She Who Was No More (11 page)

No. 19 would no doubt be on the second floor. The stair carpet was old and worn, but the stairs didn’t creak. He had to feel his way up, as there was no light burning. Altogether there was something queer about this dead-and-alive hotel.

The first-floor landing was so dark that Ravinel took the risk and lit his lighter. It showed him a brown-carpeted corridor, which certainly couldn’t serve more than eight or ten rooms, so on he went, up to the second floor. Now and again
he looked down over the banisters. Right at the bottom, in the basement, was a pale sickly light and in it something which was probably a bicycle… Had Mireille singled out this hotel as the most suitable place to take refuge in? Refuge? You didn’t need a refuge—not where she was. It was different with him, and if he could summon up the courage…

The second-floor landing. Holding up his lighter, Ravinel studied the numbers on the doors. 15… 17… 19… He put the lighter out and listened. Somewhere or other some water was gurgling down a waste pipe. Should he go in? Perhaps he’d find a dripping-wet body on the bed… No. He banished the thought, or did his best to by trying to concentrate on some concrete object. He was trembling. And his breathing was no doubt audible in the room.

Striking a light, he found the lock and inserted the key. Then he waited again. Nothing stirred. How absurd it was, this nameless terror! What had he to fear? Were not Mireille and he the best of friends now?

He opened the door and went in.

There was little light in the room, but he could see at a glance there was nobody there. All the same he had to muster all his strength to cross over to the window and draw the curtains. With that done, he switched on the light.

An iron bed, a table with a stained tablecloth, a painted wardrobe, a seedy easy chair. One thing, however, proved that the room had been recently occupied—scent. What’s more it was the scent Mireille always used. He couldn’t be mistaken. Sometimes it was very faint, at others he got a strong whiff of it. It was only an ordinary Coty perfume, and admittedly there were thousands of women who used it. So perhaps it was only
a coincidence. But what about the comb on the glass shelf over the washbasin?

Ravinel picked it up and his pulse quickened. No. There was no room for coincidence here. He had bought it himself at Nantes in a shop in the Rue de la Fosse. Moreover the last tooth was broken halfway up. There couldn’t be two combs like that in Paris. Lastly, there were some golden hairs clinging to the teeth.

Then there was still another piece of evidence: a half-smoked High-Life cigarette lying in an ashtray. Mireille never bought any other brand. It was the name that attracted her, for she didn’t like them particularly.

Ravinel sat down on the bed. He would have liked to bury his head in the pillow and sob his heart out.

‘Mireille,’ he kept muttering, ‘Mireille…’

If it hadn’t been for those hairs it wouldn’t have been so painful. For they were golden. The hair that kept haunting his memory was dark with wet and plastered down on her forehead.

Apart from the scent, there were only these two things of Mireille’s. She had made him a sign which had brought him to the hotel. Were these signs too? And, if they were, what was she wanting of him?

He stood up. He looked in the wardrobe and in all the drawers. Nothing. He put the comb in his pocket. In the early days of their marriage he had sometimes combed Mireille’s hair in the morning, when it would fall onto her naked shoulders. Sometimes he would bury his face in it to inhale its scent of new-mown hay.

Yes. That was the sign. Mireille didn’t want to leave that comb at home where it had become something prosaic by
contact with everyday things. Here it was different. In this dreary impersonal room it shone brightly in token of the days of their love. It was quite clear now. Quite clear too that she couldn’t explain a thing like that. He had to come halfway to meet her before she could come to him.

For she would come. He could no longer doubt it. She had said so in her last note and she would be as good as her word. Come? At all events she would make herself visible to his eyes. The initiation was practically over now. This was to be their nuptial night. Feverish as he was, he was suddenly calm. He put the half-smoked cigarette in his mouth, trying not to think of the lips that had held it before. Striking a light, he inhaled a deep draught of smoke. There! He was ready. He took a last look round this room in which, in spite of himself, he had made a resolution, though it was one he dared not put into words.

He went out and shut the door. Darkness. Except for two phosphorescent points of light at the end of the passage. A little earlier he might have fainted at the sight of them. Now he walked steadily towards the two eyes which, as he came closer, turned out to be the cat’s. It came down with him.

Ravinel now made no attempt to silence his steps. On the ground floor the cat gave one heart-rending mew, which promptly brought the old man out from what was doubtless the kitchen.

‘She wasn’t there, was she?’ he asked simply.

‘Yes,’ answered Ravinel, hanging up the key.

‘Just what I told you. You think she’s out and she’s there all the time. She’s your wife, isn’t she?’

‘Yes. My wife.’

The old man nodded as though he’d known all along. Then, as though talking to himself, he added:

‘With womenfolk you need a lot of patience.’

With that observation, he slouched off, followed by his cat. Ravinel was beyond surprise. He realized he had stepped into a world in which the normal laws of existence no longer applied. As he went out into the street, he could feel his heart beating quickly, as though he had drunk several cups of strong coffee. The fog was thicker than ever, and with every breath a damp chill penetrated right to the bottom of his lungs. But funnily enough it wasn’t disagreeable. On the contrary, it was friendly, and he felt he would like to dissolve and become merged with it. That was another sign. The fog had started at Nantes on the night they had… It was a sort of protective covering. Though to see it that way you had to understand.

Ravinel found his car. It looked as though he’d have to drive all the way to Enghien in second gear. It was just after five.

As a matter of fact the drive home was rather peaceful, but that was because he had a feeling of deliverance. What he had shaken off, however, was not so much a load as boredom, the boredom that had dogged him throughout life. His job was boring, the people he dealt with were boring, and all this hail-fellow-well-met stuff that had to be gone through was boring to a degree.

He thought of Lucienne, but without the least warmth. She was far away; her features were blurred. She had served her purpose in bringing him in contact with the truth. But if he had never met her he would sooner or later have found it out for himself.

The windshield-wiper flicked rhythmically backwards and forwards. Ravinel was quite confident of not losing his way. His sense of direction seemed infallible. As for collisions, there was little danger of them, as there were practically no vehicles left on the road. Ravinel didn’t even keep to the beaten track, but cut through unfrequented byways. He couldn’t go wrong: he was omnipotent.

He didn’t allow his mind to dwell on what was waiting for him at Enghien, but his heart was full of gentleness and mercy. He accelerated and the engine began knocking. Normally he would have made a mental note to have the trouble seen to. Normally. But nothing was normal any longer, and such petty things as that were bereft of all significance.

Suddenly he was dazzled by the headlights of another car, which almost grazed him as he passed. A sudden wave of fear swept over him, but only for a second. All the same he drove more slowly. An accident at that particular moment would be really too stupid. He must arrive home in one piece and with all his faculties about him.

The last turning he took very cautiously indeed. And there were the first lights of Enghien, shining wanly through the mist. He changed gear. Here was his street. He was conscious of being cold. He slipped out the clutch and let the car glide forward on its own momentum. At the gate he gently put on the brakes. He looked up at the house.

Behind the shutters lights were burning.

There was no doubt about it: lights were on in the house. Ravinel hesitated. He was tired, very tired. Otherwise he might perhaps have decided at the last moment not to go in. He might even have turned tail and run away screaming. He felt the comb in his pocket and, turning towards the end of the street, peered into the fog. Certainly nobody could see him. If they did it wouldn’t matter. They’d merely say: ‘Ah, Monsieur Ravinel’s back,’ and go on to talk of something else.

Getting out of the car, he walked towards the gate. Everything was exactly as it always was. He’d find Mireille in the dining room, sewing. She would look up from her work when she heard his step.

‘Well, darling,’ she would say, ‘you must be worn out after driving through this fog.’

He would take off his shoes before going upstairs to change, so as not to dirty the stair carpet. His slippers would be on the bottom stair ready for him. After that…

Ravinel thrust his key into the lock and opened the front door. He had come home. All the rest was obliterated. He had never killed Mireille. He loved her. He had always loved her. In a moment of aberration he had thought he was sick of the daily round of his jog-trot existence. But that had never been serious. No. Mireille was the one he loved. He would never see Lucienne again.

He went into the hall. The light was on. So was the one over the sink in the kitchen. As he shut the front door behind him, he automatically called out:

‘It’s me—Fernand.’

He sniffed. A smell of ragout. On the kitchen stove two saucepans were simmering, and the gas under them had been carefully turned down to little blue beads. The tiled floor had been washed, the clock wound up. It was ten past seven. Everything was bright, clean and tidy, and the ragout filled the room with a pleasant, welcoming smell. In spite of himself, Ravinel peeped into one of the saucepans. Mutton with haricot beans, a favorite dish of his. How thoughtful! Too much so. This intimate homeliness, this atmosphere of peace and… and kindness… It was almost too much of a good thing. He would have really preferred to come home to a more dramatic scene.

He leaned against the table. His head swam. He must talk to Lucienne about that, and she’d give him some medicine for it… To Lucienne? In that case… He gasped like a diver coming up to the surface from the depths.

The dining-room door was half open, and the light was on there too. Through the doorway he could see a chair and one corner of the table covered with a fancy blue tablecloth the pattern of which consisted of a series of alternate coaches and turrets. Mireille had chosen it because it reminded her of some old fairy tale. Was Mireille sitting by the fire? For she generally lit a fire there in damp weather.

He stood outside the door, his head lowered, as though under a weight of guilt. It wasn’t that he was looking for his words, still less trumping up excuses. It was simply that his body refused to advance another step. And he suddenly
realized that there were two Ravinels, just as there were two Mireilles. There were the two spirits seeking each other, and the two bodies repelling each other. The fire had been lit; he could hear it crackling now. Of course. Poor Mireille! She’d need some warming up after lying two days in cold water! No. That was wrong. It had never happened.

It was with a trembling hand that he pushed the door open a little farther. He could now see that the table was laid. His napkin was there in its boxwood ring. The light shone down on the carafe. Everything was in its place and welcoming him.

‘Mireille!’

It was as though he were asking permission to enter the room. With a renewed effort he finally flung the door wide open. But there was no one on the sofa in the corner by the fireplace. Behind the brass fireguard, the fire flickered gaily. The table was laid for two. Ravinel was still in his raincoat. He took it off and threw it onto a chair. Ah! On Mireille’s plate was a note. This time it was written on their own note-paper.

It was hardly necessary to study the handwriting, yet he did so. The puzzling thing was why she hadn’t signed the last two notes. Perhaps, where she was now, names didn’t count for so much. Nor perhaps did individuality. Such individuality as there was was vague and undefined. It must be marvelous. To get away from that burdensome thing ‘self,’ with its own particular trajectory which we call fate, and its own particular
label of a name! Ravinel to boot! The absurd name given to him by that pedantic little schoolmaster who had made his youth a misery. Yes, it must be wonderful. It offered hope.

He sat down heavily in the easy chair and began to unlace his shoes. When Mireille came back, he’d explain everything to her. Everything. Beginning at the very beginning, that is to say at Brest. For that’s where everything had started. They had neither of them ever talked about their childhood. Too shy no doubt. What did he know of Mireille’s? She had suddenly sailed into his life at the age of twenty-four. Up to then her life was a closed book, and it had remained so. Ten years earlier she had been a girl of fourteen. Of course. But what did that tell him? Nothing. It didn’t tell him whether she was afraid of the dark, for instance, or what sort of games she played. Perhaps she too had played the secret fog game. What had she talked about with her young friends? And why had she had those sudden irresistible urges to run away?

They had lived so close together, yet they had never realized that they suffered from the same nameless ill. They had felt cramped there in that too quiet little house. They had wanted to be elsewhere. Anywhere. Even in Paradise. For he had always believed in Paradise. He had heard about it from Sister Madeleine in the catechism class. She was very old and on the subject of sin was apt to speak violently, even venomously. But when she spoke of Paradise it was impossible not to believe her. She used to describe it as though she’d actually seen it, as a huge park scintillating with light. Full of wild animals too, but gentle ones with large pathetic eyes. And flowers, strange ones, blue and white. Finally she would add, looking down at her work-stained hands:

‘And there’ll be no more work to do, no more work at all.’

It used to make him feel sad and happy at the same time. But he knew already that Paradise was a place it would be very difficult to get into.

He got up and carried his shoes into the kitchen, putting them down in their proper place, on the shelf by the cupboard. His slippers were waiting for him at the foot of the stairs. He had bought them at Nantes in a shop near the Place Royale. It was silly to think of a thing like that, but in the over-excited state of his mind his memory was sharpened, filling his head with trivial details.

He turned out the gas. He wasn’t hungry. Mireille wouldn’t be hungry either. She couldn’t be. He walked upstairs slowly one hand pressed to his side. All the lights were on, in the bedroom, in the study, and even on the landing. They gave the house a festive air. It had been like that when they first came to take possession of it, and Mireille had clapped her hands for joy.

Upstairs, he mooched about, not knowing what to do with himself. He had a slight headache. The bed had been tidied, and the empty bottle was no longer under the wardrobe. The study too was spick and span. He sat down at his desk, in front of a pile of folders of various colors.

What were they doing there? Oh, yes. His firm had asked him for a report. On what? He couldn’t remember. It was all so far away, and so utterly unimportant. A faint sound came from the direction of the street. He went quickly back into the bedroom and stood listening at the window. A man’s step. A door shutting. One of the neighbors, the railway man, coming home.

Ravinel was in the study again. He left all the doors open so as not to be caught unaware. The faintest tread or rustle of
a skirt would warn him of Mireille’s presence. Why did he start going through all his drawers? Was he endeavoring to sum up his life and find a meaning in it? Or was he merely trying to occupy his mind, to fix his attention on something? Downstairs the clock was ticking faintly. It was a little after half past seven.

The drawers were full of papers of all sorts—drafts of reports he had written to the firm, circulars and other publicity material for the lines he traveled in, photographs and newspaper cuttings, mostly about fishing—futile all of them and bearing witness to a futile life.

In the left-hand drawer were the materials from which he made his flies. Here was something different: no one could call this futile. He felt a twinge of regret. In his way he had been an artist. He had invented new flies, as horticulturists invent new flowers. In the firm’s catalogue there was a whole page devoted to ‘Ravinel flies.’ The drawer was divided into compartments containing the partridge feathers, cock’s hackles, fur, and tying silk, with which he had made these delicate little creatures. One compartment was full of them, and they lay there huddled like insects struck down in a heap at the foot of a wall by the chill air of evening. It wasn’t exactly a pretty sight. They might be artificial, but that didn’t make them any the less a picture of massacre.

He shut the drawer again quickly. He had toyed with the idea of writing a monograph on flies. He wouldn’t be able to now. That was a loss. It might have been something really worth while.

Come on! None of that! He mustn’t soften. He listened. The silence was so complete, so absolute, that it seemed to him that he could hear the trickle of the stream in the lavoir.
It was an illusion, of course. What’s more: it was a disagreeable one which had to be banished promptly. He dived into another drawer, in which, beneath a heap of carbon copies of letters, he found some old prescriptions. They dated from the time before his marriage when he had persuaded himself he was suffering from cancer. He had lost all appetite and had been unable to sleep, till one day he realized that he had simply raised a bogey to frighten himself. A sort of self-flagellation. He had become fascinated by the word cancer and took a sort of perverted pleasure in picturing it as a kind of spider devouring his guts. They had had any amount of spiders in the house at Brest, and he had always been at the same time afraid of them and fascinated. They might even have had something to do with his taking up flies later on, but that of course was mere speculation.

A stair creaked and Ravinel pricked up his ears. It was one single creak and nothing more—probably merely the oak in the staircase working. And all at once this brightly lit house seemed to become mournful. If Mireille were suddenly to appear there in the doorway he felt that he would hear the same sort of sound inside him. Something would crack and he would fall to the ground in splinters. That’s what he felt, but of course it didn’t mean anything. He’d felt the cancer, hadn’t he? Yet he was still alive. It took a lot to kill a human being. It had taken two heavy andirons to…

Shut up! No more of that! He got up, pushing back his chair to make a noise and break the spell. For a minute or two he paced up and down the study, then went into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. The dresses were all there, hanging from the rod at the top, in a pungent atmosphere of mothball.
Why had he opened the door? What had he expected to find there? He slammed it to again and went downstairs.

Silence! It was the silence of the place that…

Generally he could hear the trains going by. Did the fog blanket sounds after all? More likely it stopped them running. It stopped everything. Everything except that exasperating clock. Nine fifteen. She was never as late as this. At least…

He shrugged his shoulders. He was getting in a muddle; he was losing his grip. Something must have happened to Mireille: she had met with an accident. The trouble was that the ideas of
before
got mixed up with those of
afterwards
, and they turned slowly round and round in his cranium, pressing against its bones.

The dining-room fire was dying down. He ought to fetch some more wood from the cellar. But he hadn’t the courage. It might well be in the cellar that they had set the trap. Who? What trap? There wasn’t one.

He poured himself out a little wine, which he sipped gingerly. How late she was! He went upstairs again, heavily. His whole body was heavy. What if she didn’t come? Was he to wait all night for her? And if she didn’t come in the morning? How long could he hold out?

Not much longer. Not much. If she didn’t come to him, he’d have to take matters in his own hands. He took out his revolver, warm from his pocket with a nice living warmth. Lying in his hand, it was nothing but a bright shining toy. With his thumb he pressed up the safety catch. He had never really understood the mechanism of a revolver. For that matter, he had never understood how a man could press the barrel to his own temple or to his chest. But what was the point of
going into that? Obviously that was not what was going to happen to him.

He put it back into his pocket and sat down once more at his desk. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a bad idea to write to Lucienne. On second thoughts, no. She wouldn’t believe what he said. She’d think he was deliberately lying. What did she really think of him? There was no longer any point in pretending things were otherwise: she thought of him as a second-rater. That was the sort of thing you knew all the time, however much you might pretend the contrary, that you had known right from the start. So she despised him, did she? No, it wasn’t exactly that. She just took him for a man who had no inward drive. Which of course was perfectly true. He hadn’t. He had gone on too long allowing other people to think for him, decide for him, and make him lead a life that wasn’t of his own choosing. Even Mireille: she was one of them too.

But hadn’t Lucienne been attracted by him? If not, why had she taken such an intense interest in him, studying his reactions, analyzing his character? And there were moments when her manner was positively tender. She seemed to be encouraging him, holding out a helping hand. At such moments she could speak quite sweetly, too, of their future. She was never very precise about it, but that didn’t alter the fact that her words contained more than a hint of promise. Admittedly she had often been sweet and gentle with Mireille too. But that—it was like chatting genially with her patients when they were going to die.