The Age of Reason (44 page)

She abruptly drew her band away, and smoothed her hair back, uncovering her cheeks and ears. A few rapid movements sufficed, and when she withdrew her hands, her hair stayed back, leaving her face bare.

‘There!’ said she.

Mathieu thought: ‘She wants to rob me even of my remorse.’ He stretched out his arms, and drew Ivich towards him, unresisting: he could hear within himself a little gay and lively tune that he thought had long since faded from his memory. Ivich’s head tilted a little on to one shoulder, and she smiled at him with parted lips. He returned her smile, and kissed her lightly, then he looked at her, and the little tune stopped short. ‘Why, she’s nothing but a child,’ he said to himself. He felt absolutely alone. ‘Ivich,’ he said gently. She eyed him with surprise. ‘Ivich, I... I was wrong.’

She was frowning, and her head was shaken by faint tremors. Mathieu let his arms fall, and said wearily: ‘I don’t know what I want from you.’

Ivich gave a sudden start and quickly drew away from him. Her eyes began to glitter, but she dimmed them and assumed an air of gentle melancholy. Her hands alone retained her wrath: they fluttered round her, patted the top of her head, and tugged at her hair. Mathieu’s throat was dry, but he eyed this anger with indifference. ‘Well,’ he thought: ‘I’ve wrecked this business too,’ and he was almost glad. It was a sort of expiation. And he continued, seeking the gaze that she kept obstinately averted: ‘I mustn’t touch you.’

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter now,’ she said, crimson with rage. And she added in a lilting tone: ‘You looked so proud of having taken a decision that I thought that you had come for a reward.’

He again sat down beside her, and gently grasped her arm, a little above the elbow. She did not disengage herself.

‘But I love you, Ivich.’

Ivich stiffened: ‘I shouldn’t like you to think...’ she said.

‘Think what?’

But he guessed. He relinquished her arm.

‘I... I don’t love you,’ said Ivich.

Mathieu did not answer. He thought: ‘She is revenging herself, quite naturally,’ Moreover it was probably true: why should she have loved him? All he wanted was to sit for a while silently at her side, and then to let her go without another word. But he said: ‘You will come back next year?’

‘I shall.’

She smiled at him with something like affection, she must have considered her honour satisfied. It was the same face she had turned towards him on the previous evening, when the lavatory woman was bandaging her hand. He eyed her dubiously, he felt his desire revive. That sad and resigned desire which was a desire
for nothing
. He took her arm, he felt the cool flesh beneath his fingers. And he said: ‘I... you...’

He stopped. There was a ring at the outer door: one ring first, then two, then an unbroken peal. Mathieu felt frozen: ‘Marcelle,’ he thought. Ivich had paled, she had certainly had the same idea. They eyed each other.

‘You must open the door,’ she whispered.

‘I think I must,’ said Mathieu.

He did not move. Then came a violent hammering on the door. Ivich said with a shudder: ‘It’s dreadful to think that there’s someone on the other side of that door.’

‘Yes,’ said Mathieu. ‘Will you... will you go into the kitchen? I’ll shut the door, no one will see you.’

Ivich eyed him with an air of calm authority: ‘No. I shall stay here.’

Mathieu went to the door and opened it: in the half-light he saw a large grimacing head, not unlike a mask: it was Lola. She pushed him aside and dashed into the flat.

‘Where is Boris?’ she demanded. ‘I heard his voice.’

Mathieu did not even stay to shut the outer door, he hurried after her into the living room. Lola had advanced on Ivich with a menacing air.

‘You must tell me where Boris is.’

Ivich looked at her with stricken eyes. And yet Lola did not appear to be speaking to her — nor to anyone — and she wasn’t even sure that she had seen her. Mathieu slipped between them: ‘He isn’t here.’

Lola turned her ravaged face upon him. She had been crying.

‘I heard his voice.’

‘Apart from this room,’ said Mathieu, trying to catch Lola’s eye: ‘there’s only a kitchen and a bathroom in the flat. You can search anywhere you like.’

‘Then where is he?’

She was still wearing her black silk frock and her professional make-up. There was a sort of curdled look in her great dark eyes.

‘He left Ivich about three o’clock,’ said Mathieu. ‘We don’t know what he has been doing since.’

Lola began to laugh hysterically. Her hands were clutching a little black velvet bag which seemed to contain one sole object, something hard and heavy. Mathieu noticed the bag and felt afraid; he must get Ivich out of the place at once.

‘Well, if you don’t know what he has been doing, I can inform you,’ said Lola. ‘He came up to my room about seven, just after I had gone out; he opened my door, forced the lock of a suitcase, and stole four thousand francs.’

Mathieu did not dare to look at Ivich: he said to her quietly, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor: ‘Ivich, you had better go away: I must talk to Lola. Can I... can I see you again this evening?’

Ivich looked distraught: ‘Oh no!’ she said. ‘I must go back, I’ve got my packing to do, and I must get some sleep. I do so need some sleep.’

‘Is she going away?’ asked Lola.

‘Yes,’ said Mathieu; ‘tomorrow morning.’

‘Is Boris going away too?’

‘No.’

Mathieu took Ivich’s hand. ‘Mind you get some sleep, Ivich. You have had a rough day. I suppose you wouldn’t like me to see you off?’

‘No. I’d rather not.’

‘Well, then. Good-bye till next year.’

He looked at her, hoping to discover a flicker of affection in her eyes, but all he could read in them was panic fear.

‘Till next year,’ she said.

‘I’ll write to you, Ivich,’ said Mathieu dismally.

‘Yes. Yes.’

She was just going out when Lola barred the way: ‘One moment! How am I to know she isn’t going to join Boris?’

‘And what then?’ said Mathieu. ‘She is free, I suppose.’

‘Stay here,’ said Lola, grasping Ivich’s wrist with her right hand.

Ivich uttered a cry of pain and anger.

‘Let me go,’ she cried. ‘Don’t touch me, I won’t be touched.’

Mathieu thrust Lola aside, and she drew back a few steps, muttering indignantly. He looked at her bag.

‘Disgusting woman,’ muttered Ivich between her teeth. She felt her wrist with her thumb and forefinger.

‘Lola,’ said Mathieu, without taking his eyes off the bag: ‘let her go. I have many things to say to you, but let her go first.’

‘Will you tell me where Boris is?’

‘No.’ said Mathieu, ‘but I’ll explain how the money was stolen.’

‘Very well, go along,’ said Lola. ‘And if you see Boris, tell him I’ve made a charge against him.’

‘The charge will be withdrawn,’ said Mathieu in an undertone, his eyes still fixed upon the bag. ‘Good-bye, Ivich, off you go.’

Ivich did not answer, and Mathieu heard with relief the light patter of her feet He did not see her go, but the sound ceased, and for an instant he felt his heart contract. Lola took a step forward and exclaimed: ‘Tell him he’s got it wrong this time. Tell him he’s too young to fool me!’

She turned towards Mathieu: still with the same baffling look, which seemed to see nothing.

‘Well?’ she said harshly. ‘And now for your story.’

‘Listen, Lola!’ said Mathieu.

But Lola had begun to laugh again. ‘I wasn’t born yesterday,’ she said, laughing. ‘I certainly wasn’t. I’m sick of being told I might be his mother.’

Mathieu advanced towards her: ‘Lola!’

‘I can hear him saying: “The old girl is potty about me; she won’t mind my pinching a little cash, she’ll even thank me —” He doesn’t know me! He doesn’t know me!’

Mathieu seized her arm, and shook her like a plum tree, while she still laughed and shrieked: ‘He doesn’t know me!’

‘Be quiet!’ he said roughly.

Lola became calmer, and, for the first time, seemed to see him: ‘Well, what have you got to say?’

‘Lola,’ said Mathieu: ‘have you really made a charge against him?’

‘Yes. And what then?’

‘It was I who stole the money.’

Lola eyed him blankly. He had to repeat: ‘It was I who stole the four thousand francs!’

‘Oh!’ she said: ‘it was you?’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘The manageress saw him.’

‘How could she have seen him — I tell you it was I.’

‘She saw him,’ said Lola irritably. ‘He slipped upstairs at seven o’clock. She let him pass, because I had told her to. I had been waiting for him all day, and I had only gone out ten minutes before. He must have been watching for me at the corner of the street, and gone up as soon as he saw me go.’

She spoke in a quick, dejected tone which seemed to express an unshakable conviction: ‘It’s as though she wanted to believe it,’ thought Mathieu wearily. And he said: ‘Listen. At what time did you get back?’

‘The first time? Eight o’clock.’

‘Well, the notes were then still in the suitcase.’

‘I tell you Boris went up at seven o’clock.’

‘He may have done so, perhaps he was coming to see you. But you didn’t look in the suitcase, did you?’

‘Yes I did.’

‘You looked in it at
eight o’clock
?’

‘Yes.’

‘Lola, you’re not being straightforward,’ said Mathieu. ‘I know you didn’t look. I know. At eight o’clock I had the key on me, and you couldn’t have opened the suitcase. Besides, if you discovered the theft at eight o’clock, how are you going to get me to believe that you would have waited until midnight before coming to see me? At eight o’clock you made your face up, you put on your black frock, and you went to the Sumatra. Isn’t that so?’

Lola looked at him with an impenetrable air: ‘The manageress saw him go up.’

‘Yes, but
you
— you didn’t look in the suitcase. At eight o’clock the money was still there. I went up at ten o’clock and took it. There was an oldish woman in the office, she saw me, she can bear me out. You noticed the theft at midnight.’

‘Yes,’ said Lola, wearily. ‘It was at midnight. But it’s the same thing. I felt unwell at the Sumatra, and went back to my hotel. I lay down, and I put the suitcase on the bed beside me. There were... there were letters in it I wanted to read over.’

And Mathieu thought: ‘That’s true: the letters. Why does she want to conceal the fact that they’ve been stolen too?’ They both fell silent: now and again, Lola swayed to and fro, like a sleep-walker standing. She appeared to wake up at last.

‘You — you stole the money?’

‘Yes.’

She laughed curtly: ‘Keep your patter for the magistrates, if you want to pick up six months instead of him.’

‘Look here, Lola: why on earth should I risk imprisonment for Boris’s sake?’

She made a wry face. ‘How am I to know what you and he are up to?’

‘That’s just silly! Listen, I give you my word it was I: the suitcase was by the window, under a valise. I took the money, and left the key in the lock.’

Lola’s lips quivered, she fingered her bag nervously: ‘Is that all you’ve got to tell me? Then let me go.’

She tried to pass, but Mathieu stopped her.

‘Lola, you just won’t be convinced.’

Lola gripped his shoulders, and thrust him aside.

‘Don’t you see the state I’m in? Do you think I’m going to swallow your story about the suitcase? “It was under a valise by the window,”’ she repeated, aping Mathieu’s voice. ‘Boris has been here, and you think I don’t know it? You’ve agreed together what the old woman should be told. Now let me go,’ she said, with a venomous look; ‘let me go.’

Mathieu tried to take her by the shoulders, but Lola recoiled and fumbled with her bag: Mathieu snatched it from her and flung it on the sofa.

‘Beast!’ said Lola.

‘Is it vitriol or a revolver?’ asked Mathieu, with a smile.

Lola began to tremble all over. ‘O Lord,’ thought Mathieu: ‘she’s going to have hysterics.’ He felt as though he were plunged in a sinister and preposterous dream. But she must be convinced. Lola stopped trembling. She had retreated to the window and watched him; her eyes were glittering with impotent hatred. Mathieu looked away: he was not afraid of her hatred, but on her face there was an expression of bleak desolation which was more than he could bear.

‘I came up to your room this morning,’ he said in a measured tone. ‘I took the key from your bag. When you woke up, I was just going to open the suitcase. I hadn’t time to replace the key and that is what put it into my head to go up to your room again this evening.’

‘It is no good,’ said Lola curtly. ‘I saw you come in this morning. When I spoke to you, you hadn’t even got to the foot of my bed.’

‘I had come in once before and gone away again.’

Lola grinned, and he added reluctantly: ‘To get the letters.’

She did not seem to hear: it was quite useless to talk to her about the letters, she could only think of the money, and she needed to think of it in order to keep her anger burning, that being her sole resource. At last she said with a short dry laugh: ‘Unfortunately for your story, he asked me for the four thousand francs yesterday evening. That, actually, is what we quarrelled about.’

Mathieu realized his helplessness: it was clear that the culprit
could be
no other than Boris. ‘I ought to have thought of it,’ be said to himself dejectedly.

‘Don’t you worry,’ said Lola, with a malignant smile. ‘I’ll get him. If you succeed in bamboozling the judge, I’ll get him in another way, that’s all.’

Mathieu looked at the bag on the sofa. Lola looked at it too.

‘It was for me that he asked you for the money,’ he said.

‘Yes. And I suppose it was for you that he stole a book from a bookshop yesterday afternoon. He boasted of that while he was dancing with me.’

She stopped short, and suddenly continued with ominous calm.

‘Very well, then. It was you who robbed me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then give me back the money.’

Mathieu stood abashed: and Lola added in a tone of ironical triumph: ‘Give it back to me at once, and I’ll withdraw my charge.’