The Age of Reason (45 page)

Mathieu did not answer, and Lola said: ‘That’ll do. I understand.’

She picked up her bag, and he made no attempt to prevent her.

‘Anyway, even if I had it, that would prove nothing. Boris might have given it to me.’

‘I’m not asking you that. I’m asking you to give it me back.’

‘I no longer have it.’

‘Are you serious? You stole it from me at ten o’clock, and at midnight you no longer have it? I congratulate you.’

‘I’ve given it to someone.’

‘To whom?’

‘I shan’t tell you.’ He added sharply: ‘It wasn’t to Boris.’

Lola smiled without replying: she made her way to the door and he did not stop her. And he thought: ‘Her local police station will be the one in the Rue des Martyrs. I’ll go there and explain.’

But when he saw the back of that tall black figure moving with the blind momentum of catastrophe, he was afraid; he thought of the bag, and made a last attempt: ‘After all, I can very well tell you whom it was for: it was for Mile Duffet, a friend of mine.’

Lola opened the door and went out. He heard her utter a cry as she stepped into the outer room, and his heart leapt. Lola suddenly reappeared, looking like a madwoman.

‘There’s someone there,’ she said.

And Mathieu thought: ‘It’s Boris.’

It was Daniel. He marched in with a flourish, and bowed to Lola.

‘Here are the four thousand francs, Madame,’ he said, handing her an envelope. ‘Will you kindly verify that they are in fact yours.’

Two thoughts came simultaneously into Mathieu’s mind. ‘It’s Marcelle who sent him,’ and ‘He was listening at the door.’ Daniel was rather in the habit of listening at doors so as to stage his entrances.

‘Has she...’ Mathieu began.

Daniel reassured him with a gesture. ‘All is well,’ he said.

Lola looked at the envelope with a peasant woman’s sly suspicious eyes.

‘There are four thousand francs inside it?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘How can I be sure they’re mine?’

‘Didn’t you take any numbers?’ asked Daniel.

‘As if I should!’

‘Ah, Madame,’ said Daniel with a reproachful air: ‘you ought always to take the numbers of notes.’

Mathieu had a sudden inspiration: he recalled the heavy odour of Chypre and mustiness that had emerged from the suitcase.

‘Smell them,’ he said.

Lola hesitated for a moment, then she grabbed the envelope, tore it open, and put the notes to her nose. Mathieu was afraid that Daniel would burst out laughing. But Daniel was impeccably serious, and eyed Lola with a blandly comprehending air.

‘So you forced Boris to give them back?’ she said.

‘I know no one by the name of Boris,’ said Daniel. ‘It was a friend of Mathieu, a woman, who gave them to me to bring them back to you. I hurried round here, and broke in upon the end of your conversation: I offer you my excuses, Madame.’

Lola stood motionless, her arms close at her sides, holding her bag tightly in her left hand, her right hand clutching the notes: she looked uneasy and bewildered.

‘But why should you have done it — you?’ she asked abruptly. ‘What are four thousand francs to you?’

Mathieu smiled a mirthless smile.

‘A good deal, apparently.’ And he added quietly: ‘You must withdraw your charge, Lola. Or, if you like, bring it against me.’

Lola averted her eyes and said quickly: ‘I hadn’t made any charge.’

She stood rigid in the centre of the room, with a set look on her face. Then she said: ‘What about the letters?’

‘I no longer have them. I took them this morning, for Boris, when you were thought to be dead. That’s what gave me the idea of coming back to take the money.’

Lola looked at Mathieu without hatred, but with an immense astonishment and a sort of curiosity.

‘You stole four thousand francs from me!’ she said. ‘What — what a scream!’

But the light quickly vanished from her eyes, and her face hardened. She seemed to be in pain.

‘I’m going,’ she said.

They let her depart in silence. In the doorway, she turned: ‘If he hasn’t done anything wrong, why doesn’t he come back?’

‘I don’t know.’

Lola uttered a brief sob, and leaned against the frame of the door. Mathieu took a step towards her, but she had recovered herself.

‘Do you think he will come back?’

‘I think so. He’s one of those that can’t make people happy, but can’t throw them over — they find that even more difficult.’

‘Yes,’ said Lola. ‘Yes. Well — Good-bye.’

‘Good-bye, Lola. You... you aren’t in need of anything?’

‘No.’

She went out. They heard the door close.

‘Who is that old party?’ asked Daniel.

‘It’s Lola, Boris Serguine’s friend. She is a little cracked.’

‘She looks it,’ said Daniel.

Mathieu felt embarrassed at being left alone with him: he felt as though he had been thrust abruptly into the presence of his misdeed. It was there, face to face with him, alive, it lived in the depths of Daniel’s eyes, and God alone knew what form it had assumed in that capricious and artificial consciousness. Daniel seemed inclined to take unfair advantage of the situation. His demeanour was ceremonious, insolent, and funereal, as it always was on his most disagreeable days.

Mathieu stiffened, and held his head erect: Daniel was livid.

‘You look pretty rotten,’ said Daniel, with a malicious smile.

‘I was going to say the same to you,’ said Mathieu. ‘We’re quits.’ Daniel shrugged his shoulders.

‘Do you come straight from Marcelle?’ asked Mathieu.

‘Yes.’

‘It was she who gave you the money?’

‘She didn’t need it,’ said Daniel evasively.

‘She didn’t need it?’

‘No.’

‘You might at least tell me if she can manage...’

‘There’s no longer any question of that, my dear fellow,’ said Daniel. ‘All that is ancient history.’

He had raised his left eyebrow, and was gazing ironically at Mathieu, as though through an imaginary monocle. ‘If he wants to impress me,’ thought Mathieu, ‘he had better keep his hands steady.’

Daniel observed nonchalantly: ‘I’m going to marry her. We shall keep the child.’

Mathieu took a cigarette and lit it. His skull was vibrating like a bell. And he said calmly: ‘So you were in love with her?’

‘Why not?’

‘It is Marcelle we are talking about,’ thought Mathieu. Marcelle. He could not fully grasp that fact.

‘Daniel,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Wait a bit, and you’ll see.’

‘No, what I mean is — you won’t make me believe that you’re in love with her, and I’m wondering what’s behind all this.’

Daniel looked tired, he had sat down on the edge of the bureau, with one foot on the ground and nonchalantly dangling the other. ‘He’s making fun of me,’ thought Mathieu angrily.

‘You would indeed be astonished if you knew how matters stand,’ said Daniel. And Mathieu thought: ‘Why of course — she was his mistress.’

‘If you oughtn’t to tell me, don’t,’ he said, curtly.

Daniel eyed him for an instant as though he enjoyed mystifying him, then suddenly got up and passed a hand over his forehead: ‘It’s a bit awkward,’ he said.

He eyed Mathieu with surprise.

‘That’s not what I came to talk to you about. Look here, Mathieu, I’m...’ He laughed constrainedly: ‘What I have to say may upset you a bit.’

‘Never mind. Tell me or not, as you like,’ said Mathieu.

‘Well, I’m...’

He stopped again, and Mathieu, growing impatient, finished for him: ‘You are Marcelle’s lover. That’s what you want to say.’

Daniel opened his eyes wide, and emitted a faint whistle. Mathieu felt himself blushing crimson.

‘Not a bad guess,’ said Daniel, with an admiring air. ‘Just what would suit your book, eh? No, my dear fellow, you haven’t even that excuse.’

‘Hadn’t you better tell me,’ said Mathieu, rather dashed.

‘Wait,’ said Daniel. ‘You haven’t got anything to drink, have you? Whisky?’

‘No,’ said Mathieu. ‘But I’ve got some rum. An excellent idea,’ he added: ‘we’ll have a drink.’

He hurried into the kitchen, and opened the cupboard. ‘I’ve been behaving disgracefully,’ he thought. He returned with two claret glasses and a bottle of rum. Daniel took the bottle and filled the glasses to the brim.

‘It comes from the Martinique shop?’ he said.

‘Yes.’

‘You still go there sometimes?’

‘Sometimes,’ said Mathieu. ‘Here’s your good health.’

Daniel looked at him with an inquisitorial air, as though Mathieu were concealing something from him.

‘To the beloved,’ he said, raising his glass.

‘You’re drunk,’ said Mathieu, furiously.

‘It’s true I’ve had a drink or two,’ said Daniel. ‘But don’t worry. I was sober when I went to see Marcelle. It was after...’

‘Have you just come from her?’

‘Yes. Except that I looked in at the Falstaff on the way.’

‘You... you must have arrived just after I had gone?’

‘I was waiting for you,’ smiled Daniel. ‘I saw you turn the corner of the street, and I went in.’

Mathieu could not suppress a gesture of annoyance. ‘You were watching for me?’ he said. ‘Oh, just as well, I daresay; Marcelle won’t have wanted to be alone. Now what is it you wanted to tell me?’

‘Nothing at all, my dear fellow,’ said Daniel, with sudden cordiality. ‘I simply wanted to inform you of my approaching marriage.’

‘Is that all?’

‘That’s all... Yes, that’s all.’

‘As you please,’ said Mathieu, coldly. They were silent for a moment, and then Mathieu said: ‘How... how is she?’

‘Do you want me to tell you she’s delighted?’ asked Daniel ironically. ‘Spare my modesty.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Mathieu dryly. ‘Quite true, I have no right to ask... But, after all, you did come here...’

‘Well,’ said Daniel. ‘I thought I should have had more trouble in persuading her: but she fairly jumped at my proposal.’

Mathieu saw something like a flash of resentment gleam for an instant in his eyes; and he said sharply, by way of excusing Marcelle: ‘She was drowning...’

Daniel shrugged his shoulders and began to pace up and down. Mathieu dared not look at him. Daniel was keeping a close hold upon himself, he spoke quietly, but he looked like a man possessed. Mathieu clasped his hands, and fixed his eyes upon his shoes. He continued painfully: ‘So it was the baby she wanted. I didn’t understand that. If she had told me...’

Daniel said nothing. Mathieu went on laboriously: ‘It was the baby. Very well. It will be born. I... well, I wanted to get rid of it. I suppose it’s better that it should be born.’

Daniel did not answer.

‘I shall never see it, of course,’ said Mathieu.

It was scarcely a question; he added, without waiting for an answer: ‘Well, there we are; I suppose I ought to be glad. In one sense, you are saving her... but I don’t understand it at all — why are you doing it?’

‘Certainly not from philanthropic motives, if that’s what you mean,’ said Daniel dryly. ‘Your rum is filthy,’ he added. ‘But give me another glass.’

Mathieu filled the glasses and they drank.

‘And what are you going to do now?’ said Daniel.

‘Nothing. Nothing more.’

‘That little Serguine girl?’

‘No.’

‘But you’re free now.’

‘Pah!’

‘Well, good night,’ said Daniel, getting up. ‘I came to give you back the money, and to reassure you a bit. Marcelle has nothing to fear, she trusts me. All this business has shaken her terribly, but she isn’t really unhappy.’

‘You’re going to marry her!’ repeated Mathieu. ‘She hates me,’ he added in an undertone.

‘Put yourself in her place,’ said Daniel severely.

‘I know. I have done so. Did she say anything about me?’

‘Not much.’

‘The fact is,’ said Mathieu, ‘it seems to me queer that you should be marrying her.’

‘Have you any regrets?’

‘No. I find it rather sinister.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Oh, for both of you. I don’t know why.’

‘Don’t you worry, everything will be all right. If it’s a boy, we’ll call him Mathieu.’

Mathieu stiffened, and clenched his fists. ‘That will do!’ he said.

‘Now don’t get angry,’ said Daniel. And he repeated with an abstracted air. ‘Don’t get angry. Don’t get angry.’ He could not make up his mind to go away.

‘In short,’ said Mathieu, ‘you came to see what I should look like after all this.’

‘That was one reason,’ said Daniel. ‘Frankly, that was one reason. You always look... so solid: you annoyed me.’

‘Well, and now you’ve seen me,’ said Mathieu. ‘I’m not so solid after all.’

‘No.’

Daniel took a few steps towards the door, and came brusquely back to Mathieu: he had shed his ironic expression, but he looked no more amiable.

‘Mathieu, I am a homosexual,’ he said.

‘I beg pardon?’ said Mathieu.

Daniel had flung himself backwards, and was looking at him with amazement, his eyes sparkling with anger.

‘That disgusts you, I suppose?’

‘You are a homosexual?’ repeated Mathieu slowly. ‘No, it doesn’t disgust me: why should it disgust me?’

‘Look here,’ said Daniel, ‘don’t feel obliged to assume a broad-minded attitude...’

Mathieu did not answer. He looked at Daniel, and thought: ‘He is a homosexual,’ He was not greatly astonished.

‘You say nothing,’ pursued Daniel in a hissing tone. ‘You are right You have the proper reaction, I am sure, such as every sound man ought to have, and you do equally well to keep it to yourself.’

Daniel stood motionless, his arms stiff against his sides, he seemed to have dwindled. ‘Why on earth did he come to torment himself in my flat?’ Mathieu asked himself resentfully. He thought he ought to have found something to say: but he was plunged in a profound and paralysing indifference. Besides, it seemed to him so natural, so normal: he was a swine, Daniel was a homosexual, all this was in the order of things. In the end, he said: ‘You can be what you like, it’s no concern of mine.’

‘True,’ said Daniel, with a supercilious smile: ‘true indeed, it’s no concern of yours. You have your hands full dealing with your own conscience.’

‘Then why do you come to tell me all this?’