We were getting ready to walk slowly in the direction of Biskra, when a slightly quavering voice behind us made itself heard.
“Pardon me, Messieurs...”
We turned round, and found ourselves face to face with Monsieur Thiérard-Leroy.
“You will excuse, Monsieur, a step that is doubtless inconsequent, when you know that it is dictated by an invalid who is very dear to me, my daughter.”
“Cover yourself, Monsieur,” said my friend, with profound deference, perceiving that the old man had remained bare-headed. “The sun...”
“The sun scarcely shines for me,” replied the astronomer, with a sad smile.. He replaced his broad-brimmed panama. “I was saying that my daughter, Madame Berjac, doubtless under the suggestion of an invalid’s illusion, thought she recognized in you a person who had saved her life last summer at the Camp de Châlons. She will continue to be eaten away by anxiety so long as she does not know for sure that her memories are playing her false.” And in a more tremulous vice, the father added: “Now, Monsieur, my child’s state of health does not permit any preoccupation. That is why you see me before you.”
While Monsieur Thiérard-Leroy was pronouncing these words, I was watching Roger, anxiously.
He was biting his lip until it bled. Then he appeared to make an immense effort to regain full possession of himself. He succeeded.
“Monsieur,” he said, in a tone of perfect modesty, “Madame your daughter is not mistaken. It was indeed me who, at the Camp de Châlons, last August, made an impulsive gesture, perfectly natural, with the aim of avoiding a serious accident.”
The astronomer seized Livry’s hands.
“You…you…! The unknown man about who she has spoken to me so often…! Monsieur, will you tell me your name?”
“Roger Livry.”
The old man passed his hand over his forehead, searching for a memory; but the light was immediately extinguished. The name of Livry did not recall anything...
I preferred it that way!
He introduced himself in his turn. Then, in an imploring tine, he said: “Monsieur Livry, may I ask you for a favor?”
“Please do.”
“I believe…I am sure…that my daughter would like to thank you herself. Excuse me, but I’m trying to do everything possible to help her get better. She has passed through such rude ordeals…that slight satisfaction... She’s there, nearby, in our carriage...”
“Your desires and those of Madame your daughter are orders for me. In my turn, I would be very glad to salute her. But Madame Berjac should not exaggerate the gratitude she believes she owes me. At Châlons, I arrived before the others. All my good fortune was there!”
I marveled at my friend’s good grace, the tact and the urbanity. At a deliberate pace, he followed Monsieur Thiérard-Leroy. Fifty meters away, behind a cactus hedge, the carriage was waiting.
How can I describe the expression of profound joy that illuminated the pale and charming visage of Madame Berjac when her “savior” was brought to her. In that joy, there was doubtless a little contentment at having divined as accurately, at having rediscovered “the unknown man” floating in her memory like an enigma, sometimes sweet and sometimes irritating. Perhaps there was something more!
The poor child was entering that terrible phase of tuberculosis in which life wants to blossom regardless, hastily, because it senses the threat at short range.
The word “frightful” came to mind. Alas, it was written in her waxen features, engraved in the overly blue veins of her diaphanous hands.
To confirm the lugubrious presages that I had formed since the departure from Paris, there was not even any need for the throaty cough that she tried to stifle in her lace handkerchief.
She was better, it had been said. A very relative better, which ordinarily accompanies the reaction consequent on a change of climate.
At the first glance, I acquired the cruel certainty that, barring a miracle, she was doomed.
As for Roger, during that first introduction, he remained the gallant man, full of reserve and attentiveness, that he had become.
How did he succeed in strangling the devouring passion that was setting him ablaze? Undoubtedly by developing an extraordinary will-power.
How, on the other hand, was he not struck by the mortal pallor spread over the face of the poor creature? Perhaps he had elevated his love into spheres so radiant that his dazzled eyes could no longer discern anything.
But I, who could see, was struck by a tragic horror when Roger said to me, pointing his finger at the cloud of dust raised by the carriage carrying Madame Berjac away: “Oh, my friend, I am so happy!”
I mentioned a miracle.
Is the miracle about to be produced?
For two weeks now, Roger has been an assiduous guest of the White Villa, and Madame Berjac seems visibly reborn. The presence of the “savior” has brought a little joy into that dwelling, which seemed consigned to desolation.
The charming woman chats, is agitated, is clutching on to life again, to hope.
And Roger has such a delicately exquisite fashion of paying court to her!
In his expressions, in his gaze, there is nothing of the misplaced levity of a flirtation. Nor is he playing the role of the tenebrous beau; he has been able to avoid the slightly ridiculous romanticism of the petrified lover. More simply, he has made himself a friend.
Beside the chaise-longue in the garden, where the still-plaintive convalescent is lying, he talks about frivolous or serious things; he is cheerful without extravagance, attentive without insistence. His stories are interesting, and stop in time not to become wearying.
With regard to Monsieur Thiérard-Leroy, Roger exhibits a deference, a modesty and an affability admirable in a scientist of his stripe—for everyone knows that two scientists in one another’s presence quickly fall into controversy, which degenerates into dispute.
Here, nothing of the sort! To the slightly incredulous surprise of the director of the Observatoire, Roger offered to help him in his astronomical calculations—for the worthy man has not refrained from installing a telescope on the terrace of his villa in order to search the ever-pure sky at his leisure. And the astronomer’s joy equaled his amazement when that unknown of the day before, not content with bringing hope to the soul of his dear invalid, set about resolving the most complicated problems as if they were child’s play.
That amazement changed into profound admiration when, little by little, Roger revealed his theories to him, and his work on the Omega acid. A few laboratory experiments effected with the aid of the extraordinary acid ended up convincing the eminent astronomer of the immensity of the discovery.
The old man was so impressed that the following day, he opened up to me. “Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur, what a man your friend is! Once, he saved my daughter. Today, he seems to be restoring her to life as if he were pouring out a mysterious philter. Now, he’s in a position—he has proved it to me—to revolutionize the face of the world.”
He took his head in his hands. “You see, by virtue of living in the commerce of the stars, by virtue of scrutinizing Infinity, one becomes something of a visionary, and one acquire the soul of a mage. Now, your comrade causes me to marvel and frightens me by turns. I see in him an angel descended from Heaven, a supernatural being incarnating formidable forces unknown to our humanity. My God, may he protect my daughter!”
I calmed the old scientist’s excitement by means of conventional words; I carefully refrained from identifying the terrible antecedents of the “angel.” What was the point, now that “the Man of the Apocalypse” had become a man like others?
At the present moment, Roger was showing himself to be the absolute master of his will and his common sense.
I arrived at the conclusion that Roger had been subject last summer of a temporary crisis, of which no symptoms any longer subsisted. The cure might therefore be considered radical and definitive.
After that, nothing more remained for me to do bu
t to associate myself wholeheartedly with my excellent friend’s future projects, to sustain his joy and his confidence.
There is only one cloud on the horizon—decidedly, I shall never succeed in chasing them all away! Roger has made the acquaintance of the frightful Barnett.
The first contact was made by virtue of an absurd wager that we had unwittingly caused the American to lose. The manic has an obsession with betting on anything, every time he encounters people stupid enough to take up his incoherent challenges. And he finds them! When he doesn’t find them, he falls back, it seems, on his domestic and his bird doctor.
In brief, the third evening after our arrival, when we were at table, the Death’s-Head approached us, and without any preamble, said: “I owe a thousand dollars, Messieurs.”
Astonished, we waited for him to explain himself.
“I owe a thousand dollars, exactly—you’ve made me lose them.”
What was he saying? I suspected that he was drunk.
“I owe a thousand dollars,” the fellow repeated, for the third time, “because I bet the maître-d’hôtel that no traveler would consent to remain my neighbor for more than five meals…and I’m paying for it. The sixth meal is commencing now, and here you are. I’ve lost the bet. Thank you, Messieurs.”
And, bowing with all the grace of which he was capable, he went back to his place.
“He’s amusing!” Roger declared.
“You think so? Personally, I have a horror of drunkards.”
He smiled indulgently.
“How severe you are! Perhaps the poor fellow is drowning in alcohol the chagrin he has at being so ugly.”
In the meantime, whether I liked it or not, it was necessary for me to suffer the salutations and smiles of the Death’s-Head, and exchange polite banalities with him. But when Roger was already an assiduous guest at the White Villa, a circumstance placed him in a more intimate relation with the American.
One evening, we were admiring the two marvelous hummingbirds that were in service at our strange neighbor’s table.
In response to a compliment by my friend, Barnett said: “They please you, and you please me. I give them to you.”
“I’ll accept with gratitude, if you’ll permit me to dispose of them in favor of a lady friend.”
“I give them to you,” he American repeated.
The next day, the two ravishing little birds drew cries of joy from Madame Berjac.
“Render him this justice,” Roger said to me, when we returned to the hotel. “That Barnett, whom you can’t abide, isn’t a nasty fellow. Personally, I’m thinking of appropriate means to cure him of his suicidal mania.”
“Try to stop him drinking,” I muttered. “Yesterday evening he was dead drunk again.”
“Come on! You’re becoming as intractable as a member of the Temperance League. Personally, I’d be sorry if any misfortune overtook that inoffensive eccentric.”
No, in spite of all arguments, Barnett remained deeply antipathetic to me; I could not accustom myself to his terrible visage. Unlike Roger, I was not going through a phase of universal tenderness.
“After all, you’re neither malevolent nor stubborn,” Roger conceded. “I’ve convinced you with regard to Jobert; in the end, I’ll destroy your prejudices with regard to Barnett…”
How sensitive I still was, deep down! The name of the former laboratory assistant, dropped into the conversation, renewed my malaise.
At that moment, in any case, the inventor of the Omega acid was not thinking very much about Jobert. He was no longer living for anything but his amour. Losing sight of the earth, he was allowing himself to be carried away under full sail toward the land of Tendre.39
XIII. The Day of Joy
Oh, the beautiful, unforgettable day!
That morning, as was his habit, Roger had been to obtain news of Madame Berjac, a little after the daily visit of the physician.
Before lunch, he came to find me in the garden of the Casino.
“I’ve seen the doctor!” he shouted from a distance, as soon as he saw me. “He’s lifted all detentions; henceforth, Hélène is no longer an invalid, so far as he’s concerned, and scarcely a convalescent. He’s only going to come twice a week in future. He’s authorized tennis, the piano, walks in the town—in brief, all the distractions of which the poor child was deprived.
“From today onwards, she’s resuming social life, and to begin with, we’re going to the Biskra races.”
I could only rejoice with my friend; the physician’s indications dissipated my last anxieties. We were both able, therefore, to put our hearts in harmony with the echoes of the festival that as commencing—for in that Saharan city, the races have become a solemnity that agitates the whole of the surrounding desert.
Already, since the morning, the Arab chiefs have been performing caracoles in the city streets, followed by their goums. Trains are pouring out travelers coming from Constantine: white burnooses, and the uniforms of zouaves and riflemen are cutting cheerfully through the European crowd.
In the midst of the hubbub we head for lunch. We’re dying of hunger.
At table, Livry is as joyful as a schoolboy on vacation. To give Barnett pleasure, he bets him that the first woman who comes into the restaurant will be blonde.
Damn! It’s a negress!
With a burst of laughter, he pays his two thousand francs, and for the champagne as well.
I allow myself to be carried away by that child-like joy. I feel slightly intoxicated, drunk on intimate contentment, mental quietude and also deliverance. Perhaps egotistically, I think that Roger has no more need of me; soon, I shall be able to go back to my small abode on the Quai des Grands-Augustins, my dear books, my lycée! I can resume my life!
I am allowing myself to float among those sweet thoughts while a landau carries us away toward the White Villa, where we are going to pick up Monsieur Thiérard-Leroy and his daughter.
Madame Berjac appears on the threshold. She is a joy to behold.
The lily has become a rose. Her complexion has lost the waxy hue that squeezed my heart. This time, the blood is flowing beneath the transparency of the skin. The face is fuller, the lips are red, the eyes, finally, have the expression of wellbeing and vivacity that appears to certify a complete return to health.
Our carriage stops at the entrance to the passage. Roger offers his hand to the young woman to help her down, and then his arm, to lead her to the grandstand. They form a handsome couple, at whom everyone looks.
I abandon myself to the intoxication of the spectacle. How far the two of them are from the Biskra racecourse!
The races are over; the multicolored crowd breaks up in an indescribable confusion.
We climb back into the carriage and take the road of return.
But they do not want that first festival of their hearts to end yet.
“Father, what if these Messieurs were to give us the pleasure of dining with us this evening?”
Madame Berjac had uttered that remark with a spontaneous innocence that testified adorably to certain premeditation.
Roger played the worldly comedy of conventional protests, the fear of disturbance, the dread of imposing fatigue on the hostess; in the end, we accepted.
The dinner was all that a charmingly intimate repast can be.
Afterwards, we went on to the veranda to take coffee.
On the insistent plea of her father, Madame Berjac consented to remain in the drawing room; in spite of the mildness of the temperature, the old man was fearful on her behalf of the humidity of the evening.
While we were smoking a cigarette, the young woman sat down at the piano. Quietly, her fingers picked out a delightfully melancholy melody; I recognized a Chopin nocturne.
Roger has stopped talking, and then smoking. Perhaps without being aware of it, he has risen to his feet. He walks toward the drawing room at a somnambulistic pace; the music attracts him, hypnotizes him. Through the partly-open bay window, I see him lean his elbow
on the corner of the piano.
Then the melody falls silent. Monsieur Thiérard-Leroy and I remain sunk in our rattan armchairs, contemplating he magnificent night. The astronomer seems happy.
In a low voice, he tells me about the immense, definitive relief that the day that has just gone by has brought him. He confides in me the fears and anguish he has passed through since his friend Destule, the great specialist in maladies of the lungs, had let him know the gravity of his child’s condition, advising the voyage to Biskra as a last resort. Then, by way of excuse for the idyll that has been knotted so rapidly—too rapidly for the proprieties of society—he tells me the story of his daughter’s marriage to Lieutenant Berjac. It was one of those unions arranged long before by the families, between childhood friends; a last wish expressed by his dead wife, who had died three years ago. Perhaps imprudent, that fashion of uniting two destinies with links formed by the passivity of mind and custom!
In my turn, I sing Roger’s praises: his heart of gold. I touch lightly on the magnificent situation of his fortune. Then, on those mutual confidences, we return to the drawing room.
Roger and Hélène are no longer talking; they are holding hands.
They have the superb surprise of pure souls. On our arrival, they do not make a movement to release their clasp; they dispense with blushing and lowering their eyes.
Their two faces are radiant with a calm happiness, forged of certainties
“Come on, Roger,” I say, in a tone of affable authority. “It’s getting late. It’s necessary not to abuse Madame Berjac’s amiability.”
He smiles benevolently.
“You’re right, my Mentor.”
With his usual correctness, without insipidity or foolishness, he takes his leave of the young woman.
“Until tomorrow!”
“Until tomorrow…!”
They were never to see one another again on this earth!
XIV. The Day of Woe
Alas, a day of tears was to follow the day of joy.
The next day, Roger was up early. Full of a juvenile ardor, he occupied himself with realizing a desire expressed the day before by Madame Berjac. We went to all the shops looking for equipment for a game of tennis.
On the Brink of the World's End Page 29