Vertigo (9 page)

Almaryan stood up and took the young woman by the arm. Flavières quickly picked up the time-table and buried himself in it while they passed. He saw the bottom of the fur coat and elegant shoes. When he finally looked up, he saw them through the gate of the lift, the shadows of which on her face
had somewhat the same effect as that little veil she had worn, and he felt again a sharp stab of his old love. He got up irresolutely, wondering whether she had seen him. He returned the time-table to the desk.

‘Will you be keeping your room, Monsieur?’

‘Of course!’

All the morning he sauntered about in the sunshine, exploring the old port, whose activity was divided between civilian trade and war shipments. The stones trembled as military convoys rumbled away. Shivering, Flavières immersed himself in the clatter and the hubbub, jostling with the crowd. There would never be people enough in the world to stave off his fear. For he had seen the body. So had Gévigne. So had the old woman who had laid Madeleine out. The police had investigated her suicide, even if none too intelligently. There must have been at least ten people to verify her death… In that case the woman with Almaryan wasn’t Madeleine… He drank a
pastis
in a bar on the Canebière. He would restrict himself to that. Already he could feel the faint delirium kindle within him. He lit a cigarette with the lighter, that lighter which couldn’t lie, which was there in his hand, polished by his fingers which had fondled it so often in silent prayer, as though it had been a bead in a rosary… Madeleine had died at the foot of that church tower… And, before her, Pauline… Nevertheless…

He had to have a whisky, because the idea that had flashed into his mind was so extraordinary that he needed all his faculties to examine it properly. He could remember every word of their conversation at the Louvre.

‘I’ve already walked through these rooms on the arm of a man,’ she had said. ‘He was like you, only he had sidewhiskers.’

How clear it became all of a sudden. At the time he had been unable to understand; he had been too full of life, too blinded by prejudices, he hadn’t yet been initiated by suffering and illness… Now he was quite able to accept the truth, as consoling as it had so far been inconceivable. Just as Pauline’s spirit had housed itself in Madeleine’s body, so Madeleine’s had now… It could even be the same with himself. Perhaps in some far-off forgotten time he had already gazed at that purplish sea, those brown sails… He, too, might have been dead before—more than once perhaps, many times… If only one could be sure! But Madeleine had been.

If he was right, why should he be afraid? What was there to be afraid of? Of waking up? Of no longer believing the miracle? Of having chased foolishly a will-o’-the-wisp? No. He was only afraid of seeing her again, as he would have to speak to her. Nothing would hold him back. And of course he wanted to. Yet would he be able to bear the look in her eyes, the sound of her voice?

That evening, he changed for dinner. He put on a black suit. To convince himself he was still in mourning. The moment he went into the bar, he saw her in the dining-room. With her chin resting on her hands, she seemed to be dreaming, while Almaryan talked in a low voice to the head-waiter, presumably trying to dodge the food restrictions. Flavières sat down, making a sign to the barman, who, knowing him by now, promptly poured out a whisky. Two or three couples were dancing. Through the wide-open folding doors to the dining-room, he could inspect the diners and watch the trolleys laden with
hors-d’oeuvres
being slowly wheeled along by white-clad waiters. She looked sad, and it was her sadness which fascinated
Flavières. Already in the old days… Though Gévigne must have given her everything she wanted. It was strange to think that others had inherited her fortune, while she was poor, obliged to cling to a man like this Almaryan, who looked like a wily caliph. Her ear-rings were in bad taste and her nails were painted. How much more distinguished the other Madeleine had been! Flavières had the impression he was looking at a badly dubbed film, with some nonentity speaking the part of a star. She ate little, now and again taking a sip of wine. She looked relieved when at last Almaryan got up. They came into the bar and found themselves a table. Flavières swivelled round on his stool, but he could hear Almaryan behind him ordering the coffee. Was this the moment? Would he ever have the courage?

He handed the barman a note and slipped off his stool. He had only to turn round and take three steps forward. Then four years of misery would be lifted from his heart; past and present would be reconciled; Madeleine would be there before him, just as if they had left each other the previous evening after a trip to Versailles. Perhaps she would even forget how she had slipped away from him…

And suddenly he did it. He turned; he took the three steps forward; he bent ceremoniously over the young woman, and asked her to dance with him. For a few seconds he had a close view of Almaryan’s slightly yellowing cheeks and his velvety black eyes. Then he saw Madeleine’s face raised towards him, her pale blue eyes which expressed nothing but annoyance. She accepted sulkily. Was it possible she simply hadn’t recognized him? As they swayed to and fro over the dancing floor, Flavières’ throat was strangled. He felt as though he were
breaking all the ten commandments at a go, flouting some inexorable taboo.

‘My name’s Flavières,’ he murmured at last. ‘Doesn’t that ring a bell?’

Politely, she seemed making an effort to recall it.

‘No. I’m sorry… I really can’t say that it does.’

‘And what’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Renée Sourange.’

He was on the point of contradicting her when it occurred to him that she had necessarily acquired a new name, and he was more disturbed than ever. He studied her sidelong. The forehead, the colour of the eyes, the line of the nose, the prominent cheek-bones—each one of those details was just as he had known it of old, just as he had cherished it in the secret recesses of his memory. If he had shut his eyes, he could have imagined himself once again in the Louvre… But there were other things: the way the new Madeleine did her hair lacked style, her mouth had lost its line, despite the efforts of lipstick. Not that it mattered: she was almost better as she was, because less intimidating. He could approach her more easily now, feeling her to be made of the same clay as he was. He had been afraid of embracing a shadow. He found her a woman, and he reproached himself for desiring her already, as though he was profaning something very profound and very pure.

‘You used to live in Paris before the occupation, I believe?’

‘No. In London.’

‘Come on! Didn’t you go in for painting?’

‘No. I have done a little to while away the time, that’s all.’

‘Did you ever go to Rome?’

‘Never.’

‘Why are you trying to deceive me?’

She looked at him with those pale, slightly vacant eyes that were unforgettable.

‘I’m not doing anything of the kind, I assure you.’

‘This morning you saw me in the hall. You recognized me. And now you’re pretending…’

She tried to break away from him, but Flavières held her tightly against him, blessing the music which showed no signs of stopping.

‘Excuse me,’ he said.

After all, for years and years Madeleine hadn’t known she was Pauline Lagerlac. It wasn’t astonishing if Renée didn’t yet know she was Madeleine.

‘I’m completely drunk,’ he said to himself.

And out loud, with a jerk of his head towards Almaryan:

‘Is he jealous?’

‘Far from it,’ she answered sadly.

‘Black market, I suppose?’

‘Of course. Are you in it too?’

‘No. I’m a lawyer… Is he very busy?’

‘Yes. He’s out a lot.’

‘Then I could see you sometimes during the day?’

She didn’t answer. He allowed his hand to slip down to her waist.

‘If you need me,’ he murmured, ‘I’m in Room 17. You won’t forget?’

‘No… I must go back to him now.’

Almaryan was smoking a cigar as he read the
Dauphiné Libéré
.

‘I think he gets along very well without you,’ said Flavières. ‘Till tomorrow, then.’

He bowed, then went upstairs, forgetting he hadn’t had any dinner. In the lift, he asked:

‘Monsieur Almaryan—what’s the number of his room?’

‘He’s got a suite. No. 11.’

‘What’s the name of the woman he’s got with him?’

‘Renée Sourange.’

‘That her real name?’

‘No reason why it shouldn’t be! It’s what’s on her
carte d’identité
.’

Contrary to his usual habit—he was inclined to be close-fisted—he gave a handsome tip. He would have given a lot more to know… Ah! If only he could
know
! He drank three glasses of water before going to bed, but without succeeding in dissipating the fog in which he was engulfed. He was frightened again: he had to admit it. Surely she must have recognized him! Unless… Drunk though he might be, the three alternatives stood out clearly: either she was pretending, or she was suffering from amnesia, or she wasn’t Madeleine.

He woke up in a fury. As he saw things now, it was obviously high time for him to get into the hands of that doctor at Nice. He blushed to think of his theories of the previous day. He had nothing further to do in Marseilles. Health must come first, and this girl who looked like Madeleine could go to the devil.

All the same, he watched for Almaryan’s departure, and promptly looked for No. 11. He knocked lightly several times, as though he was a familiar visitor.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Flavières.’

She opened the door. Her eyes were red, her eyelids swollen. She hadn’t dressed.

‘Well, Renée, what’s the matter now?’

She began crying again. He shut the door and bolted it.

‘What’s the matter, my little one? Tell me all about it.’

‘He’s had enough of me. He’s turfing me out.’

Flavières studied her without indulgence. It was Madeleine, certainly, a Madeleine who had been disloyal to him—with Almaryan, with others perhaps. He clenched his fists in his trouser-pockets. His smile was a little twisted.

‘What a fuss about nothing!’ he said with forced jocularity. ‘What do you want him for? Aren’t I here to fill the gap?’

Renée’s tears flowed faster than ever.

‘No,’ she cried. ‘No… Not you!’

‘Why not?’ he asked, bending over her.

The signature, after the assurance of the writer’s devoted sentiments, etc., was J. Traboul.

Flavières tore the letter up in a rage. He easily lost his temper. Particularly now.

‘Bad news?’ asked Renée.

‘No. Not really. Just another little bit of Traboul’s nonsense.’

‘Who’s Traboul?’

‘My junior partner. To listen to him, you’d think the world was coming to an end tomorrow. He’s always like that. And Dr. Ballard told me I needed rest… Rest!’

He paced angrily up and down for a moment, then said roughly:

‘Come on. We’ll go out for a breath of fresh air.’

He regretted his luxurious suite in the
Waldorf Astoria
. Here in the
Hôtel de France
the rooms were small and forbidding,
and horribly expensive into the bargain. The only advantage of the place was that they didn’t risk running into Almaryan. Flavières took out a cigarette and struck a match. He didn’t dare use the lighter now… She was sitting at the dressing-table, doing her hair.

‘I don’t like it like that,’ he grunted. ‘Can’t you do it differently?’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know how. In a bun at the back of your neck, perhaps.’

He had said that on the impulse of the moment. And was already cursing himself for doing so. What was the good of provoking the same old quarrel which had been going on for days, with its exhausting scenes and deceptive reconciliations? They turned round each other like animals in a cage, growling and showing their claws, except when they slept to dream of the wide open spaces.

‘I’ll wait for you downstairs.’

He made straight for the bar and scowled at the smiling barman. Men were all alike behind their counters, falsely ingratiating, silkily whispering their wares as though to allay suspicion. Flavières ordered a drink. There was no longer any reason why he shouldn’t drink—now that he was sure! It was all very well for her to swear she wasn’t Madeleine: he knew she was. He knew it with an absolute certainty, a certainty not merely of the brain but of all his flesh and blood. As if she had been, not his mistress, but his child. And, as a matter of fact, she was so little his mistress. He could do without that side of her so easily. He was even a little shocked that Madeleine could lend herself to carnal pleasures. What he loved in her—and it had been so all along—was… it was difficult to explain…
was that she wasn’t quite real. And now, on the contrary, she seemed anxious to prove that she was just like any other woman, that she was Renée in fact, a person without either mystery or grace. And yet… If only she would consent to yield up her secret, how wonderful it would be! He would be delivered from his solitude. For, in the last resort, it was he who belonged to the dead, she to the living!

She came downstairs. He saw her coming, her mouth twisted by a vague grimace. He didn’t like the colour of her dress. Not only the colour: it was badly cut and rather showy. She needed higher heels too… and then… well, the whole of her face needed to be slightly remodelled, the cheeks hollowed out a little to make the most of those touchingly prominent cheek-bones, the eyebrows faintly pencilled to restore to them the touch of bewilderment of someone who had strayed into an alien world. Only the eyes were perfect, only they were the absolute proof. Flavières paid for his drink and went to meet her. He would have liked to throw his arms round her, to embrace her; yes, perhaps to suffocate her.

‘I was as quick as I could be,’ she said.

He almost shrugged his shoulders. She no longer knew how to find the right words. Even her way of slipping her hand under his arm jarred on him. She was too timid, too submissive. She was slightly afraid of him. Nothing could be more irritating than that. They walked in silence side by side. He was thinking:

‘If I’d been promised this a month ago, I’d have died of joy.’

Now that it had happened, he had never been so miserable.

In front of the shop-windows she hung back a little. That annoyed him too.

‘You had to go without a lot of things during the war, I suppose?’

‘Everything.’

The accent of poverty touched him.

‘Then Almaryan rigged you out, I suppose?’

He knew very well the words would wound her, yet he couldn’t hold them back. By her grip on his arm, he knew she winced.

‘I was lucky to find him.’

Now it was his turn to be wounded. So it went on. That was the game. But he couldn’t chuck it up.

‘Look here…’ he began angrily.

But what was the good? He dragged her towards the centre of the town.

‘No need to go so fast,’ she complained. ‘As we’re only out for a walk.’

He didn’t answer. It was he who was now looking in the shop-windows. Presently he found what he was looking for.

‘Come on. You can ask questions later.’

A shop-walker bowed, his hands clasped.

‘Dresses,’ said Flavières curtly.

‘First floor. The lift’s over there.’

He had made up his mind. And Traboul would jolly well have to stump up. A sharp pleasure tingled within him. She would confess! She would be forced to!… The lift-boy shut the gate and they went up.

‘
Chéri
,’ whispered Renée.

‘Be quiet.’

He went up to one of the shop-assistants.

‘Show us some dresses. The most elegant ones you have.’

‘Certainly, Monsieur.’

Flavières sat down. He was a little out of breath, almost as if he’d been running. The girl produced several dresses, watching for Renée’s response, but it was he who chipped in:

‘That one.’

‘The black one?’

‘Yes. The black one.’

And to Renée:

‘Will you try it on?… To please me.’

She hesitated, blushing under the eyes of the girl, who was trying to size them up. Then she went meekly into the cubicle. Flavières got up and began pacing up and down. It was like old times: he was waiting for her. With the same throbbing anxiety, the same sense of suffocation. He was once again alive. At the bottom of his pocket he gripped the lighter fiercely. Then, as the time didn’t pass quickly enough, as the suspense became unbearable, he looked for a grey suit from a row hanging on a rod. It had to be grey. There were several, but none quite the right grey. No grey, of course, would ever be exactly like the one he remembered. Was that because he had idealized it for so long? Could he be sure his memory wasn’t playing him false?

The door of the cubicle opened. He swung round and received the same shock as at the
Waldorf
. There she was: Madeleine come to life again. Yes, it was Madeleine who stopped suddenly as though recognizing him, Madeleine who came towards him, rather pale and with the same wistful, enquiring look he knew so well. He held out his thin hand, but immediately dropped it again. No. Something was still wrong. How was it he hadn’t at once noticed those ear-rings which spoilt everything?

‘Take them off,’ he growled in an undertone.

As she didn’t understand, he took the arrogant things off with his own hands—a little too roughly. Then, stepping back, he examined her again with that despair of the painter who can’t get the exact effect he’s striving after.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Madame will keep that dress on… And we’ll take this grey suit too, if it’s the same size… Is it?… Well, do it up, please… and tell us where the shoe department is.’

Renée offered no resistance. Perhaps she understood why Flavières studied each pair of shoes with such a critical eye, rejecting one for this reason, another for that. He chose some neat shiny ones.

‘Now. Let’s see you walk in them.’

Perched up on high heels in the close-fitting black dress she looked another person, almost ethereal.

‘That’ll do,’ he snapped.

The girl who was serving them looked up in surprise and he quickly changed his tone to say:

‘They’ll do perfectly. Wrap the others up.’

He took Renée by the hand and dragged her over to a mirror.

‘Now look,’ he murmured. ‘Look at yourself… Madeleine!’

‘Please…’ she begged.

‘Come on! Just one more effort… That woman in black you’re looking at… that’s not Renée Sourange… Try to remember.’

She was visibly suffering. Fear distorted her face, and the other face, the real one, was only visible in an occasional intangible reflection.

He hadn’t finished. He dragged Madeleine to the lift. He’d see about the hair later. For the moment it was the scent that mattered. That would call up the past more than
anything. Yes. He was going to see this through, regardless of the consequences.

They hadn’t got the scent he wanted. In vain he tried to describe it.

‘No,’ said the girl in the perfumery department, ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite see…’

‘I’m sure you’ve got it… How can I describe it? It smells something like freshly dug earth, like withered flowers.’

‘Unless you mean Chanel No. 3.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘It’s not being made any more. You might find a bottle in a little shop that had some old stock. I’m afraid we can’t help you.’

Renée tugged at his sleeve but he lingered there, thoughtfully fingering the bottles. Without that perfume the resurrection would be incomplete. Finally he allowed her to lead him away, but he didn’t leave the store till he’d bought her a little hat of very soft felt and subtle line. While he was paying, he looked out of the corner of his eye at the startlingly new yet familiar silhouette at his side, and a glint of indulgence warmed his heart. It was he who took Renée’s arm. No, Madeleine’s!

‘Why are you doing all these silly things?’ she asked.

‘Why?… Because I want you to discover yourself. Because I want to know the truth.’

She bridled. He could feel her aloofness, her hostility, but he held her tightly against him. She wasn’t going to get away again. She’d give in in the end.

‘I want you to be perfect,’ he went on. ‘Almaryan is wiped off the slate. He has never existed.’

They walked on in silence for a minute or two, but, try as he might, he was unable to leave the subject alone.

‘You can’t be Renée Sourange,’ he said. ‘No. You must listen to me. You can see I’m not angry; I’m speaking quite calmly.’

She heaved a sigh. That always maddened him, but he just managed to keep his temper.

‘Yes, I know… You’re Renée; you lived in London with your Uncle Charles, your father’s brother; you were born at Dambremont in the Vosges, a tiny village on the river… You’ve told me all that over and over again. But it’s not true. It can’t be true. You’re making a mistake.’

‘For heaven’s sake don’t let’s start that all over again.’

‘I’m not going over it again. All I want is that you try to remember. If you probe a little, you’ll find there’s a hitch somewhere. Perhaps you were ill at some time or other, seriously ill.’

‘I assure you…’

‘There are illnesses which do queer things to people.’

‘I couldn’t forget an illness. All I’ve ever had was scarlet fever at the age of ten.’

‘No. It can’t be all.’

‘I’m fed up with this.’

He was determined to be patient, as though Madeleine was an invalid, an extremely fragile person who mustn’t be jolted, yet her obstinacy infuriated him.

‘You’ve told me hardly anything about your childhood,’ he said. ‘I want to know all about it.’

And, as they were passing the Musée Grobet-Labadié, he added:

‘Let’s go in here. It’s a good place for a talk.’

But he was no sooner in the entrance hall than he knew it was a mistake: his inner torment would start again more cruelly than ever. Indeed, the sound of their steps, the silence of the
things round them, the paintings and portraits, reminded him of the Louvre with aching intensity. And, as she lowered her voice so as not to disturb the sanctity of the empty rooms, she suddenly reacquired Madeleine’s tone, the veiled contralto that gave such value to her confidences.

Flavières listened less to her words than to their strange music. She told him about her childhood. Inevitably it was similar to Madeleine’s. Like Madeleine she was an only child… And, dressed as she now was, he longed to take her into his arms. Stopping in front of a picture of the Vieux Port, he asked in a shaky voice:

‘Do you like that sort of painting?’

‘No. I don’t know. I’m quite ignorant of painting, you know.’

He sighed and took her on into a room full of models of boats and ships—caravels, galleys, tartans, and a three-decker complete with all its guns and an exquisite network of rigging.

‘Tell me some more.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Everything. What you did. What you thought about.’

‘Oh, I was a little girl much like any other, I suppose. Perhaps not so light-hearted as some… I read a lot. I liked old tales and legends.’

‘You too!’

‘Don’t all children?… I used to wander about on the hills. I told myself stories. I saw life as a fairy-tale… I was wrong!’

They went into the collection of Roman Antiquities. Statues and busts with blind staring eyes and short curly hair stood peacefully dreaming against the walls. Flavières’ uneasiness increased. Some of those consuls reminded him of Gévigne, even recalling snatches of his conversation.

‘I want you to keep an eye on my wife… I’m worried about her…’

They were both dead, but their voices lived on. So did their physical shapes… And Madeleine, as in the old days, was walking by his side.

‘You never lived in Paris?’ he asked.

‘No. I went through once, on my way to England. That’s all.’

‘I’m questioning her like a suspect,’ he thought, ‘as though she’d committed a crime.’

With that reflection he lost the thread, couldn’t remember what he’d been leading up to. He was bitter and disappointed. He listened to Madeleine absent-mindedly. Was she lying? What reason would she have to lie? And how could she glibly invent all the details she was now giving him? The most sceptical couldn’t fail to be convinced she was none other than Renée Sourange.