Vertigo (4 page)

Madeleine!

He threw off his jacket and waistcoat and rushed towards the edge. A ring of wavelets was still spreading out across the river. He dived in. The cold took his breath away. But that didn’t stop her name welling up to his lips from the very centre of his being.

Madeleine! Madeleine!

For a second or two he floundered in the dirty water, then came to the surface. Madeleine had already drifted a few yards downstream. She was on her back, floating, looking already like a drowned person. By the time he reached her—puffing and spluttering, his eyes stinging, his limbs heavy—she seemed to be nothing but a dark shapeless object, slowly sinking. He grabbed her clothes, fumbled for her neck. Yes, that was the thing—he must at all costs keep her head up.

He found her head, and with one arm around it began swimming towards the bank. They made slow progress. How heavy she was! Had she already become rooted in this river? The quay swept rapidly past as they were carried down on the stream. It wasn’t far, but he felt his strength ebbing away and he was panting for breath. He had never bothered to keep himself physically fit. He took the air in great gasps, sometimes with half a mouthful of water.

He saw some steps, with a boat moored up alongside. He must at all costs reach those steps before they were swept past. It was a near thing. He just managed to grab the mooring chain of the boat and haul himself along till his feet found the steps submerged beneath the water.

It was a job hauling Madeleine out. He laboured up, one step at a time. A cascade of water gushed out of their clothes. When she was just clear of the water, he let her lie on the steps for a
minute. When she had drained off a bit she would be lighter, he thought. Besides, he had to consider how to carry her up. Finally he bent down and just managed to lift her, and, half carrying her, half dragging her, he got her to the top. There, he collapsed himself, exhausted. It was Madeleine who moved first. Realizing she had stirred, he collected himself, sat up, and looked at her. She was a pitiful sight, her hair plastered on her cheeks, her skin blotchy. Her eyes were open, gazing pensively at the sky, as though trying to recognize something.

‘You’re not dead,’ said Flavières simply.

The eyes turned towards him, her thoughts seemed to come back from some other world.

‘I don’t know,’ she said softly. ‘It doesn’t hurt to die.’

‘Fool!’ cried Flavières. ‘Come on. Pull yourself together.’

He put his hands under her arms and lifted her. Her body was quite limp, so he threw her over his shoulder. He didn’t find her heavy now, and the little café wasn’t far. All the same, his knees were wobbling when he reached it. He took her inside.

‘Hallo! Is anyone there?’

He put Madeleine down on her feet in front of the bar. She was able to stand, if unsteadily. Her teeth chattered.

‘Hey, there!’

‘Coming. Coming,’ answered a voice and a woman emerged from behind the scenes, carrying a baby.

‘There’s been an accident,’ explained Flavières. ‘Do you think you could lend us some clothes? It doesn’t matter what. You see the state we’re in.’

He laughed awkwardly, trying to reassure the woman. The baby began to howl.

‘He’s teething,’ she said, rocking him gently.

‘If we could just get into dry clothes, I’ll get a taxi to take us home… I’ve left my wallet in my jacket on the quayside. I’ll go and fetch it… Meanwhile, will you make Madame a hot grog… and make it strong?’

He was trying to pass it off as easily as possible, both to allay any misgivings on the woman’s part and to help Madeleine get back to her normal self. On his side, he was now overflowing with joy, energy, and decisiveness.

‘Sit down,’ he said peremptorily to Madeleine.

He quickly crossed the deserted quay to the stack of barrels and recovered his jacket and waistcoat. A ducking at that time of the year wasn’t a very serious matter, but, with the river running strongly, it had been a near thing… What chiefly stuck in his mind, however, was not the effort he had had to make nor the dread he had felt, but the vision of Madeleine calmly stepping over the brink. And then, in the water, she hadn’t struggled: she had immediately abandoned herself to the river, with a resignation that was something monstrous. If death had come to her, she simply wouldn’t have noticed it! He swore a mental oath never to let her out of his sight. From now on he would protect her against herself. She needed protection. She wasn’t quite normal, he felt sure of that now. He went back to the
bistrot
at the run, trying to get warm. The woman, with the baby still on her arm, was filling two glasses.

‘Where is she?’

‘In the next room, changing.’

‘Can I use the telephone?’

‘Yes. It’s over there.’

She jerked her chin towards the far end of the bar. He rang up for a taxi.

‘I’ve got some blue trousers and a jersey,’ she said when he rang off. ‘Will that do?’

‘Perfectly.’

At that moment, Madeleine came out of the kitchen, and he got another shock. In a cheap print dress, her bare feet in sandals, she was another Madeleine altogether, and one that was not in the least intimidating.

‘Go and change at once,’ she said. ‘… Really, I’m awfully sorry… Another time I’ll be more careful.’

‘I sincerely hope there won’t be another time,’ grumbled Flavières.

He had expected her to thank him. It was to have been a rather touching scene. And here she was being jocular about it! Furious, he muttered to himself as he changed into clothes that were several sizes too big for him. He was going to look ridiculous into the bargain. In the bar the two women were hobnobbing together in an undertone. As thick as thieves! His joy had completely evaporated, and when he found the blue trousers to be covered with streaks of black grease he was angrier than ever. Against Gévigne. He’d pay for this! And he could have his wife watched by someone else in future. A motor-horn sounded outside. That was the taxi. Red and discomfited, he went back into the bar.

‘Are you ready?’

Madeleine was holding the baby.

‘Hush!’ she said. ‘You’ll wake him.’

She handed the baby very gently back to his mother and this solicitude still further exasperated Flavières. Hardly able to contain himself, he gathered up his wet clothes, put some money on the table, and stumped out. Madeleine ran after him.

‘Where can I drop you?’ he asked coldly.

She got into the taxi.

‘We’d better go to your place first,’ she said. ‘I expect you’re in a hurry to get back into decent clothes. It doesn’t matter about me.’

‘Tell me where you live, all the same.’

‘Avenue Kléber… I’m Madame Gévigne… My husband’s a ship-builder.’

‘I’m a lawyer. Maître Flavières.’

He opened the sliding glass panel between him and the driver.

‘Rue de Maubeuge. Drop us at the corner of the Rue Lamartine.’

‘I’m afraid you’re angry with me,’ said Madeleine. ‘I really don’t know what happened.’

‘I do. You tried to kill yourself.’

He paused, expecting her to make excuses. As she didn’t answer, he went on:

‘You can have confidence in me. I’m quite ready to understand. You’ve been dragging some sorrow about with you… a disappointment perhaps?…’

‘No,’ she said softly. ‘It’s not what you think.’

Once again she was the person he’d seen at the theatre,
La Femme à l’Eventail
; once again she was the person who had stood lost in meditation at that neglected grave.

‘I wanted to throw myself into the water,’ she said, ‘but I swear I don’t know why.’

‘Come on! What about that letter?’

She reddened.

‘It was for my husband. But what I was trying to explain to him was so extraordinary that in the end—’

She turned towards Flavières and laid a hand on his arm.

‘Do you think it’s possible to live again, Monsieur?… I mean… is it possible to die and then… live again in someone else?… You see! You don’t want to answer. You think I’m mad.’

‘Look here.’

‘I’m not mad, I assure you… But I can’t shake off the feeling that my past goes back a long way—much further than my memories of childhood. Beyond the little girl I remember, there’s another life, as it were, a life I’m only beginning to recollect… But I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.’

‘Go on,’ urged Flavières. ‘Go on.’

‘I can recall things I’ve certainly never seen. Not with my own eyes. Often faces; sometimes scenes. And occasionally I have quite definitely the impression I’m an old, old woman.’

She had a deep contralto voice. Flavières sat quite rigid, listening to her.

‘I suppose it’s some kind of an illness,’ she sighed. ‘Yet, if it was, I can’t believe those recollections would be so vivid. They’d be vague and incoherent.’

‘But this afternoon did you give way to a sudden impulse or had you thought it out beforehand?’

‘I suppose it was a deliberate intention. That’s not very clear however… I have increasingly the feeling that I’m a stranger here, that my real life lies behind me. If it does, what’s the point of going on with this one?… For you—and for everyone else, in fact—life’s the exact opposite of death… For me…’

‘You shouldn’t talk like that. Think of your husband.’

‘Poor Paul! If he knew!’

‘He mustn’t. This must remain a secret between us two.’

Flavières couldn’t help putting a note of tenderness into the words, and she smiled at him, suddenly, with a disconcerting vivacity.

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘It must be a professional secret. Thanks for reassuring me… It was a stroke of luck for me that you happened to be there on the quay.’

‘It was indeed. I was going to see a client whose works are a little farther on. If it hadn’t been such a lovely day, I should certainly have taken my car.’

‘And I’d have been dead by now.’

The taxi stopped.

‘Here we are,’ said Flavières. ‘You’d better come in. I’m afraid the place is in a bit of a mess. I’m a bachelor, and much too busy to look after myself properly.’

They didn’t meet anybody either in the hall or on the stairs. Flavières was thankful for that. He didn’t want anybody to see him in those clothes. The telephone was ringing as he opened his door and ushered Madeleine in.

‘One of my clients, I expect. Sit down. Excuse me a moment.’

He hurried into his office ahead of her.

‘Hallo!’

It was Gévigne.

‘I’ve already tried twice to get through to you. I suddenly thought of something I didn’t tell you… About Pauline Lagerlac’s suicide. She drowned herself. I don’t know whether it’s any use, but I thought you ought to know… And on your side? Any news?’

‘I’ll tell you when we meet,’ answered Flavières. ‘I must ring off now. I’ve got a client with me.’

Flavières looked sulkily at his memorandum book. May 6th. Three appointments—two probates and a divorce. He’d had about enough of this stupid way of earning a living. A shopkeeper could simply put up his shutters and take a day off. Any number of days. For politeness’ sake, he stuck up a little notice:
Fermé pour cause de mobilisation,
or any other reason he liked to invent, and no one cared two hoots. But clients were different to customers. They had rights—the right to ring you up at any hour of the day. And they would. He’d have to listen attentively, making notes. And the one at Orléans would once again press Flavières to go and see him. Then in the late afternoon, Gévigne would ring up or call round to see him. He was exacting. You couldn’t get rid of the man till you’d told him every single detail.

Sitting at his desk, Flavières opened the
Dossier Gévigne
and went idly through the diary of the last few days.
April 27th. Walk in the Bois de Boulogne. 28th. Paramount Cinema. 29th. Outing. Rambouillet and the Chevreuse valley. 30th. Marignan. Tea on the terrace on top of the Galeries Lafayette. Felt a bit giddy so high up, and we had to come down. She laughed a lot. May 1st. Trip to Versailles. She drives well, and the Simca’s inclined to be capricious. 2nd. Forêt de Fontainebleau. 3rd. Didn’t see her. 4th. Stroll in the Jardin du Luxembourg. 5th. Long drive in the country. Glimpse of Chartres Cathedral
…

And today, on May 6th, he was later to write:
I’m in love with her. I couldn’t live without her.
For that’s how things would stand from now on. A melancholy love like a fire smouldering in an abandoned mine. Madeleine appeared to suspect nothing. She regarded him as a friend, that was all, a pleasant companion with whom she could talk freely. No question, of course, of introducing him to Paul! Flavières did his best to play the part of a man of private means who dabbled in law to give himself something to do, and who was delighted with the job of helping a pretty woman to pass the time away.

The accident—if you could call it an accident—at Courbevoie was forgotten. At least it was never referred to. It had not been without its effects—it had given him a certain authority over her—and she knew how to greet him in a way which said as plainly as words that he had saved her life. She was attentive and considerate, as she might have been to any uncle or guardian. A word of love would have been indelicate! Besides, there was Gévigne. And Flavières made it a point of honour to report to him every evening, telling him exactly what they had done. Gévigne would listen to the end, frowning; then they would once again discuss Madeleine’s strange affliction.

Flavières shut the folder, stretched his legs out and folded his hands on the desk… Madeleine’s affliction… Twenty times a day he turned it over in his mind, examining every action, every attitude, every word she had spoken. She wasn’t ill. Yet there was something wrong with her. On the one hand she seemed thoroughly to enjoy life: she loved the whirl and bustle of the crowd; she was gay, sometimes exuberant; her conversation was lively and amusing, and anyone would have at once put her down as a happy person. That was the bright side of
the picture. The other was nocturnal, murky, mysterious. On this side she was cold, remaining quite untouched by what went on around her and quite incapable of any real volition, let alone passion.

Gévigne was quite right: as soon as you stopped entertaining her, holding her back into this life, she sank into a sort of numbness which was neither meditation nor gloom, but a subtle change of state. It was as though her soul might at any minute float away and gradually dissipate itself in the wind. Several times Flavières had seen her slip silently into this condition as she sat with him, like a medium whose real self has been summoned to another world.

‘Anything the matter?’ he would say.

A flicker, as of recognition, would pass over her face, and, with a vague, hesitant smile and a tentative groping, as it were, for her own muscular powers and reflexes, she would slowly come to the surface. There she would blink for a second, then say:

‘No. I’m quite all right.’

And the look in her eyes would reassure him.

One day, perhaps, she would open up and tell him more about herself. Meanwhile he was cautious. He rarely let her drive, for instance. She did it very well, but with a sort of fatalism. She lacked the instinct of self-preservation, ready to take whatever came. He was reminded of a time when he had been under treatment for blood-pressure. The slightest movement had cost him an effort. If he had seen a thousand-franc note on the floor, he couldn’t have bothered to pick it up. It was like that with Madeleine—as though a spring had broken. And, if in fact she drove well, he could never rid himself of the feeling that, suddenly faced by an obstacle, she wouldn’t trouble to
avoid it, would simply
accept
it… At Courbevoie, she hadn’t struggled in the water.

Another thing: when they went for a drive, she never chose their destination. If he offered her a choice, she would dodge it, saying she didn’t mind, that it was all the same to her. Yet this apparent indifference would be, the next moment, belied by her obvious enjoyment. Laughing, her cheeks flushed, she would squeeze his arm, and he would be conscious of her body full of vitality. Sometimes he couldn’t help murmuring:

‘You’re wonderful.’

‘Really?’

At such moments, when she looked at him with those pale blue eyes which seemed to have been slightly blinded by the light of day, he would feel an almost painful constriction round the heart.

She tired quickly, and was always hungry. At four o’clock she was already on the look-out for a place where they could have tea. Flavières didn’t like to take her to the
pâtisseries
or the
salons de thé.
That’s why he took her as often as possible out into the country. To sit in one of those places in wartime eating a
baba
or a
millefeuille
made him feel acutely self-conscious. He was convinced the waitresses, each with a husband or a lover at the front, were looking at him contemptuously. On the other hand he understood only too well why Madeleine should need more food than other people to keep her alive. Once, when they were having tea together, he said:

‘You remind me of Aeneas.’

‘Why?’

‘Don’t you remember? When he went down to the nether world, he poured blood on the ground all round him. And the
shades came and sniffed at it and the smell of it gave them for a moment a semblance of consistency, and they chattered and chattered…’

‘But what’s that got to do with me?’

He pushed over to her the plateful of
croissants
.

‘Go on—eat them up, all of them. I can’t help feeling that you too lack substance. So go on eating, little Eurydice!’

She smiled with a crumb sticking to the corner of her mouth.

‘You’ll be getting me worried with all your mythology!’

And, after a long pause, putting her cup down, she asked:

‘All the same, it’s a nice name… Eurydice!… And you did bring me back from the nether world, didn’t you?’

But instead of to the Seine and the muddy quay, his mind went back to those cave-dwellings near the Loire, whose deathly silence was only broken by the monotonous drip of water. He put his hand on hers.

From that day he playfully called her Eurydice. He would never have dared call her Madeleine. Besides, Madeleine was a married woman, another man’s wife. Eurydice belonged to him and him alone. He had held her in his arms! In the water, admittedly, and with the shadow of death on her face…

He was making a fool of himself, of course. Torturing himself into the bargain, living in a constant tumult of painful impressions. Never mind! Beneath that tumult was a peace and a plenitude of joy such as he had never known. It swallowed up the frustrations of recent years, the fears, the regrets. What a long time he had waited for this woman who was not quite at home in the daylight! Since the age of twelve, to be exact, when he had first penetrated into the heart of the earth, exploring the shadows, the country of phantoms, of the dead…

The telephone rang. He snatched up the receiver eagerly, knowing who it was, and said:

‘Hallo, it’s you, is it?… Free?… Yes, I think I could make it… Oh yes, I’ve plenty to do, but none of it’s very urgent… Sure you want to?… Fine; but I ought to be back by five… Where shall we go?… About time you chose something… All right. What about a museum or a gallery?… Not very original I admit. A sentimental stroll through the Louvre?… No, they haven’t taken everything away. There are quite a lot of good things left. All the more reason to go while we still have the chance… Right. Thanks. At two o’clock, then.’

He put the receiver down very gently, as though a last echo of her voice was still lingering in it. What would the day bring forth? Nothing in all probability. Nothing, that is to say, which took him any nearer to a solution of the problem. There wasn’t one: they were in a blind alley. Madeleine would never be cured: there was no use pretending she would. Her mind might be less bent on suicide now that he was going about with her, but that didn’t make her at bottom any different. An obsessional type. What ought he to say to Gévigne? Ought he to tell him bluntly she was a hopeless case?…

Flavières had been over every inch of this ground, and once again his thoughts were going round in the same inevitable circle. It was paralysing. He felt incapable of getting his mind out of the rut, incapable of the least mental effort.

Picking up his hat, he went out. His clients would come back another day—or not at all! It didn’t matter in the slightest. What did? Paris might at any moment be reduced to a heap of rubble. Besides, if the war went on, he would probably feel obliged to join up in some capacity or other. The future was
in any case a blank. Nothing had any real meaning except the present, the spring leaves in the sunshine—and love. Instinctively he made for the Grands Boulevards, needing the noise and the bustle, to rub shoulders with the throng. There perhaps he could for a moment forget Madeleine. He needed that more than anything! Sauntering about near the Opéra, he realized the extent to which he was in her clutches. She absorbed literally all his strength. He was a blood-donor. No, that wasn’t the word. A soul-donor.

It left him so empty that, left alone, he had to jostle with the crowd to replenish his nervous system. At first he thought of nothing with any continuity, just letting ideas flit idly through his brain… Whatever the war did to him, he somehow felt sure he would survive… Then he began to dream: Gévigne died, leaving Madeleine free. That of course was a pleasant daydream, and he basked in imaginary situations, worked out to the last detail… Soon he was enjoying a marvellous freedom from earthly cares, like an opium-smoker. The crowd rocked him gently in its lap. He surrendered himself, taking a day off from the exacting business of being a man.

He stopped to look into Lancel’s window. Not that he wanted to buy anything. He loved to contemplate jewels and shining gold against a background of dark velvet. Suddenly he remembered that Madeleine had broken her lighter. There were several on a glass shelf, cigarette-cases too, made of all sorts of precious materials. She couldn’t be offended. He went in and bought a tiny lighter of very pale gold and a cigarette-case of Russian leather. For once, he actually enjoyed spending money. Asking for a card, he wrote on it:
A Eurydice ressuscitée,
and slipped it in the cigarette-case. He would give her the little
parcel at the Louvre, or perhaps later when they had a light dinner together before separating. The morning was embellished by this purchase. He smiled every time he was conscious of the packet tied up with a blue ribbon. Dear, dear Madeleine!

At two he was waiting at the Etoile. She was always  punctual.

‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re in black today.’

‘I love black. If I had my own way I’d wear nothing else.’

‘Why? It’s a bit mournful, isn’t it?’

‘Not at all. On the contrary, it gives value to everything; it makes all one’s thoughts more important and obliges one to take oneself seriously.’

‘And if you were in blue, or green?’

‘I don’t know. I might think myself a river or a poplar… When I was little, I thought colours had mystical properties. Perhaps that’s what made me want to paint.’

She took his arm, with an abandon that almost submerged him in a wave of tenderness.

‘I’ve tried my hand at painting too,’ he said. ‘The trouble is, my drawing’s always so weak.’

‘What does that matter? It’s the colour that counts.’

‘I’d love to see your paintings.’

‘They’re not worth much. You couldn’t make head or tail of them: they’re dreams really… Do you dream in colour?’

‘No. Everything’s grey. Like a photograph.’

‘Then you couldn’t understand. You’re one of the blind!’

She laughed and squeezed his arm to show him she was only teasing.

‘Dreams are so much more beautiful than the stuff they call reality,’ she went on. ‘Imagine a profusion of interweaving colours which penetrate right into you, filling you so completely
that you become like one of those insects which make themselves indistinguishable from the leaf they’re resting on… Every night I dream of… of the other country.’

‘You too!’

Pressed close together, they skirted the Place de la Concorde, not looking at anybody. Flavières hardly knew in what direction his feet were taking him. He was lost in the sweetness of this intimacy, though another part of him was alert and watchful, never losing sight of the problem.

‘When I was a boy I was obsessed myself by that unknown world. If we had a map here I could show you the exact spot where it begins.’

‘That’s not the same one.’

‘Oh yes, it is. My end of it is dark, yours full of colour, but they join. It’s the same world.’

‘That’s when you were a boy. You don’t believe in it any longer, do you?’

Flavières hesitated. But she looked at him so trustfully, and she seemed to attach so much importance to his answer, that he couldn’t help saying: