It was nearly the end of July. In his current report to her parents Dr. Vernet had declared Michèle’s condition to be consolidated; in consequence both she and Paul feared that any day she would receive a letter summoning her back to Liège. When at last her father wrote, it was to say that on the advice of her Belgian doctor he had decided to let her remain in the mountains until the beginning of September.
Ecstatically Paul informed Mme. Anniette that he would be staying for at least another month. She nodded approvingly. “You should be looking much better,” she commented. He ought to remain in Brisset for the whole of the autumn, if not for the winter. If he would consider doing so, then his only expense would be for food and heating. The room he could have for nothing. (“Why not, cher monsieur? In any case it will be empty.”)
For their peace of mind, and in order that the month might be as happy as possible, Paul and Michèle agreed to avoid all reference to their departure until the very last days. Little over a week had elapsed, however, when, one afternoon, Michèle, her face white, ran into the châlet.
“What is the matter?” cried Paul, jumping up from the divan.
Too breathless to speak, Michèle handed Paul a letter.
Paul glanced helplessly at the closely-written pages in Mme. Duchesne’s all but indecipherable writing: a mass of endearments, banalities and exclamation marks.
“I can’t read this. What does she say?”
Michèle took back the letter and read the relevant part of it aloud. It was to the effect that her father had grossly miscalculated his situation financière, and that on this account she would have to return to Belgium early the following week.
“Oh, my God!” cried Paul. And as he took Michèle in his arms and hugged her desperately, he wondered for just how long, in fact, they would be separated. And what would happen if he couldn’t find work, or if Michèle couldn’t obtain parental sanction to their marriage? Suddenly feeling very weak, he sank down on to the edge of the divan. In some terrible, inexplicable way the letter appeared to presage the collapse of all their most cherished plans.
Paul decided that at all costs he must leave Brisset on the same day as Michèle. With a reaction of revulsion (which he preferred not to analyse) he despatched a reply-paid telegram to a Bayswater hotel. A few hours later came the answer that all the rooms were taken. A second, third and fourth telegram to progressively more expensive hotels produced replies which differed textually but not in content. In the debilitating Alpine sun he laboured up and down the hill to the post office, throwing himself at each return on his divan and falling instantly into a short but heavy sleep from which he awoke sweating and dry-mouthed. And the next day, with another half-dozen telegrams despatched and not one favourable reply, he would have sought accommodation at Claridge’s or the Ritz had he not feared that the doormen, on seeing his clothes and his luggage, would have barred his entry. “Very well,” he told himself at last, “I shall return even though I have nowhere to go.” All that mattered was that he should leave Brisset at the same time as Michèle.
And trunks had to be packed, adieux had to be said, railway reservations had to be made. “Comment? Comment?” cried the scandalised clerk at the booking office. Four days’ notice and monsieur really expected to obtain a second-class sleeper through to Calais! “But I must,” said Paul. “Must!” mocked the clerk, echoing Paul’s tone of voice. “Well, please see what you can do.” “Well, please see what you can do!” cried the clerk over his shoulder. To catch Paul’s accent he was imitating an American trying to speak French.
“And I shall have a trunk, two cases and a crate of books.”
“A trunk, two cases and what?”
“A crate of books.”
“Des livres sterling ou des livres à lire?”
“Books for reading.”
“Books for reading,” repeated the clerk contemptuously. “What’s the size and weight of the crate?”
“I don’t know. About this size.” Paul indicated the length, height and breadth with his hands.
“About this size!” The clerk whirled his arms like the sails of a windmill. “Why didn’t you find out the size and weight before coming here and wasting everyone’s time?”
“I shall let you know the size.” (‘This is all just part of the nightmare,’ thought Paul.) “Can the crate travel with me in the sleeper?”
“No, it can’t travel with you in the sleeper.” The clerk got wildly to his feet and looked as if he was going to summon a gendarme.
“Well then, it can go separately,” said Paul quickly.
“Separately?”
“Yes, separately.”
“You mean separately?”
“Yes, I mean separately.”
“Good!” The clerk, with the air of a magistrate completing a deportation order, wrote a number of details on an official form. Then he looked up maliciously at Paul and said: “You will inscribe a list of the titles, authors and value of each book on a customs declaration form, and any you miss will be confiscated and you will be liable for prosecution …”
“That can’t be necessary,” said Paul, appalled by the thought of the task.
“Can’t be necessary! I have just said that it is necessary!”
“I would like to see the stationmaster.”
“I am the stationmaster.” The clerk seized a gold-braided hat from the desk and clapped it on his head.
“Oh, all right,” said Paul. He then hurried off to the village carpenter. Not only did he not know the size and weight of the crate of books, as yet there was not even a crate …
And after the carpenter, he had an appointment for an X-ray to be taken, and after that a test of the sedimentation rate of his blood and of the vital capacity of his lungs. And as he had had no sputum for several months, he had to attend the following morning before breakfast at Dr. Vernet’s laboratory for a tube to be inserted down his throat in order that a specimen might be syphoned for analysis.
The X-ray, Dr. Vernet informed him, at a hurriedly arranged consultation, was in order, his sedimentation was normal and his vital capacity was what was to be expected. The result of the tubage would not be known for a day or two because the specimen had been sent to an outside laboratory for analysis; still, there was no need for any misgivings in that connection. The pneumothorax was working satisfactorily; it would have to be maintained with regular refills of air for at least another four years. “The oil at the bottom of the pleura?” inquired Paul. “As I’ve always told you—not to be interfered with,” said Dr. Vernet. And as he shook hands with Paul for the last time, he said: “I will not worry you, Monsieur Davenant. Your condition is stabilised—you have no more chance for a relapse than I have.” And more from a love of precision than from a desire to provide Paul with further illumination, he added: “Not that the analogy is exact. As I have never been ill, it is obvious that I am precluded, ex hypothesi, from the possibility of relapse.”
And between times, and at every opportunity, his heels together, his elbows tucked into his sides, his face grey with physical and emotional exhaustion, Paul stood in the sun taking photo after photo of Michèle. Within two days he had taken a dozen reels; their development and printing in London would comprise the one event to which he could look forward at his return.
It was when everything that could be accomplished had been accomplished, when the last good-bye had been said and the last case had been packed, when Paul and Michèle could only cross the room in the châlet by stepping over the trunks and the crate (inside which all the books had now been secured) that Paul reached a state in which he could neither reason nor think clearly. “You don’t know what my life was like before I met you. I can’t go back to it,” he repeated helplessly to Michèle.
It was in this context that he suddenly conceived the idea that to reduce his own tension and the strain that he knew he was imposing on Michèle he must lop off the three days which remained to them, that he must—thereby circumventing the whole anguished preamble of elaborate and final leave-taking—quit Brisset that very evening. It was the reaction of the hydropic who, in extremis, plunges a knife into the heart of his swelling.
At the end of the afternoon he accompanied Michèle back to the Universel, then telephoned her on his return to the châlet to tell her of his decision. It was, he insisted, the best thing that could be done. He would go to Chatigny for the three days and return to Brisset just to collect his baggage. And because as Michèle protested the sound of her voice became as poignant to him as her physical presence, he interrupted what she was saying with: “Mon amour, comprends-moi et pardonne-moi—je ne peux pas en discuter, je ne peux plus entendre ta voix qui me déchire.” Michèle made no reply but the line remained alive; Paul could hear the sound of her breathing. “Au revoir,” he whispered, and replaced the receiver.
On the way to Chatigny he had no doubt as to the wisdom of his decision; doubt only started when he had selected and installed himself in a hotel. To tire himself beyond the capacity for further reflection he walked for miles about the deserted, midnight town, but when at last he returned to bed he could not sleep, his mind a beleaguered fortress to the battering ram of his thoughts. He heard the chiming of each hour, each half, each quarter; he saw the dawn rising against the curtains.
Progressive illumination delineated first the outline, then the substance and finally the texture of each object in the room; by a similar process each particular facet of Paul’s situation became subject to the same systematic clarification. And when every object had achieved optimum visibility and—by subsequent integration into the commonplace pattern of the room—had become invisible again, Paul jumped from his bed with a cry, overwhelmingly convinced only of his folly in having truncated by an entire evening the time still remaining to himself and Michèle.
He was back in Brisset by the middle of the morning, and he telephoned Michèle as soon as he reached the châlet. Although she came at once, by the time that she had arrived he had fallen asleep, and when he awoke at her entry and held her in his arms it seemed as if the period of separation had miraculously passed and that he would never again be parted from her. Then over her shoulder he saw the crate and the trunks; his body stiffened and Michèle turned quickly, believing that someone had entered the room.
Paul sat up and swung his legs to the ground and Michèle sat beside him; she asked for no explanation and Paul offered none. He stared intently at the opposite wall as though a film was being projected on its surface. It was as if the pressure of his emotions had produced a spontaneous pre-frontal leucotomy, for suddenly he felt nothing and wanted nothing and even the presence of Michèle appeared superfluous.
The condition proved to be transient. Paul slept during part of the afternoon and awoke with his nervous system refreshed, restored and susceptible to instantaneous laceration. It was in this state that he conceived a plan which appeared so reasonable and so obvious that he could not understand why it had not previously occurred to him. He would return with Michèle to Liege and persuade her parents to consent to an immediate marriage. He got dressed rapidly. Before telling Michèle, he would have to hurry to the station to amend his booking.
The stationmaster was in the booking-office. “Vous avez eu de la chance,” he said gruffly, assuming that Paul had come to inquire about his reservation.
“I’ve come to change my booking,” said Paul. Each word was an effort—the rapid walk in the sun had made him feel sick.
“Your reservation,” said the stationmaster. “I have succeeded in making it.”
“I’ve come to change it,” repeated Paul. He leaned on the counter and closed his eyes. Liège and Michèle’s parents. He would be courteous but very firm. If only she had not been under twenty-one and had not required their consent. “A ticket to Liège the day after tomorrow. I want a new reservation ….”
The stationmaster decided that it was some sort of joke and best ignored. “Here are your tickets,” he said, producing a paper wallet. “There is a voucher for your sleeper and for the Channel crossing. You will also have to pay the cost of two calls to Paris. It has all been a great deal of trouble.”
“Listen,” said Paul, “I said I didn’t want it. It’s got to be cancelled—my plans have changed.” The stationmaster gazed at Paul, his eyes widening. “A seat has already been reserved for a Mademoiselle Duchesne. I want to reserve the seat nearest to it.”
“You are not going back to England?”
“No.”
“Nom de Dieu!”
“I am sorry for the inconvenience.”
“Inconvenience!” The word touched off the fuse and like a rocket the stationmaster shot under the counter and up beside Paul. “And you want me to make another reservation?”
“Yes.”
“C’est de la saloperie,” he roared, jumping with anger. He seized Paul’s wrist and abused him in a gathering frenzy which Paul, in another sort of frenzy, cut short by wrenching free his arm and banging his fist so hard on the counter that it scattered the wallet and its contents and a mass of travel brochures. In silence both men stared at each other, each registering the impression that the other was mad. The stationmaster ducked back under the counter.
“Then you will make the reservation for the day after tomorrow?” said Paul.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Paul left the office. The stationmaster rallied and became himself again. “Vous allez payer. Cela je vous jure,” he cried after Paul, defiantly striking the counter and sweeping from it the few objects that remained there.
Paul went straight back to the châlet, where he knew that Michèle would be waiting for him. Half-way up the hill he felt faint, and he sat down for some minutes by the roadside.
“Mon amour, qu’est-ce que tu as?” demanded Michèle, when Paul entered the châlet.
“Good news, the best and only news,” he said, sitting on a trunk and lowering his chest to his knees to regain his breath. “I’m going back with you to Liège. I’m going to ask your parents to agree to our immediate marriage ….” He started to cough, his eyes watered and he could not continue.
“Tu es malade …. Tu es malade ….” cried Michèle. She took his hand, stared distractedly at his face.
“Yes,” said Paul. He smiled. “But soon I shall be so well.” He cleared his throat. “We shall get married and go back to England. I don’t know how I ever thought that I could live apart from you, even for a short time. There’s still some of my uncle’s money, we won’t starve, and what else matters?” He lowered his face on to Michèle’s shoulders and closed his eyes. ‘It’s just in time,’ he thought, ‘in a few more days I should really have been ill.’ And he reflected on that curious element of luck which had never quite deserted him, which had brought him through an all but mortal illness to a love which he had never dared anticipate, and which now was preserving him from breakdown by setting him decisively upon a path which, with greater courage and confidence, he would have chosen long before.
To help pass the last afternoon Paul and Michèle had decided to go to the cinema in the village—they were to leave for Liège by the eight o’clock train the following morning. Paul arrived at the Universel a little before the end of the cure de silence, and having nothing better to do he went to the laboratory to see whether the result of the tubage had been received, and if so to confirm that it was satisfactory.
The door of the laboratory was open; there was no one inside. Paul took the lift to the Service Médical and asked Sœur Miriam whether she knew the result of the analysis. No, said Sœur Miriam. If the result had arrived it would be in the laboratory.
Paul returned to the laboratory. Still no one there. On a table there was a sheet of paper torn from a squared exercise book. It was a list of names marked with ticks or crosses. Paul looked down the list: his own name was marked with a cross.
Pondering the significance of the marking, he went to Michèle’s room to say that he would have to wait a few minutes until the laborantine had returned. Michèle was just getting dressed—Paul embraced her as he had so often embraced her at similar moments, his hands penetrating the folds of her underwear.
The third time he went to the laboratory, the door was shut. He knocked. The laborantine was seated at a table, examining a slide under a microscope. She looked up as he entered. “You’ve come for the result of your analysis?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve given it to Dr. Vernet.”
“What is it?”
“You must ask Dr. Vernet.”
“But can’t you tell me?”
“I can’t remember it.”
“You haven’t a copy?”
“No. I’m sorry.” She smiled and turned back to the microscope.
In the Service Médical Paul learnt that Dr. Vernet was away from Brisset for the day. He went straight back to the laboratory.
“Dr. Vernet is away. You’ve got to tell me the result. I’m leaving Brisset tomorrow.”
“I can’t tell you. I don’t remember it.”
“But don’t you see that I must know it at once?”
“Yes, I do, but I can’t help you.”
Paul suddenly felt extremely uneasy. “Do you think it was positive?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think that it might have been positive?”
“It might have been positive or negative—I can’t say.”
On the way back to the Service Médical, Paul passed Michèle. “I think something is wrong. No one will tell me anything,” he murmured.
This time in the Service Médical Paul encountered a young doctor whom he had never seen before, but to whom, nevertheless, he explained the urgency of his situation. The doctor agreed to telephone the laboratory. He went into his bureau and put the door to, without closing it. Paul heard snatches of conversation. “Oui … Monsieur Davenant … Non, Davenant, D-A-V-E, oui, c’est ça … C’est qu’il part demain … Bon … Oui … Oui … Bien. Merci.”
The door opened. “Monsieur, I’m sorry to tell you …” The doctor paused. Paul leant back against the wall. “I’m sorry to tell you that your analysis is positive.”
“Thank you. Thank you for finding out.”
“I am sorry.”
“Am I very positive?”
“Very positive.”
“What should I do?”
“It is up to you. If you want you can go back to England and have further treatment there ….”
“Yes, but …”
“Or you can stay here. Dr. Vernet will be back tomorrow.”
“I had better stay.”
“Probably.”
“Merci, monsieur.”
“De rien, monsieur.”
Paul went to break the news to Michèle.
There was nothing very much to be said. Paul and Michèle left the Universel and went down the hill to the station.
“Mais dites alors, c’est trop fort ça,” said the clerk at the booking office.
“I am ill again. I only learnt five minutes ago.”
“But it’s too late. You can’t cancel it.”
“Qu’est-ce qui se passe-t-il?” The stationmaster had heard the voices and had come into the booking office. “Ah, c’est vous!” he cried when he saw Paul.
“He wants to cancel his ticket,” explained the clerk indignantly.
“Jésus!” cried the stationmaster, breaking straight into the middle of his repertoire. “It’s here you’re ill, not in the lungs,” he shouted, stubbing his thumb against his forehead. “You ought to be locked up. This time you will pay in full, I promise you ….”
The combination of events had partially anæsthetised Paul. Ill everywhere but for the moment nowhere, only dull and slightly drowsy, a hollow head on a hollow body. No grief. Michèle would leave tomorrow and alone.
Later in the evening, amidst the trunks and cases, the room bare, the curtains undrawn, the scattered drawers, like open coffins, gaping at empty shelves, Michèle made an affirmation of her love.
“I am not sad,” she said. “This had to happen, there was no avoiding it, I’ve known for months that you were not well. We may be separated for some time, but we know that nothing will change our feelings and that as soon as you have recovered we will be together. This knowledge will be the strength for you to get better quickly, and for me to be able to go on living without you.”
Yes, agreed Paul, he would get better quickly, and all his strength, as she said, would be his knowledge of their love. And he thought to himself, as he lay with his head on her shoulder and eyes tightly closed, that they would never meet again.
It was ten o’clock, the doors of the Universel were locked at ten-fifteen. “We must go now,” said Paul. He got to his feet. The light dipped. There was a sharp detonation and suddenly the room was in darkness. “Paul!” cried Michèle. “It’s all right,” said Paul. He groped his way along the wall to his bedroom door and felt for the switch. The light shone through the door into the outer room. The bulb in the lamp over Paul’s desk had burst, leaving only the holder and twisted filament; a framed photo of Paul and Michèle (which Paul had intended to pack only just before leaving) had blown face downwards and the glass had smashed.
There was a sound of knocking from above. “Qui a-t-il?” came Mme. Anniette’s voice. “Nothing,” called back Paul. The room, illuminated only indirectly from the side, looked menacing and sinister in its bareness; the mute hostility of the trunks, the uncurtained windows. “Mais qu’est-ce qui s’est passé?” cried Mme. Anniette again. Paul paid no attention.
He took Michèle in his arms and their bodies momentarily integrated, each limb, each bone pressed against its counterpart as though engaging in its own private leave-taking. The opening of the outside door precipitated the end of the embrace. They hurried out of the room as Mme. Anniette came into the passage, torch in hand. “What was it? I thought I heard a shot,” she said.
“It was nothing,” repeated Paul.
And when he had taken Michèle to the door of the Universel, had kissed her and had instantaneously turned away (as they had arranged beforehand), he returned to find Mme. Anniette seated on one of his trunks and staring at the broken bulb.
“You are not superstitious, monsieur,” she said as he came in.
“No.”
“Then thank God for it.” She crossed herself. “The last time I saw a bulb burst like that, my sister was found hanging from the ceiling of her bedroom.”