful.”

  This time, Mirande allowed himself to be tempted. Even so, he did not want to be introduced into Lambrine’s home without his power of divination. The project was realizable—if he had time to leap into a cab, go to the laboratory in the Rue Méchain, inject himself and come back. He could then dine with the Commandant.

  “I accept,” he said. “You’ll permit me, however, to go home...”

  “I’ll permit nothing at all!” protested the officer. “You’re capable of not coming back. No, no. You’re properly dressed. I have you, and I’m not letting you go.”

  And, indeed, a quarter of an hour later, he installed Mirande at a table set up in the open air, where, on the whiteness of the cloth, the delightful hues of flowers mingled with the pastel colors of the lampshade.

  Authoritatively, Delacoste placed the order, like a man accustomed to those sorts of initiative. “Compote of ris de veau, roasted partridge, celery, camembert, flambéd peaches, extra-dry American Flag…and at the double!”

  Slightly dazed, Mirande, who was penetrating that luxurious décor for the first time, contemplated the nearby hall, flamboyant with electricity, the diners in gala costume, and the garden, whose bright foliage seemed possessed of a tender freshness.

  “So,” asked Delacoste, “you’ve never been to Lambrine’s? Oh, you’ll see...a veritable little palace. And chic, tasteful.”

  Again he lauded the influence of the amiable woman. Without true talent, she hooked the premier roles. The press, aware of her prestige, did not spare its praise. In her home, nevertheless, Ministers could have held their council, there were so many of them. Even royal guests, passing through Paris, honored her with their visit.

  “And clever! All those she’s distinguished have remained her friends. She brings them together, so well that one barely recognizes the elect of the moment. For my part, I don’t know who’ll succeed Castillan...”

  “Castillan? What Castillan?” Mirande almost shouted.

  “But the only, the unique Castillan, the most worldly of physicians. What—you don’t know that story?”

  No, Mirande did not know it. But what upset him even more than that former liaison, was the thought of encountering Simone’s husband.

  Hazard had determined that during his student life he had never crossed the path of Dr. Castillan. He had heard mention of him as an audacious, brilliant, charming physician, but he had never seen him.

  For a moment, he was tempted to renounce the soirée. But why? Was he not bound to encounter the man sooner or later? Already, in a pressing letter, Castillan had expressed the desire to thank him in person for the incredible resurrection. He could not avoid him indefinitely. On the contrary, the opportunity was tempting to meet him without the presence of Simone. And it was with a resolute tread that he approached the Lambrine house an hour later.

  As soon as the porch, guarded by a valet of accomplished style, the high standing of the house was revealed. Valuable paintings were already hanging in the vestibule and along the stairway. An inestimable marble served as a lamp-stand. Oriental carpets extended over the steps. Two further valets, camped on the landings, indicated the way to the guests. But on the first floor, the three continuous drawing-rooms, under the abundant light of electric flowers, compelled his admiration.

  Oh, how far away it was from the brutal luxury of the casino in Dorville, the halls of official fêtes, the gilt and finery of the exposition! Here, from the Aubussons at the entrance to the long mirror at the back, tempered by a Venetian veil, everything smiled with an intimate elegance and an aristocratic good taste. Wealth only revealed itself in the patina of the antique furniture, the rarity of the wood paneling, the harmony of the hangings, and the artful distribution of marbles, bronzes and choice trinkets in the display cabinets and on the sideboards. In the midst of that discreet splendor, an elite company of notorious men were striving by means of their prestige or wit, to dazzle and interest the beauty of women.

  Delacoste grabbed Mirande’s arm. “Look. You’ve never seen Castellan? That’s him chatting to Lambrine over there, by the mantelpiece.”

  Mirande observed him avi
dly. At first, he could only make out a silhouette that was rather seductive, in spite of a somewhat rounded stomach, slightly emphasized by a whimsical waistcoat. Then he noticed the forty years inscribed in fine wrinkles in the corners of the dark eyes, the brushed hair, the pointed beard, brown and lustrous, and the warm coloration of the Oriental complexion. So that was Castellan! Simone’s husband and master! That was the man he had detested, and cursed in secret, even though his heart was protected from hatred by so much indulgence and altruism...

  Meanwhile Lambrine was approaching, followed by her companion,

  Delacoste, having saluted her, said: “I’ve permitted myself to bring my young friend Gabriel Mirande, whom you’ve already met in Dorville.”

  She gauged him with a glance, doubtless deemed him better dressed than in the casino, and, while extending a hand heavy with rings to him in a regal gesture, she said to the Commandant: “You did very well.”

  On hearing Mirande’s name pronounced, Castillan had not been able to retain a slight exclamation of surprise. He asked Lambrine to introduce him to the young man, and when that ritual was accomplished he immediately took him to one side.

  “I’m delighted finally to meet you, Monsieur Mirande. Was it necessary that it should be elsewhere than my home? I have to thank you so much for your miraculous intervention. Don’t think my letter sufficient to express my gratitude. My wife is waiting for you. Every day, she reproaches me for not having gone to see you. But you must suspect that the life of a Parisian physician is the most invaded, the most hectic…!”

  The voice was musical, the tone discreetly important. Mirande was astonished to submit to the grace of the welcome, to sense his hostility flex.

  “Has Madame Castellan made a complete recovery?” he asked.

  “Not complete, but it’s no longer anything but a matter of time and care. In any case, you can judge for yourself when you come to see us. We can talk about the miracle more at our leisure. Above all, don’t fail. I have your promise?”

  How could he refuse? Mirande consented. “Certainly, doctor.”

  But new arrivals were shaking Castillan’s hand. He excused himself, leaving Mirande in a group where people were talking politics.

  The scientist pretended to be listening, in order to put on a brave face, but he felt out of place and lost. Everything disorientated him: the scattered perfumes, the murmur of voices, the ease of the gestures, the profusion of light.

  Oh, if only he had his serum! If only he had it in his veins, in order to find, if only momentarily, a little of his penetrating strength and superiority while facing these celebrated men and brilliant women! Being disarmed, he felt weak, confused and overwhelmed. He had the impression of being afflicted by a sort of infirmity, a mental deafness. On hearing all those people without being able to hear their thoughts he experienced the same embarrassment, the same malaise as if he could see them moving their lips without being able to hear their words.

  Soon, his regret and his anxiety increased further. He had just recognized the glabrous face and inquisitive lorgnon of Monsieur Dutoit, the examining magistrate. Oh, that obstinate, vindictive face, how he had cursed it during the Lacaze affair! How he had trembled before it during the interrogation of the witnesses, before its irritation when he affirmed his friend’s innocence.

  Even now he retained a nightmarish memory of those interrogations, a persistent fear—and here was the enemy grinding out a polite smile and extending his hand.

  “How are you, my dear Monsieur? Delighted to find you here. We met in circumstances so painful for you; I haven’t forgotten your devotion to your unfortunate friend. Oh, you had no luck in that affair.”

  “Indeed, everything was in league against Lacaze,” Mirande dared to reprove. In spite of himself, however, he retained his timorous reserve and his submissive tone.

  The magistrate swelled with pride at sensing him once again in his power, as in the time when he had held him under question in his office, facing the raw daylight of the windowless curtain. Feline, he would have been able to continue playing with that prey, but the fact of wearing the same costume, of respiring the same joy diminished distances regardless and constrained him to an indulgence of goes company. Casually, he offered: “Shall we take a glass of champagne?”

  For his part, Mirande could not savor it. His throat closed. He regretted more bitterly than ever the magic liquid that was asleep out there in Brion’s cupboard. What absent strength! Twenty drops of the serum would have enlightened him so prodigiously! False compassion and apparent urbanity: how quickly he would have unmasked them in the magistrate. How quickly he would have opened a shutter in the skull of that little clean-shaven man and glimpsed the motives for his inclemency, his weaknesses and his flaws. How rapidly he would have dominated him in his turn. Oh, the splendid revenge...

  At that moment, Castillan approached. Cheerfully, he said: “What—the two of you know one another?”

  “We’re even old acquaintances,” said the magistrate indulgently, smiling.

  “Oh, that’s true—I forgot...” And he added, for Gabriel, in a sad tone: “Forgive me, my dear Monsieur.”

  Castillan’s compassion, the sly irony of the magistrate…it was too much. Everything was colluding to make him sense his weakness, and he did not have his sovereign remedy at his disposal. What point was there in prolonging the ordeal? He resolved to flee.

  But he had scarcely set foot on the staircase than Commandant Delacoste pounced on him. “What! You’re leaving already?”

  “Yes, I’m tired.”

  “But what about the bac?”

  “That was true. He had forgotten. Alas, in the game no more than elsewhere, he would not have the talisman that gave victory. He smiled weakly.

  “I sense that I won’t win this evening.”

  III

  Jeanne opened the glazed door to the fifth-floor balcony and leaned on the rail. She was watching for her brother. In the sunlight that had succeeded the recent rain the sidewalk was sparkling, the rails of the tramway shining like a nickel stream. The pedestrians who had taken refuge under the porches of houses were testing the sky by holding out their hands before resuming their route.

  Jeanne amused herself with the movement of the street. Everything enchanted her this morning. She had recovered her interest in life since Gabriel, bringing her the fragment of glass, had explained to her the ingenious testimony that he hoped to obtain from it: how he counted on demonstrating the absence of the yellow fever microbe from the coagulated blood, and that it was possible, thanks to Brion’s methods, to discover whether or not Lacaze had committed the crime.

  Never had her brother’s science enjoyed such prestige in her eyes. Culture media inspired a mysterious admiration in her; the objective lens of the microscope acquired a divine power for her.

  Finally! The liberating proof, the blessed proof, Gabriel was about to bring at any moment, when he returned from the laboratory, for which he had set out that morning so confidently.

  Why was he late in returning? Had he not promised to take an auto, in order to get home more rapidly? She imagined that he must have gone to the Palais de Justice first. And, with her eyes aimed into the distance, she grew impatient, reproaching every passer-by for disappointing her.

  Certainly, he would bring her the proof of innocence. Her Henri, her dear Henri, she was sure of him, although everyone else turned away. Oh, how she loved him even more for having been thus afflicted and denied! For a moment, to relieve her impatience, she went back into the room and stopped in front of the portrait of Lacaze, placed in a prominent position. It was really him, it was his ardent visage, his intelligent and honest gaze, the proud bearing of his head, his customary fashion of folding his arms over his aviator’s overalls. So the judges had been able to mistake him to that extent! They had not been touched, then, by that physiognomy, so righteous and sincere? Oh, the dear misunderstood, the great victim!

  She was about to go back on to the balcony
when the door opened behind her. Her brother came in.

  “Well?” she questioned, feverishly. But she suddenly froze. Gabriel’s constraint, his ravaged features confessed without words their common defeat.

  “Speak!” she implored, in a terrified voice.

  He did not reply. He went to collapse into a chair, and remained there prostrate. Then she shook him, almost brutally.

  “Say something, then! I have a right to know! What have you found?”

  “The proof.”

  “Of what? That he’s guilty?”

  “The blood I examined contains...”

  “That’s impossible!”

  “It is, however.” And, escaping his prostration, pressed to finish that confession, Gabriel continued: “My poor Jeanne, I would like to have been mistaken. Yes, I wanted to be…I consulted all my colleagues. I took them, one after another to my microscope and I asked them: ‘What is that bacillus?’ and they all replied: ‘It’s that of yellow fever.’ Oh, it’s the final straw. Now, there’s nothing more for us to do than fall silent...”

  But Jeanne, quivering, said: “I won’t fall silent. On the contrary, I shall cry out more loudly than ever before this new error.”

  With a weary gesture, he criticized her, this time, for her obstinacy. To revolt against the judgment of men, so be it; but the testimony of science was irrefutable. However, on sensing her so fervent still, so passionately blind, he weakened. And he counseled her, in a soft voice:

  “Believe me, I had every hope, like you…like you, I’ve fought…but I can’t anymore; I can no longer struggle against the evidence. We have to concede, Jeanne. Tell yourself, if you like, that Henri went astray in a moment of madness. Tell yourself that he had good reason to hate Gagny, that he struck a wretched egotist unworthy to live. Even tell yourself that perhaps, unknown to him, it was his love that determined his action; that it was perhaps for you, to render you happy, that he wanted to bring forward the moment of succession, avoid bankruptcy. Yes, find attenuations, excuses, but don’t veil your eyes any longer before the truth, my poor little Jeanne...”