V. The Madman
A week later, I was lying in ambush behind the door of my old room—the Yellow Room—with my eye to the keyhole. I had been there already, two days before, but had not had time to observe…
Oh, it wasn’t easy, at least in appearance! Fonval’s left wing had never been so jealously guarded since the days when the monks were cloistered there.
How had I got into it? In the simplest possible manner. The Yellow Room is connected to the central vestibule—through which anyone could pass freely—by a sequence of three rooms; the vestibule connects to the large drawing-room, which connects to the billiard-room, which itself opens into a boudoir, which has the Yellow Room as the next room on the right, going in the direction of the grounds. Now, two days before, taking advantage of a moment of independence, I had tried keys that I had stolen from various other doors in the lock of the drawing-room, one by one. I was not confident, but the tongue of the lock suddenly yielded. I opened it and perceived the entire sequence of rooms, unimpeded, in the half-light of closed shutters.
As I went from one threshold to the next, I recognized the particular odor of each room, all a little mustier than of old—odors that the past would exhale if one could travel into it. There was dust everywhere. On tiptoe, I followed a trail that many boots had left behind in their dry mud. A mouse ran across the drawing-room carpet. On the billiard table, the black, red and white spheres described an isosceles triangle; mentally, I calculated the shot, the impulse required and the angle of the second ball. And the boudoir surrounded me; the hands of its stopped clock indicated noon, or midnight. I felt marvelously receptive.
Scarcely had I had time to see the closed door of the Yellow Room, though, when a noise made me return precipitately to the vestibule….
It was no joking matter! Lerne was working in the grey buildings, but he knew that I was in the château, and on such occasions, he had a habit of returning frequently without warning, to keep watch on me. A postponement of the enterprise seemed prudent.
An hour of liberty was indispensable. I formulated a plan. The next day, I took the automobile to Grey-l’Abbaye and bought various items of clothing, which I hid beneath a bush in the forest, not far from the grounds. The day after that, at lunch, I told Emma and Lerne: “I’m going to Grey this afternoon. I hope to find certain items there of which I’m in considerable need. If I can’t, I’ll go on as far as Nanthel. Is there anything you’d like me to do?”
Fortunately, there wasn’t; otherwise it would all have come unstuck.
By that means, a fifteen minute run would permit me to recover my purchases from the bush, as if I had gone to the village for them. The duration of the journey from Fonval to Grey and back could be reckoned at an hour and a quarter, with time added on to visit the grocer and the haberdasher’s, so I had an hour at my disposal—Q.E.D.
I went out, left my car in a thicket not far from the bush where the things were hidden, then climbed over the wall into the garden; the ivy on one side and a trellis on the other simplified the task. Creeping along the wall of the château, I reached the vestibule.
So here I am in the drawing-room, with the door carefully closed behind me. In case I have to cut and run, though, I thought it prudent not to lock it. The keyhole is broad. With respect to what I can see through it, it forms a frame in the shape of a loophole, through which a keen draught is blowing. And what can I see?
The room is dark. Cutting laterally through the shutters, a slanting sunbeam seems to be propping up the window with its dazzling spray, in which particles of dust float like orbiting planets. On the carpet, the shutter’s laths are designed in shadow. In the gloom: a hovel, a bohemian’s lair; a few cloths scattered here and there. On the floor, a plate with leftovers, and next to it, something filthy. One might think it a hermit’s den. The bed….Ah! What’s that moving?
There he is: the prisoner!
A man. He’s lying on his belly amid a mess of pillows, a bolster and a quilt, his head resting on his folded arms. He’s wearing nothing but a nightshirt and trousers. His beard, several weeks long, and his rather short hair are pale blond, almost white.
I’ve seen that face before…
No. Since I heard that cry the other night I’ve been a little crazy. I’ve never seen that swollen bearded face, that stout body. I’ve never met this plump young man…never. His eyes seem quite benevolent, though, stupid but benevolent…hmm! Especially that indifferent face He must be a lazy fellow!
The prisoner is taking a nap—rather uncomfortably. Flies are annoying him. He swats them away with a sudden clumsy hand-gesture. His indolent eyes follow their flight, between two intervals of drowsiness. Sometimes, in a sudden fit of anger, smacking his lips with a sudden thrust of the head, he tries to snap up the annoying insects as they pass by.
A madman!
There’s a madman in my uncle’s house! Who is he?
My eyelid touches the keyhole. My eye is cold. The other, brought to bear in its turn, is slightly myopic. My vision is unclear. The peep-hole is too narrow! Damn it! I’ve bumped into the door, noisily!
The madman has leapt to his feet. How small he is! He’s coming toward me…what if he tries to open the door? Good, he’s thrown himself down next to the door, sniffing, growling…poor fellow! It’s a painful sight…
He hasn’t divined anything. Crouching in the sunbeams now, striped by the shadow of the shutters, he’s more open to inspection.
His hands and face are speckled with little red marks, like old grazes. One would think that he’s been in a fight. More seriously, there’s a long purple streak beneath his hairline, extending from one temple to the other and around the back of the head. It bears a singular resemblance to a scar. This man has been martyrized! I don’t know what treatment Lerne has subjected him to, or what vengeance he’s exacting upon him… Oh, the torturer!
An association of ideas is instantly formed: I compare my uncle’s Indian profile, Emma’s unusual hair, that of the madman—so blond—and the green pelt of the rat. Can Lerne be seeking a means of grafting hairy scalps on to bald heads? Might that be his enterprise?
I immediately realize how stupid my hypothesis is. There’s certainly nothing to corroborate it. Then again—and this is the decisive argument—this madman hasn’t been scalped; were that the case, the scar would describe a complete circle. Why shouldn’t he have gone mad in the aftermath of an accident, a perfectly simple backward fall?
Mad—but not raging. Inoffensive. He has a decidedly pleasant expression. His eyes, in fact, sometimes light up with a sort of intelligence. He must know something. I’m sure that if I question him softly, he’ll reply. Should I take the chance?
The door is only secured by a bolt on my side. I draw it back with my thumb, carefully. But I’m not yet inside the Yellow Room when the recluse hurtles forward, head down, goes through my legs, knocks me over, gets up and runs away, making the canine yelps that caused me to mistake him for a practical joker the other night…
His agility surprises me. How was he able to make a fool of me like that? What an idea, to go between my legs! In spite of the brevity of the adventure, I stand up as quickly as I fell down, dazed and confused. That lunatic released by an idiot, whom he’ll ruin! Toasted, Nicolas! Toasted! There’s not a shadow of doubt about it! Wouldn’t it be better to make oneself scarce rather than run after the fugitive? What good will that do now? Yes, but what about Emma? And the secret? Good God! Let’s try to capture him, damn it!”
And here I am, hot on the unknown man’s heels.
Just as long as he doesn’t go near the grey buildings! Fortunately, he’s gone in the opposite direction. It doesn’t matter! Someone might see us at any moment. My deserter is drawing away in leaps and bounds, quite merrily. He plunges into the wood. God be praised! The animal’s no longer crying—that’s something! Is someone there? No—it’s a statue. I must catch up as quickly as possible. If he takes an unfortunate turn, we’ll be seen, and I’ll be done for…
How joyful he seems, the cur! Damn! If he continues along his path, we’ll make a tour of the grounds and the pursuit will pass in front of the grey buildings, under Lerne’s windows! Bless the trees that are still hiding us! Quickly! And what about the drawing-room door, which I’ve left open? Quickly, quickly! The man doesn’t know he’s being chased; he isn’t looking behind him. His feet, hurting by virtue of being bare, are slowing him down. I’m gaining on him…
He stops, sniffs the air, sets off again. But I’m much closer. He jumps into the undergrowth on the left, toward the cliff…me too. I’m ten meters behind him. He charges through the brambles, heedless of the thorns. I follow in his wake. The lashes of the stems are flagellating him; the thorns are hurting him; he cries out in pain as they dig into him. Why not push them aside, then? He could easily avoid their talons…
The cliff isn’t far away. We’re heading straight for it. Word of honor, my prey seems to know exactly where he wants to go…I can see his back…but not always…I have to track him by means of the crackling of branches…
Finally, his narrow head stands out against the rocky wall, unmoving.
Silently, I glide forward… Another second and I’ll throw myself upon him…
But his unexpected action stops me on the edge of the clearing that encircles him, bordered on one side by the cliff.
He’s on his knees, scraping the soil furiously. The work is tormenting his fingernails, to the point at which he whines, as he did a little while ago among the sharp points of the hawthorns and mulberries. Earth flies up behind him, as far as me; his clenched hands work obstinately, with rapid and regular thrusts. He digs while moaning in pain, then, from time to time, plunges his nose into the hole as deeply as he can, snuffling and jerking his head back and forth, and then resumes the absurd task. The scar is clearly visible, like a livid crown. Hey! I don’t care about his nonsensical behavior—it’s the propitious moment to jump on him and carry him off!
I emerge from the thicket stealthily. Hold on! Someone’s been digging here already: a heap of overturned earth testifies to that; the blond man is only taking up some old abandoned task. Bah!
My heels flex; I get ready to pounce.
The man releases a groan of pleasure then—but what’s that I see in the depths of the cavity? An old shoe, that he’s just laid bare! Oh, wretched humanity!
Ha! I’ve jumped, I have him, the rascal! Good Lord! He’s turned round, pushing me away, but I’m not letting go! Bizarre…how awkward he is with his hands! Aargh! So you bite, cretin!
I wrap my arms around him, bone-crushingly. He’s never done any wrestling, that’s evident. I haven’t got the upper hand yet, though…
What have I done? A false step—it’s the hole…I’m treading on the old boot. Horror! There’s something inside it! Something holding it to the ground! I draw breath. Nothing fits a shoe better than a foot…
I have to finish it, once and for all. The minutes are priceless…
My adversary and I are face to face, with our arms wrapped round one another, pressed against the rock, panting, equally strong…I’ve got an idea!
I open my eyes terribly wide, as if it were a matter of intimidating a child or subduing an animal; I adopt the domineering expression of a master. And the other loosens his grip, subjugated and repentant. Look how he’s licking my hands as a sign of obedience!
“Let’s go—come along!”
I drag him away. The shoe—an elastic-sided slip-on—stands up, its toe in the air. It doesn’t have the lamentable appearance of dead shoes abandoned on the highway, but it’s even more repulsive. Whatever is fixing it in the soil is partly disengaged. All that’s visible is the end of something knitted. A sock? The madman also turns to look at it.
“At the double, my friend!”
My companion remains docile, thanks to my magical stare, and we run off at top speed.
Oh Lord! What’s been happening at the château during this escapade?
Nothing at all.
As we went into the vestibule, however, I heard Emma and Barbe in conversation on the floor above. They were beginning to come down the staircase when the famous drawing-room door closed behind us, putting an end to my anxieties—only to give rise to new ones.
Once the unknown man was back in his room, how was I to get out again without being seen by either of the women?
Having returned furtively to the drawing-room, I put my ear to the door and listened, in order to make out which way the two worrisome individuals were heading. Suddenly, though, I retreated to the middle of the room in alarm, searching for a hiding-place, a screen, making the gestures of a drowning man, my throat swollen with suppressed cries….
A key had been inserted into the lock.
Was it mine? My key, left behind in the door and filched during my absence? No, that one was still there, making a bulge in my waistcoat pocket. I’d put it there as I came back in.
What, then?
The verdigris-stained handle turned slowly. Someone was about to come in. Who? One of the Germans? Lerne?
Emma.
Emma, who could only see an empty room. Perhaps one of the large damask curtains moved, as if trembling. She did not see it.
Barbe was standing behind her. The young woman said to her, in a soft voice: “Stay there and watch the garden. Do as you did the other day—that was good. As soon as the old man comes out of the laboratory, warn me by coughing.”
“It’s not him I’m worried about,” Barbe replied, visibly frightened. “He’s quite confident now, I tell you. We won’t see him again before dusk. As for Nicolas, that’s something else. He might turn up, you know.”
So the grey buildings were called the laboratory! That was the word that had caused the professor to gag the servant with a slap in the face. My knowledge was increasing…
“There’s no danger, I tell you,” Emma continued, in an exasperated tone. “Come on! Is this the first time?”
“Nicolas wasn’t here then…”
“Come on—do as you’re told!”
Reluctantly, Barbe went to stand guard.
Emma stood still for a few seconds, listening. Beautiful! Oh, as beautiful as the vampiric demon of luxury! And yet, she was only a silhouette in the luminous rectangle of the door, a motionless shadow…but as subtle as if she were moving, for Emma in repose always seemed to have paused in mid-dance, and even to be continuing the dance by means of some unknown black magic, so harmonious was the sight of her: the harmony of bayaderes who can mime nothing but love, unable to swing their hips, undulate, quiver or lean over, nor shake their tresses, nor sketch the slightest gesture, without one imagining them in sensuous ecstasy…
Life was seething within my body. An exaltation overwhelmed me, an omnipotent age-old passion. Emma! Her, in the madman’s room! All that paradise for that brute! The slut! I could have killed her!
Are you thinking that I didn’t know anything? That I was making gratuitous suppositions? You’re not familiar, then, with the impulsive gait and the crafty and avid attitude of those women who are coming to a man on the sly? Look: she had started walking again. Well? Was it necessary to look at her twice to guess what she was about to do? Everything about her was crying it out. Everything confessed that hope and that pathological need, which is already a pleasure. But I don’t want to describe that demonically-possessed body, nor translate its indecent language. Don’t expect me to fill out the shameful portrait of a lustful woman. For, sordid though it is to write, that is what she was. There are moments of perception so sharp that, under the influence of a vision or a domineering flavor, a man becomes a monster and is no longer anything else but a huge eye, or a mouth, and nothing more. Just as a man who hears an extraordinary piece of music can only see with his hearing, listening with his eyes, his nose and his entire being, so that enamored woman was no longer, in her entirety, anything but the radiation of sex, a minor function aggrandized and personified: Aphrodite herself.
And that drove me mad.
The pretty girl, hastening toward the ignoble scene, brushed my curtain with a swish of her skirt.
I barred her way.
She emitted a loud gasp of fear. I thought she was about to faint. Barbe’s eyes widened, and she fled in panic. Then, stupidly, I revealed the reason for what I had done. “Why are you going that way, to the madman’s room?” My voice, blank and artificial, was rough and halting. “Tell me! Why? Good God, tell me!”
I had flung myself upon her and I twisted her wrists. She moaned softly; her entire adorable body shuddered, as if a ripple had passed through it. I squeezed the soft, firm flesh of her arms as if to strangle two doves, and looked down into her agonized eyes. “Why? Tell me! Why?”
Did I have to be so candid? Addressed in that tone, she straightened up, looked me up and down, and challenged me.
“So what?” she said. “You know full well that Monsieur MacBell was my lover! Lerne as good as told you that in my presence, on the day of your arrival…”
“MacBell? That’s who the madman is?”
Emma made no reply, but her astonished expression informed me that I had made another mistake in disclosing my ignorance.
“Do I no longer have the right to love him?” she went on. “Do you, perchance, think you can forbid it?”
I pulled at her arms as if they were bell-cords. “Do you still love him?”
“More than ever, do you hear?”
“But he’s a brute beast!”
“There are madmen who think they’re gods; he, from time to time, imagines that he’s a dog; perhaps his lunacy in the less serious. And then, after all…”
She smiled mysteriously. One might have sworn that she wanted to push me to the limit. That smile and her words had imposed a cruel vision on me. “Oh! Slut!”
I gripped the girl round the neck to strangle her, spitting insults in her face. She must have thought that she was a dead woman—and yet, though suffocated, she continued to smile…
It was me that it was mocking, that mouth which another man used at his whim! All my rage was concentrated upon it. Ha! I’d provide it with a fine accompaniment, her smile! It would be redder and moister, yes! My jaws had an urge to bite. I was worse than a madman! I understood every kind of madness, at that moment. I hurled myself upon those mocking lips—which would soon be bloody and torn, would they not? Ah! There! There! Our teeth clashed, and there was a kiss—similar, undoubtedly, to humankind’s first, long ago, in some cave or rude and primitive lakeside hut; less a caress than a blow, but a kiss all the same…
Then a voluptuous penetration unclenched my teeth, and the sequel to that savage kiss was so refined that it revealed in Emma not merely a considerable natural disposition to games of debauchery, but also a consummate experience.
This confusion of our selves suggested another, and appealed for it. That day, however, we were only to experience the most vulgar of preludes. I mean the distant carillon which, in a double descent, makes the springs of old sofas ring—to chime, I suppose, the shepherd’s hour.23
Barbe, simultaneously untimely and opportune, came running. She coughed as if her guts were splitting. “Monsieur is coming!”
Emma freed herself from my embrace. Lerne’s empery dominated her again. “Get away!” she said. “Hurry up! If he knew…you’d be done for…and me too, probably, this time! Oh, get out! Run, my little darling. Lerne’s capable of anything!” And I sensed that she was telling the truth, for her dear hands had grown cold, and were shivering in mine, and beneath my softly amorous lips, her mouth was babbling in terror.
Still moved by an imbecilic joy that multiplied my strength and agility tenfold, I scaled the trellis nimbly and leapt down on the other side of the wall.
I found my vehicle in its garage of verdure. My parcels were piled into it in a rush. I was blissfully happy. Emma would be mine! And what a mistress! A woman who had not recoiled from the duty of bringing a friend who had become repulsive the consolation of her visits, the treat of her agitated charms! But it was me that she wanted now, I was sure of it. Love MacBell? Get away! She had lied to rouse my passion. She merely pitied him…
With respect to that, though, how had madness taken hold of the Scotsman? And why was Lerne hiding him? My uncle had affirmed that he had left. Why was he keeping his Saint Bernard bitch locked up? Poor Nelly! I understood her dolor, at the window, and her rancor against the professor: a drama had unfolded before her, involving Emma, Lerne and MacBell, doubtless in the wake of their being caught in the act. What drama? I would soon know; one has no secrets from one’s lover, and I would become Emma’s. Come on! Everything was falling into place marvelously!
My joy generally manifests itself in the form of song. It was, if I’m not mistaken, a seguidilla that I hummed as I went along—whose gangling melody I interrupted abruptly, because the macabre memory of the old shoe had surged forth into my reverie, like the Red Death in mid-ball.
Instantaneously, my mood darkened. The sun set in the depths of my thoughts; everything became black, suspect, menacing. An excessive reversal showed me the most sinister suppositions as certainties, and—even the image of the ardent Emma having been unable to resist that funereal light—I fell prey to fear of the unknown as I reached that château-madhouse and that garden-tomb, where the ghoul of vice was waiting for me between a madman and a cadaver.