The Lynx

by Michel Corday

  The alienist raised his head, interested. “In truth, I’d be curious to see that!”

  Buoyed up by hope, Gabriel took out his medical kit, which had fortunately been left on him. He opened it. But at the same time, a cry of despair rent his throat.

  “Oh, the brutes! The brutes!”

  “Who?”

  “The agents! Those wretches took hold of me last night with such violence that they’ve broken my ampoule!”

  “That’s regrettable…but you must have others?”

  The question reanimated Mirande. In order to enquire about the serum, the medical examiner must believe him. At least his skepticism must be shaken.

  In fact, Brimmel was in doubt again. All things considered, if the prisoner’s affirmations were implausible, they were not impossible. Brion had a brain so fecund, so powerful! Twenty years ago, who would not have considered as a madman someone who promised to fly in an apparatus heavier than air, to telephone wirelessly or photograph a skeleton through the opacity of the flesh? Furthermore, prudence had become Brimmel’s dominant virtue.

  “Certainly I have others,” replied Mirande. “I possess a whole set, which you’ll discover easily, as well as the formula and the physiological observations of the serum, in a safe in my private laboratory.”

  “Rue Méchain, I know. And the safe?”

  “Oh, there’s no mistaking it. It’s sealed into the wall, lacquered in white, near the chimney-breast. It’s there that my master kept his toxins. I haven’t changed the custom.” And, taking a key from his bunch, he said: “Here’s the key.”

  Before handing it over, he hesitated again for a second He wanted to sound the physician’s soul with his gaze. He thought he discovered frank honesty there.

  “This key,” he repeated, emotionally, “I swore never to separate from my person. But circumstances have overtaken me, and I have confidence in you, Doctor, I have confidence that no one but you will open that safe…and that once your investigation is finished...”

  “You have my word,” the alienist affirmed.

  He slipped the little key into his fob pocket. Closing his register, he added: “Out of consideration for you, I’ll postpone my report until later. I hope that it will be favorable, but as I can’t conclude it, you’ll allow me to keep you at my disposal pending the complete truth.”

  “If necessary...”

  Brimmel left the room.

  “Well, what are you doing about that poor Mirande?” Castillan asked him, as the automobile bore them away.

  “Mirande. Oh, I’m very perplexed.” And Brimmel related the resumption of the interrogation, the extraordinary confession, the entire history of the key the serum and the safe in the laboratory...

  Castillan listened avidly. What a revelation! What a flash of enlightenment! That explained Mirande’s attitude, his accusations. How had he been able to know the truth about Simone, about Gagny, if not in a supernatural fashion? Oh, he, Castillan believed them, all those affirmations that Brimmel, perhaps out of false shame, reported in a skeptical tone.

  While speaking, with an instinctive gesture, the alienist had taken the key out of his fob pocket and showed it, in support of his story.

  “That’s the key of the famous safe?” asked Castillan.

  “It’s the one he’s just given me, at least.”

  “Let me see…”

  He seized it, tossed it into the air, caught it, and tossed it up again.

  And that fashion of juggling, at such a grave moment painted the man in his entirety. He juggled with events. With his shirt-front thrust out, a smile on his lips, he followed them in their flight, and then took then in hand with an insolent pleasure.

  However, he admitted that the game was new, this time. For this splendid coup, he would need all his dexterity. But if he succeeded, oh, what a future! What might that little key not open to him! If he could keep it for the space of one evening, time to penetrate into the deserted laboratory, open the safe, take out the ampoules and the formula…and that was, in fact, Mirande disarmed forever, incapable of proving his lucidity, incapable of getting out of his padded cell, incapable of pursuing his work of justice. Better still, it was to acquire at the same stroke the formidable power that the wretched chemist had only devoted to the triumph of a miserable cause. Oh, if he possessed it, that sovereign power! If he held it in his audacious hands! And he sensed that he would rule the world.

  Still playing with the key, tossing it up and catching it in flight, he spoke, in a simultaneously coaxing and grave manner. He ended up demolishing, sentence by sentence, the already shaky faith of his colleague. What was Brimmel going to do in the laboratory?? Verify the delirium of a maniac? Waste an hour of precious time in that pleasantry? But Mirande was mad, mad enough to be locked up. The accusations he had made against Castillan were the striking proof of it.

  He slid the ring on the key on to his little finger with a kind of voluptuousness.

  “I don’t have to tell you, my dear, that alongside the insane, properly speaking, there’s an entire category of the mentally ill who carry their delirium through the world. Inoffensive as long as circumstances lend themselves to it, they’re capable, at a given moment, of a morbid impulsion that renders them dangerous to society. They’re the patients that one doesn’t punish, but one cares for. One cares for them by keeping them safe. Well, I imagine that Mirande must be classified in their ranks. You ought to intern him, this Mirande. You’d be protecting society, and me!”

  “But Brion’s work, though!” said the alienist, hesitantly.

  “Brion was one of those superior degenerates, in whom genius and dementia shared the brain. And Mirande is only imitating his master! Have you not yourself, in your latest treatise, envisaged the phenomena of alienation, contagious in a way, of folie à deux?”

  He had touched the right spot. That allusion to his work flattered Brimmel. He swelled internally. He thought about his imminent candidature for the Académie de Médecine. Castillan took advantage of that agreeable reverie to dissimulate the key completely in his hand. Then he led the dialogue on to pathological considerations borrowed from his colleague’s book. It was an important work, and such a fine literary quality!

  “I’m glad of your opinion,” replied Brimmel. “But to get back to Mirande, I’m wondering whether it’s not a duty of conscience for me to take the investigation to the ends...”

  “Your conscience? Oh, I approve of your inspiring it...but all the same, my dear, it’s necessary also to listen to the fear of ridicule,”

  “Ridicule?”

  “Well, yes. Do you think that the press…?”

  “The press? Who would inform them about my investigation?”

  “Brion’s pupils, Mirande’s comrades, of course! That event, if you divulge it by delving into it uselessly, will become the news of the day! People will talk about it! Above all, they’ll write about it. Can you see all those eager throats, thirsty for scandal? You know something about that! Be careful, Brimmel—the end of the year reviewers are watching out for you. Seriously, one last piece of advice: before pursing your investigation, keep Mirande under observation for a few days.”

  The auto had come to a stop. Brimmel stepped out of the limousine, thanked him, said adieu, and went under the porch of his house.

  “Home!” Castillan ordered the chauffeur,

  The vehicle pulled away. He threw himself violently back into the depths, his heart dilated, clutching the liberating key tightly in his hand.

  “I have it! I have it! I have them all!” he breathed, in an intoxication. Then he sniggered. “Poor Brimmel! You’ll be lucky if you can find me today!”

  But what was happening? The auto, scarcely having drawn away, was braking, stopping, Castillan leaned out—and he perceived Brimmel running after it, his arms raised.

  “The key! You haven’t given me back my key.”

  “Oh, forgive me…here it is.”

  And the alienist apologized. “You understand
that it’s necessary for me to return it in a few days to the poor fellow, if I decide to renounce the investigation.”

  “Indeed...but what will you tell him?”

  “Well…that I didn’t find anything.”

  “Obviously.”

  The vehicle pulled away, Oh, the worthy Brimmel never spoke a truer word. Indeed, in a few days, he would not find anything. For already, Castillan, disarmed but ready for the revenge, was imagining the formidable pincers of the pirate, Le Crabe, forcing the safe....

  PART FIVE

  I

  At the entrance gate, Jeanne rang. She had feared the bleakness of the place. On the contrary, it was quite cheerful. From the road that bordered the Seine, the park rose up in a gentle slope, extending its pathways of blond gravel in elegant curves. On the lawns, still green, the small trees were carefully packed with straw for the winter. The larger trees extended their leafless branches with a protective gesture. To the right and the left, the bright hedges masked the coquettish architecture of little pavilions in brick and stone. At the top, the principal building, framed by bushes, displayed its neo-Greek style. Over that décor, a chilly sun poured a pale light that the delighted birds saluted noisily.

  Jeanne imagined the charm, the seduction of the sojourn under the adornment of spring, in the splendor of summer. Alas, why did it have to be profaned by the inscription displayed in golden letters on the fronton of the gate: Sanitarium. A place of health! A refuge for brains devoured by the fire of civilization, a tomb before death!

  It was there that her brother had been imprisoned since the previous day. In what torments, poor fellow! In what delirium! She dared not think about it. She had not seen him since the evening when he had left for the fête at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He had kissed her tenderly, as always. She had scarcely noticed his distant, absent air. For some time, she had observed that absorbed preoccupation, but she had attributed it to the cares of the task he had undertaken, Might she be mistaken? Was it not a symptom of one of his fits? Had he fled to hide it from her?

  He had, however, promised to return early. He wanted to be at the laboratory early, where a certain microbial culture demanded his matinal attention. So, what a surprise when she had discovered his bedroom empty! Distressed, stirring hypotheses, she had waited all morning, telephoned the Rue Méchain ten times to ask for her brother—in vain. At midday, she had resolved to set out on campaign. She would knock on the doors of friends, run to the commissariats, the bureaux...

  But as she was about to set out, a note from the Prefecture of Police summoned her to the Boulevard du Palais. There, after peregrinations through the maze of corridors, mistaken doors and a nervous wait in a dirty room, she finally learned about her brother’s adventure, his dementia, doubtless confirmed by a medico-legal examination, and his probable internment. She had emerged heart-broken, her legs unsteady, quivering from the obligation to remain inactive.

  Visits, approaches, supplications: nothing could bend the order that isolated Gabriel. It was necessary to wait for the unfortunate to the transported to a sanitarium. They had, however, left the choice of refuge to her, provided that she bore the expense. She had accepted immediately, and indicated this suburban establishment, whose medical director she knew slightly. Finally authorized to see him, she was running to him, at the peak of anguish and the limit of her strength.

  A concierge appeared, more akin to a gardener. His face was plump and cheerful. He took off his cap and asked what she wanted. Then he opened a small door in the gate and announced the visit by ringing a bell.

  “I ought to warn Madame that she must see Monsieur le Directeur first.”

  “Yes, I know. Take me to him.”

  They headed toward the imposing façade. On the way she enquired: “Do you know anything about the inmates. My brother came here yesterday.”

  “The new one? Yes, I know.”

  “How is he? Better? Is he calmer?”

  “Probably. He’s allowed out alone in the park. He seems very gentle, the poor fellow.”

  He could go out alone! Jeanne breathed out, relieved. She went past patients. They seemed inoffensive, although male nurses kept them company. They look at her tranquilly. Some were chatting in placid voices. No spectacle of shackles, no terrors, no frantic cries, but rather an impression of docile idleness. Nothing of what she had feared.

  The concierge climbed a perron, traversed a vestibule whose floor was covered with a brightly-colored mosaic. Then he stood aside at the threshold of a room whose modern furniture and carefully-chosen trinkets banished any idea of sadness.

  “Monsieur le Directeur won’t be long,” he affirmed, with a broad smile. Then, with an engaging gesture, he designated the newspapers accumulated on a table,

  Newspapers? No, Jeanne did not open them. She had retained a horror of them since the note—fortunately brief and imprecise—relating the incident in the Place Vendôme. She still trembled to discover new information, more precise and more extensive. Impatiently, she went back and forth between her chair and the window. Minutes passed. Finally, the director appeared.

  “My dear Mademoiselle, excuse me. I was just retained with your brother.”

  “Is he worse?”

  “Not at all,” the doctor replied. “I merely find him very downcast. I’ve tried in vain to interest him in work. I’ve put my books at his disposal…wasted effort. To justify himself and leave, that’s his obsession. Apart from that he maintains a resolute silence. Perhaps you’ll have more luck than me, Mademoiselle.”

  “I can see him, can’t I?”

  “Certainly. I’ll even leave you alone with him. Always stay within reach of the bell—for one never knows. In spite of their apparent calm, these invalids are sometimes subject to sudden impulsions.”

  “You’re frightening me, Doctor!” Jeanne examined. “You’re frightening me! Not that I have any fear for myself…but him, poor fellow! Oh, I beg you, tell me the truth. Don’t hide anything from me. I’m strong. But I need to know, you understand. What’s wrong with him? What is this illness, so sudden and unexpected? Can he be cured? Will he have to stay here for a long time?”

  Under that avalanche of questions the director showed even more reserve.

  “Wait, wait, Mademoiselle! I don’t know yet. I’m studying him at the moment. Cerebral pathology is so complicated, so obscure. Give me a few days to form an opinion. I’ll tell you frankly then, I swear to you.” And he added: “Would you care to follow me?”

  He preceded her. They went along a gallery on to which rooms opened, disposed in such a way that a single guardian could watch its entire extent: in sum, a banal hotel corridor. Having knocked on one of the doors, the director went in, and then reappeared almost immediately.

  “I’ve told him that you’ve come,” he said. “He’s waiting for you. I’ll give you half an hour, at the most. I’ll come to collect you.”

  Without hesitation and without fear, but not without emotion, the young woman went in. Gabriel held out his arms to her.

  “Jeannot! Finally! My Jeannot!”

  “You! You!”

  They were pressed heart to heart, with their arms around one another. She huddled against him, stammering her affection, caressing his cheek with the same gesture that one uses to calm the fear of a child.

  “Jeanne!” he said. “My sister! My little one! I knew that there would be no obstacles for you! I was so sure that I would see you today! Oh, how I was waiting for you!” Then he recoiled. “At least you don’t suspect…you…you’re certain of my reason?”

  “Yes, my dear, yes...”

  He must have perceived her doubt, though, for, with a sudden, almost abrupt energy, he said: “Sit down. Your visit has doubtless been limited? Yes, they fear tiring me out. How much time can you spend with me?”

  “Half an hour.”

  “That’s sufficient for a man who can still coordinate his ideas, no matter what they claim. Listen to me, carefully.”

  An
d neatly, precisely, logically, he revealed the whole truth. Since he had been obliged to confess to Brimmel, what was the point henceforth in concealing it from his sister? He recounted his life since the night when he had exhumed Simone until the evening when he had been thrown into a cell at the remand center.

  What a devastating revelation for Jeanne! The certain innocence of her fiancé...the unfathomable evil of Castillan…so many crimes made manifest, mysteries clarified, hopes authorized. She felt dizzy.

  She was afraid. Wall all that not the dream of a sick imagination? Then, with all rigor, all the clarity of her solid reason, she examined the facts. Evidently, only the marvelous could explain them.

  Without a prodigious divination, how had Gabriel heard Simone through so many obstacles? How had he discovered the crimes that Castillan alone knew? And incessantly, reality came to confirm and certify the miracle. They were not chimeras, then, the existence of the pirate, the gambling win, the machinations deployed against Quatrefin, against the country itself?

  But in her mind, avid for logic and evidence, an objection suddenly arose. She shook her head.

  Already, Mirande was crying: “You don’t believe me either?”

  “Yes, yes, I believe you, I swear to you. But help me to dissipate one last doubt. This project, recalled in the ambassador’s thought—why hasn’t it been realized? Why has his sovereign not already disembarked in Africa?”

  Immediately, however, he replied: “Yes, I’ve often thought about that. It hasn’t been my least anguish for two days. There’s no mention of anything, is there? No threat of war? No black sign?”

  “None.”

  “I hoped so,” he said. “First of all, as I said, I confided that project of disembarkation to the Commissaire. He didn’t believe it, true—but he must have reported it anyway to his superiors, and, by virtue of that, set our diplomacy in motion. What about the newspapers? Have they related…the incident in the Place Vendôme?”