Femme Fatale, Page 3

  Simultaneously, he caught sight of the midshipwoman and the two beautiful girls sitting at the opposite end of the café, arms round each other’s waists, watching him and whispering. Realizing what had happened, he ran off like a madman towards the island. Chasing first in the direction of Chatou, he stopped at the edge of the plain, turned and retraced his steps. He began to search the dense coppices, wandering about aimlessly and stopping every so often to listen. All he could hear around him was the short, metallic croak of frogs. Towards Bougival an unfamiliar bird sang a song which reached him faintly from a distance. Over the broad fields the moon shed a soft, filmy light. It filtered through the foliage, silvering the barks of the poplars and casting a shower of brilliant moonbeams on the shimmering tops of the tallest trees. Despite himself Paul was enchanted by the intoxicating loveliness of the night. It penetrated the terrible anguish he was feeling and stirred in his heart a fierce sense of irony. He longed with all his gentle and idealistic soul for a faithful woman to worship – someone in whose arms he could express all his love and tenderness as well as his passion.

  Choked by racking sobs, he had to stop in his tracks. Having recovered a little he went on, only to feel a sudden stab in his heart. There, behind that bush … a pair of lovers! He ran forward and saw their silhouettes united in a seemingly endless kiss before they quickly ran off at his approach. He dared not call out, knowing full well that his own girl would not respond. He was desperately afraid now of coming upon them all of a sudden. The music of the quadrilles with its piercing solo cornets, the mock gaiety of the flute and the scraping of the fiddles pulled at his own heartstrings and deepened the pain he continued to feel.

  Suddenly it occurred to him that she might have gone back in! Yes, that was it! She must have returned. He had lost all sense of proportion, he was stupid, he had been carried away by all the silly suspicions and fears that always haunted him. In one of those periods of strange calm which occur during periods of the blackest despair he turned and began to make for the café again.

  He took in the whole room at a single glance. She was not there. He checked all the tables, and once again came face to face with the three women. He must have looked the picture of dejection for the three burst out laughing. Rushing out again, he ran back to the island. He threw himself into the coppices and stopped to listen once more. It was some time before he could hear anything save the roaring in his own ears. Finally, however, he thought he could hear some way ahead a shrill little laugh he knew only too well. Creeping forward he fell to his knees and crawled on, parting the branches cautiously as he went. His heart was beating so wildly in his chest that he could hardly breathe. Two voices were murmuring. He could not make out what they were saying. Then they fell silent again.

  He had a sudden furious desire to run away, not to see, not to know and to keep on running to escape from the raging passion with which he was consumed. He would return to Chatou, catch a train and never come back. He would never see her again. Just as suddenly her face appeared in his mind’s eye. He saw her as she was waking up next to him in their warm bed. He saw her snuggle up to him and throw her arms round his neck. Her hair was loose and a little tangled over her brow. Her eyes were still closed and her lips parted, waiting for the first kiss of the day. The thought of this morning’s embrace filled him with unbearable regret and frantic desire.

  They were talking again. He approached bent double. Then a cry rose from under the branches close to him. That cry! It was one of those he had come to know from their most tender, their most passionate love-making. He crept even closer, drawn irresistibly, blindly, despite himself … and then he saw them.

  Oh! If only the other person had been a man! But this! He was transfixed by the loathsome sight before him. He remained there overwhelmed by shock. It was as though he had just stumbled upon the mutilated body of a loved one. It was a crime against nature, a monstrous and wicked desecration. Suddenly flashing into his mind’s eye this time came the image of the little fish whose entrails he had earlier seen ripped out. Madeleine was moaning ‘Pauline’, exactly as she used to moan ‘Paul’ to him. Hearing it, he felt such pain that he turned and fled. He hurtled into one tree and ricocheted into another, fell over a root, picked himself up and ran again until suddenly he found himself at the edge of the river. The raging torrent made whirls and eddies on which the moonbeams now played. On the opposite side the bank loomed over the water like a cliff, leaving a wide band of black at its foot from which the sound of the swirling water rose in the darkness. Clearly visible on the other side were the weekend homes at Croissy.

  Paul saw all this as if in a dream or as something remembered. He was no longer thinking. He understood nothing now. Everything including his own existence seemed vague, distant, forgotten and finished. There was the river. Did he know what he was doing? Did he want to die? He had lost his mind. Nevertheless he turned round to face the island where she was. Into the night in which the faint but persistent beat of the dance-band still throbbed back and forth, he shouted, ‘Madeleine!’

  His heart-rending call pierced the great silence of the sky and echoed, lost in the distance. Then with a furious animal-like leap he plunged into the river. The water splashed then closed over the spot setting up a series of ever-widening circles which rippled in the moonlight as far as the opposite bank. The two women had heard. Madeleine got up and said, ‘That’s Paul.’ A suspicion arose suddenly in her mind. ‘He’s drowned himself,’ she said and rushed towards the bank where Pauline caught up with her.

  A heavy punt with two men in it was circling over and over around the same spot. One of the men rowed while the other was plunging a long pole into the water evidently looking for something. Pauline shouted: ‘What’s happened? What are you doing?’

  A stranger’s voice cried: ‘A man’s just drowned himself.’

  With haggard faces the two women huddled together and watched the boat’s manoeuvres. The music from La Grenouillère pounding in the distance provided a grim counterpoint to the movements of the solemn fishermen. The river, now containing a corpse in its depths, continued to swirl in the moonlight. The search was prolonged and Madeleine, waiting in horrible suspense, shivered. Finally, after a good half-hour, one of the men announced: ‘I’ve got him!’

  Very gradually he pulled in the boathook. A large mass appeared at the surface of the water. The other boatman left his oars and between the two, each heaving with all his strength, they managed to haul the inert body and bring it tumbling into the boat. They soon reached the bank and found an open, flat space in the moonlight. As they landed, the women approached.

  As soon as she saw him Madeleine recoiled in horror. In the light of the moon’s rays he looked green already and his mouth, his eyes, his nose and his clothes were full of the river’s slime. The stiff fingers of his clenched fist looked hideous. Black, liquid silt covered his entire body. The face looked swollen and from his hair now plastered down with ooze a stream of filthy water ran. The two men examined him.

  ‘You know him?’ asked one.

  The other, the Croissy ferryman, hesitated.

  ‘Seems to me I know the face …,’ he said, ‘but it’s difficult to tell seeing him like this …’

  Then suddenly: ‘Oh! I know! It’s Monsieur Paul!’

  ‘Who’s Monsieur Paul?’ his friend asked.

  The first went on: ‘You know! Monsieur Paul Baron. Son of that senator. The kid who was so hooked on that girl, you remember?’

  The other added philosophically: ‘No more girls for him now, eh? Poor sod. And with all that money too!’

  Madeleine, having collapsed on the ground, was sobbing. Pauline approached the body and said, ‘I suppose he really is dead … there’s no chance he might … ?’

  The men shrugged their shoulders.

  ‘After that length of time no question.’

  Then one of them asked: ‘Was he staying at Le Grillon?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the other. ‘We’d better tak
e him back there. Handsome tip, mate.’ Re-embarking they set off, moving slowly against the rapid current. Long after they had disappeared from the two women’s sight the regular sound of their oars could still be heard.

  Pauline took poor, weeping Madeleine in her arms, kissed and rocked her for a long time and then said: ‘Now look. As long as you know it’s not your fault. You can’t stop men doing stupid things. It was his decision so it’s just too bad, that’s all.’

  Then lifting her to her feet, she added, ‘Come on darling! Come and sleep at the house. You can’t go back to Le Grillon tonight.’ She kissed her again. ‘Come on, you’ll feel better with us,’ she said.

  Madeleine got up, still sobbing, but less violently. She leaned her head on Pauline’s shoulder. Seeming to find there a safer, warmer refuge and a closer, more intimate affection, she walked slowly away from the scene.

  Hautot & Son

  The house, half farm and half manor, was one of those combinations often found in the country of a property once vaguely seigneurial and now owned by farmers themselves rich in land. In front of it the dogs tied to the farmyard apple trees were barking and yelping as the keeper and some small boys arrived carrying gamebags.

  It was the opening day of the season and in the vast kitchen which served as dining room Hautot senior, Hautot junior, Monsieur Bermont the tax-collector and Monsieur Mondaru the lawyer were having a drink and a bite to eat before setting off on the day’s shoot. Hautot senior, very proud of his property, was telling his guests ahead of time what excellent game they would find on his land. He was a big-boned, ruddy-faced Norman, the powerfully built sort of man who can carry a whole barrel of apples on his shoulders. Somewhat authoritarian in manner, he was wealthy, respected and highly influential. He had sent his son César to school up to the fourth form so that he should have some education, then removed him lest he become so much of a gentleman that he no longer cared about his land.

  César Hautot was nearly as tall as his father, but leaner. He was an easy-going, happy-go-lucky young man, a good son to his father whom he greatly admired and to whose every wish and opinion he was happy to defer.

  Monsieur Bermont, the tax-collector, was a stout little man on whose red cheeks a maze of violet-coloured veins looked like a network of tortuous rivers and tributaries as might be seen on maps in an atlas. He asked, ‘And hare? Will there be … hare?’

  Hautot senior replied, ‘As much as you like! Specially round Puysatier.’

  ‘Where shall we start?’ enquired the lawyer, a portly, well-fed man trussed up now in a new shooting jacket bought the previous week in Rouen.

  ‘Down at the bottom, I think. We’ll get the partridge out on the plain and then put them up from there.’

  With this, Hautot senior rose. Following suit they all stood up and stamped their feet to bring warmth and suppleness to the leather of their newly-donned and tight-fitting boots. They collected the guns propped up in various corners of the room, examined the locks, then left the house. Outside, the dogs, still leashed, were now jumping up on their hind legs, yelping shrilly and pawing the air.

  They set off towards the lower grounds and a small valley which was no more than a dip of poor-quality land left purposely uncultivated. It was criss-crossed with gullies and covered with fern – an excellent place for game. The guns spread out, with Hautot senior on the far right, Hautot junior on the far left and the two guests in the middle. The keeper and two gamebag carriers followed. Nervously fingering their triggers and with their hearts beating fast they stopped and stood waiting in solemn silence for the first shot of the season to ring out.

  There it was! Hautot senior had fired. They saw one partridge fall away from the headlong flight of birds and come down in a gully covered with thick brush. Highly excited, Hautot leapt up and ran off, tearing up everything in his way and finally disappearing into the undergrowth to pick up his quarry. Almost immediately a second shot rang out.

  ‘The lucky devil!’ cried old Bermont. ‘He’s picked off a hare while he’s at it!’

  They all waited, eyes fixed on the dense, impenetrable undergrowth. Cupping his hands round his mouth, the lawyer yelled: ‘Have you got them?’

  Since no answer came from Hautot senior, César, turning to the keeper, said: ‘Go and give him a hand, Joseph, will you? We must spread out in line. We’ll wait for you.’

  Joseph, a great gnarled tree-trunk of a man, set off calmly down towards the gully. Like a fox he carefully reconnoitred the easiest way through the brush. Having found it and disappeared, he cried out suddenly: ‘Come quick! Quick! There’s been an accident!’

  Each man tore through the bushes towards the scene. When they got there they saw Hautot lying on his side, unconscious, clasping his stomach from which long streams of blood were flowing inside his bullet-torn jacket and into the grass. His fallen partridge within reach, Hautot must have dropped the gun to pick it up and in so doing triggered a second shot which shattered his own entrails. They dragged him from the ditch and on removing some of his clothing found a terrible wound now spilling out his intestines. They ligatured him as best they could and carried him home where the doctor they had sent for was waiting, along with a priest.

  When the doctor saw him he shook his head gravely, and turning to Hautot’s son who was sobbing in a chair, said, ‘My poor boy, I’m afraid it doesn’t look at all good.’

  But when a dressing had been applied, the injured man moved his fingers, opened his mouth, then a pair of haggard eyes, and cast a few anxious glances around him. He seemed to be searching his mind for something and then, when the whole sequence of events came flooding back, murmured: ‘Christ almighty! I’ve had it now.’

  The doctor took his hand.

  ‘No! Certainly not! All you need is a few days’ rest and you’ll be absolutely fine.’

  Hautot went on: ‘No, I know the score. Shattered stomach. I’ve had it.’

  Then suddenly: ‘I want to talk to my son if I’ve got time.’

  Young Hautot whimpered like a little boy: ‘Papa! Papa! Oh, poor Papa!’

  In a firmer tone his father said: ‘Listen, stop crying. Doesn’t help. I’ve got to talk to you. Come close, it’ll only take a minute. Then I’ll feel much better. You lot, can we have a minute or two if you don’t mind?’

  The others went out of the room, leaving father and son together. As soon as they were alone the father spoke: ‘Listen, my boy, you’re twenty-four, I can tell you everything now. Not that there’s much to tell. Anyway you know when your mother died seven years ago I was … well I’m forty-five now. I was married at nineteen by the way, right?’

  ‘Yes I know.’

  ‘So when she died she left me a widower at thirty-seven. Can you imagine? Chap like me. Can’t be a permanent widower at thirty-seven, can you my boy?’

  ‘No father, of course not.’

  The father’s face was pale and contorted with pain.

  ‘God, I’m in agony here. Anyway, to continue. A chap can’t live entirely on his own yet I couldn’t remarry. I’d promised your mum. So … are you following?’

  ‘Yes father.’

  ‘So. I took up with this girl in Rouen. Rue de l’Éperlan, number 18, third floor, second door. You are taking all this in I hope? This girl, she’s been so good to me, you know. I couldn’t have wished for a sweeter little wife. Loving, devoted, you get the picture my boy?’

  ‘Yes father.’

  ‘Well, anyway, if I should pop off I reckon I owe her. A lot. Enough to set her up. You understand?’

  ‘Yes, father.’

  ‘When I say she’s a good kid, I mean really good. If it hadn’t been for you, and out of respect for your mother’s memory, if it hadn’t been for this house, and us having lived here, the three of us, I’d have brought her home here and married her, no question. Listen, listen, my boy. I could have made a will but I didn’t. Didn’t want to. Never put things down in writing. Not that sort of thing anyway. Upsets the family. Makes everythin
g too complicated. Everybody at each other’s throats. Who needs legal documents? Don’t ever use them. That’s how I’ve made my money, such as it is. Understand, my boy?’

  ‘Yes, father.’

  ‘Listen again, carefully. So I haven’t made a will. Didn’t need to. Because I know you. You’ve got a good heart, you’re not … careful … tight-fisted, you know what I mean? So I thought when the end came I’d just tell you how things stood and I’d ask you not to forget the girl: Caroline Donet, rue de l’Éperlan, number 18, third floor, second door, don’t forget. Listen again. Go straight there when I’ve gone … and make sure she’s seen all right by me. You’ll have plenty. You can do it. I’m leaving you enough. Listen. She won’t be there most of the week, she works for Madame Moreau, rue Beauvoisine. But go on Thursday. That’s when she expects me. That’s my day, has been for six years now. Oh the poor girl! She’s going to be so upset! I’m telling you all this because I know you, my boy. Not the sort of thing you tell everybody. Not the lawyer and not the curé. It happens, everybody knows that, but you don’t discuss it. Not unless you have to. So, no strangers in on it. Just the family that’s all. You understand?’

  ‘Yes father.’

  ‘Promise?’

  ‘Yes father.’

  ‘Swear?’

  ‘Yes, father.’

  ‘I beg of you, my boy, please. Please don’t forget. You mustn’t.’

  ‘I won’t father.’

  ‘Go in person. You’re in charge of everything.’

  ‘Yes, father.’

  ‘Then you’ll see what she says. I can’t talk any more. Swear to me.’

  ‘Yes father.’

  ‘That’s good, my boy. Come and give me a kiss goodbye. I’m nearly finished. This is it. Tell them they can come in.’