Sunday (13 page)

Like the one—but it was still more absurd—of cleaning his revolver in front of her, or his sporting rifle. One often reads, in the newspapers, accounts of accidents of this kind. Emile would pretend he didn't know the gun was loaded.

He gave the matter no further thought, and he had almost resigned himself to his situation once and for all, when Chouard had unwittingly provided him with the solution.

At present, the perfecting of his plan kept him sufficiently busy for him no longer to think about anything else, and for his life to become almost enjoyable. When Ada came to him in the Cabin, he did not speak about anything to her, but when he took her in his arms he was relaxed, smiling. He said only: 'I'm happy.'

A good month elapsed before he murmured in her ear:

'One day, we shall be in the big bed together, as when "she" was in Luçon.'

He wanted to leave nothing to chance, and that was why he avoided going to a library in Cannes or Nice. Nor again would he buy the books he needed, as that would be dangerous.

To go to Marseilles, where he wasn't known, he had to wait until the end of the season and, until then, he tried not to make his plan too detailed, for everything he might elaborate now might not hold good later on.

It was another phase. These phases were following one another, each more or less different from the last.

This one was peaceful, rather hazy, with a certain unreality.

He went through the motions of the daily routine, began playing bowls again, went to the market. Soon he would put his boat to sea again after having given it a coat of underwater paint.

There still remained, between the real world and himself, a slight disconnection.

'Next summer . . .'

He derived a subtle satisfaction from being the only person, or almost the only person—for there was Ada—to know.

People might suppose that he was nothing more than a sort of servant of Berthe's, and some of them probably thought he had married her for her money, for La Bastide.

It could no longer humiliate him. He felt like telling them:

'Just you wait!'

He would prove to them that he was not a May-bug on the end of a line, a canary in its cage, a sorry fellow the mother and daughter had bought to run their restaurant.

People would obviously never know, and he began to regret it. He must be careful, afterwards, not to be too tempted to boast.

Berthe was watching him more than ever, and he was glad since, had it been necessary, this would have removed his last hesitations.

He waited until November, when his mother-in-law was there, to mention the trip to Marseilles. For some time they had been having trouble with the water pump, as the water board did not serve La Bastide and they had to pump their supply by means of a motor.

An expert from Cannes had come, had done some repairs, and a week later they had had another breakdown.

Emile had cut a Marseilles firm's advertisement out of the newspaper.

'As soon as I have a moment I'll go and see for myself

It was to prevent Berthe coming with him that he had awaited the arrival of his mother-in-law. He had not given the two women time to arrange and plan a trip to Marseilles for themselves as well.

One morning he had come downstairs, dressed for town.

'Where are you going?'

'Marseilles. I told you about it a month ago.'

He had purposely made just a vague allusion to the trip a month before.

'It's our only chance of installing a new pump . . .'

She was suspicious, looked at him to read into his thoughts. He didn't care, for she could read nothing. It was too late. It was as though he had already pressed the button to set the machine in motion.

'When will you be back?'

'Tonight or tomorrow. It depends on what I find there.'

As he passed in front of Ada, he had been unable to prevent himself murmuring:

'Only a few months more!'

It was up to her to understand or not to understand. It made no difference to him. Nothing made any difference to him. He was taking action. He was past turning back, tormenting himself, wondering whether his decision was just or unjust.

From now on he was following a precise plan and he was humming to himself as he left Saint-Charles Station, knowing in advance which way to go.

He remembered that in public libraries, municipal or otherwise, readers fill in forms, and he did not want to leave tell-tale documents behind him. Besides, these libraries would not necessarily have the volumes he needed.

He had found in the telephone book, well before his journey, an address which sounded right to him: 'Blanchot, University Bookshop.'

Now there was a School of Medicine at Marseilles. Emile still looked young enough to pass as a student. The shop was vast, with shelves piled with books to the ceiling, and, luckily, the different sections were indicated by placards.

Having located the bookshop, he saw to the pump, as he preferred to get down to work in the middle of the afternoon, when there would be enough people for him to pass unnoticed.

Others, like himself, were leafing through books, some of them perched on ladders, and it took him only a few moments to put his hand on a volume which interested him:
Poison, its Nature and Effects
by Charles Leleux.

It was not the work of a doctor, but of a lawyer of the Paris Court of Appeal, and part of the volume was devoted to the most celebrated cases of arsenic poisoning.

Without reading it all, by glancing through certain chapters, he already got the reassuring impression that in most cases the poisoning had only been discovered by accident, usually as a result of clumsiness.

More technical details were provided by another book he found on the same shelf:

Modern Toxicology,
by Professor Roger Douris.

'CHAPTER VIII—Arsenic and its Compounds.'

On the next page:

'
CRIMINAL
POISONING

'. . . Criminals chiefly have recourse to arsenious anhydride, a white floury powder. Arsenious anhydride, which does not easily dissolve in liquids, is liable to persist on the surface of food and be noticed by the victim . . .'

'. . . Criminal poisoning by means of arsenic is very frequent and has been known since earliest times . . .'

The word
criminal
did not shock him. By no means. He watched the comings and goings around him. A young shop-girl asked him, without bothering about what he was reading:

'Have you found what you are looking for?'

'Not yet.'

'. . . Use of arsenious acid for destroying vermin, foxes, rats, weasels . . .'

'Compounds of arsenic are also used in agriculture to counteract plagues of certain kinds of insect. . .'

'. . . Arsenate of lead gives excellent results. Many tons of this salt are used each year by agricultural workers . . .'

He stopped at a more detailed passage:

'Toxic doses.—In general, consumption of o.so grammes of arsenious acid will result in a peracute intoxication leading to death in a few hours (10 to 24)'

Twenty-four hours was too long, as Dr. Guerini would have time to come in from fishing and it might occur to somebody, perhaps Chouard himself, to call him in for consultation.

There was a list of other poisons, with their effects ,the ways of detecting them, the antidotes to apply, but nearly all of them appeared to be difficult to get hold of.

He opened a third volume, thicker than the previous ones:
Summary of Toxic Chemistry
by F. Schoofs, Professor Emeritus of the Faculty of Medicine in the University of Liege.

He immediately looked through the list of contents. He did not want to attract attention by remaining too long in the bookshop; if necessary, he would return in two or three weeks.

'causes of poisoning

'Since arsenic is a very well-known toxic and easily accessible to the public,
it will be understood that it is a frequent cause of accidental and criminal poisoning,
or of suicides.

'In one case of criminal poisoning, a powdered arseniferous ore was mixed with pepper . . .'

Further on:

'. . . According to the dose and method of administration arsenical intoxication can take on an acute or a chronic form; whatever the form, the same symptoms appear and in the same order; gastro-intestinal disturbances, laryngeal catarrh and bronchitis, cutaneous eruptions, paralysis of the lower limbs . . .'

Gastro-enteritis, Berthe had just had. Not only had Chouard not been surprised, but he was prepared for further recurrences. Every year, besides, she had had two or three sore-throats, since her throat was easily infected.

He would have liked to take notes. It wasn't wise. He preferred to learn certain passages by heart, as at school, and that done, he picked out a book on childbirth which he went and showed to the girl at the counter.

'How much is this?'

She looked for the price inscribed in pencil inside the cover and he paid, spent a good quarter of an hour wandering among side-streets before disposing of the book.

That morning he had made no definite decision about the pump and the motor, so as to leave open for himself, if necessary, the possibility of another trip. As it was no longer necessary, he went into the shop to confirm his order.

It was a fine day and he strolled along the Canebière, took an aperitif on a cafe terrace and gazed at the passers-by.

Maubi used a product with an arsenic base for the cherry orchard, which he sprayed twice a year on the trees, but there was nothing to indicate that this product contained enough poison.

In the tool-shed, a box marked with a skull and crossbones contained a greyish paste which had been used only a short time ago for killing rats and moles. Maubi spread it like butter on scraps of bread or cheese and afterwards one would find the animals shrivelled up.

Emile had vaguely read the directions, before knowing that he would one day need some poison. He had no idea whether the box was half full or nearly empty. Everything in its own good time. He would see to it at the proper moment.

For the present, he was satisfied with what he had learned. Nobody had taken any notice of him. He was almost certain that the assistant at the bookshop would not recognize him in the street. She did not know his name, nor where he came from. And finally he had taken care to buy a book on an entirely different subject.

He reached La Bastide at ten o'clock in the evening, found the two women, mother and daughter, in the dining-room, where they had left only one light on.

Had Berthe spoken to her mother about what had happened between them? It was hardly likely. Her pride must have held her back, even with the old woman.

He announced, helping himself to a glass of wine:

'I've bought a motor pump. They are coming to install it in ten days" time.'

He put a catalogue on the table and walked towards the stairs.

'Good-night.'

He was not running away from her, but considered himself as not belonging to the family. He did not wait for his wife to come to bed. They no longer said good-morning or good-night to one another. And finally he avoided as far as possible letting her see him naked, or even half naked.

Berthe did not have the same feeling of modesty and undressed as she had done in the past, which embarrassed him and made him turn away. He could scarcely remember the intimacy their bodies had known. It had left no trace, and his wife's flesh was more alien to him than that of any of the women guests.

What surprised him was that he had been capable, at one period, of placing his lips to those of Berthe.

He was still accepting, for a certain time, her presence in the house, in his bed; he accepted speaking to her when there was no way round it, but he practically regarded their cohabitation as a monstrous obligation.

What was she busy telling her mother about, before coming upstairs to undress in the dark?

But what was the point of thinking about it, since in a few months it would all be over?

VII

H
E
sometimes asked himself, with what seemed to him justifiable pride, whether anybody had ever planned a crime with so much lucidity and meticulousness as he was doing now. At the outset, he used to avoid that word, then, one fine day, he had realized that this was almost to walk with bowed head, to be ashamed, and he had taken to calling things by their correct names.

It was a pity, really, that there was nobody to observe him during these months of preparation, to follow the train of his thought, to appreciate the intricate mechanism which an enterprise of this kind brought into play, for he had more and more the conviction that he was undergoing an exceptional experience.

Unfortunately, there was only himself to watch himself living. And if there were two women to observe him, they did so from two very different standpoints.

Since the exchange of glances at the time of Berthe's illness, he had been convinced that Ada knew, that she had had the same idea as he, at the same moment. But with her it had been simply the sudden discovery of a chance, of a way out, and probably she would never have developed it to the point of action.

Ever since she had seen him passing, gradually, to the phase of bringing things about, she had become less sure of herself, and sometimes, during the siesta, she would lie inert in his arms, her thoughts elsewhere.

Misunderstanding her, he would whisper:

'It won't be long now, Ada!'

The time he saw a shiver run through her from her head to her feet, he understood. Besides, she had the frankness to admit:

'I'm afraid.'

'What of?'

'I don't know.'

'You mustn't be afraid. There's nothing to be frightened of. Do you know what "legitimate defence" means?'

She nodded her head.

'Well! My case is one of legitimate defence. It's me or her. Would you rather it was me?'

She answered no, of course not. Indeed it wasn't so much to reassure her, nor to whitewash himself, nor again to banish her scruples, that he spoke in this way. He believed it. It was in fact Berthe or himself. Perhaps not entirely in this sense, but it came to the same thing.