Chama-se Vera
A minha prima
Não é Severa
Pois é Vera só
Não é a prima do violão
É a sobrinha da minha avó
E receando que a Vera vire fera
Fiz esta marcha para a prima Vera
A Vera prima
Por ser primeira
Achando rima
Para o verbo amar
Não vai ao rádio, mas irradia
Antipatia por seu olhar
A prima Vera
Dizendo a idade
Não é sincera,
Diminui demais!
Se nos contasse as primaveras
Era mais velha do que seus pais!
Chapitre XI
L’illustre vieillard exerce, depuis un demi-siècle, la magistrature de l’ironie. Son génie, qui se flatte de ne respecter rien, est de tous le plus docile et le plus familier. S’il feint la pudeur ou la colère, raille ou menace, c’est pour mieux plaire à ses maîtres, et, comme une esclave obéissante, tour à tour mordre ou caresser. Dans la bouche artificieuse, les mots les plus sûrs sont pipés, la vérité même est servile. Une curiosité, dont l’âge n’a pas encore émoussé la pointe, et qui est l’espèce de vertu de ce vieux jongleur, l’entraîne à se renouveler sans cesse, à se travailler devant le miroir. Chacun de ses livres est une borne où il attend le passant. Aussi bien qu’une fille instruite et polie par l’âpre expérience du vice, il sait que la manière de donner vaut mieux que ce qu’on donne, et, dans sa rage à se contredire et à se renier, il arrive à prêter chaque fois au lecteur un homme tout neuf.
Les jeunes grammairiens qui l’entourent portent aux nues sa simplicité savante, sa phrase aussi rouée qu’une ingénue de théâtre, les détours de sa dialectique, l’immensité de son savoir. La race sans moelle, aux reins glacés, reconnaît en lui son maître. Ils jouissent, comme d’une victoire remportée sur les hommes, au spectacle de l’impuissance qui raille au moins ce qu’elle ne peut étreindre, et réclament leur part de la caresse inféconde. Nul être pensant n’a défloré plus d’idées, gâché plus de mots vénérables, offert aux goujats plus riche proie. De page en page, la vérité qu’il énonce d’abord avec une moue libertine, trahie, bernée, brocardée, se retrouve à la dernière ligne, après une suprême culbute, toute nue, sur les genoux de Sganarelle vainqueur… Et déjà la petite troupe, bientôt grossie d’un public hagard et dévot, salue d’un rire discret le nouveau tour du gamin bientôt centenaire.
— Je suis le dernier des Grecs, dit-il de lui-même, avec un rictus singulier.
Aussitôt vingt niais, hâtivement instruits d’Homère par ce qu’ils en ont pu lire en marge de M. Jules Lemaître, célèbrent ce nouveau miracle de la civilisation méditerranéenne, et courent réveiller, de leurs cris aigus, les Muses consternées. Car c’est la coquetterie du hideux vieillard, et sa grâce la plus cynique, de feindre attendre la gloire sur les genoux de l’altière déesse, bercé contre la chaste ceinture où il égare ses vieilles mains… Étrange, effroyable nourrisson !
Depuis longtemps, il avait décidé de visiter Lumbres, et ses disciples ne cachaient plus aux profanes qu’il y porterait l’idée d’un nouveau livre. « Les hasards de la vie, confiait-il à son entourage, sur ce ton d’impertinence familière avec lequel il prétend dispenser les trésors d’un scepticisme de boulevard, baptisé pour lui sagesse antique, — les hasards de la vie m’ont permis d’approcher plus d’un saint, pourvu qu’on veuille donner ce nom à ces hommes de mœurs simples et d’esprit candide, dont le royaume n’est pas de ce monde, et qui se nourrissent, comme nous tous, du pain de l’illusion, mais avec un exceptionnel appétit. Toutefois ceux-là vivent et meurent, reconnus de peu de gens, et sans avoir étendu bien loin la contagion de leur folie. Qu’on me pardonne d’être revenu si tard à des rêves d’enfant. Je voudrais, de mes yeux, voir un autre saint, un vrai saint, un saint à miracles et, pour tout dire, un saint populaire. Qui sait ? Peut-être irai-je à Lumbres pour y achever de mourir entre les mains de ce bon vieillard ?
Ce propos, d’autres encore, furent longtemps tenus pour une aimable fantaisie, bien qu’ils exprimassent, avec une espèce de pudeur comique, un sentiment sincère, bas mais humain, une crainte sordide de la mort. L’illustre écrivain, pour son malheur, n’est que vil, non pas médiocre. Sa forte personnalité, douloureusement à l’étroit dans ses livres, s’est délivrée dans le vice. C’est en vain qu’il s’efforce de cacher à tous, redoublant de scepticisme et d’ironie, le secret hideux qui sue parfois à travers les mots. À mesure qu’il avance en âge, le misérable se voit traqué, forcé dans son mensonge, de jour en jour moins capable de tromper en hors-d’œuvre et bagatelles sa voracité grandissante. Impuissant à se surmonter, conscient du dégoût qu’il inspire, ne trouvant qu’à force de ruse et d’industrie de rares occasions de se satisfaire, il se jette en glouton sur ce qui passe à portée de ses gencives et, l’écuelle vide, pleure de honte. L’idée d’un obstacle à vaincre, et du retardement qu’impose la comédie de la séduction, même écourtée, la crainte du fléchissement physique toujours possible, le caprice de ses fringales, le découragent par avance des rendez-vous hasardeux. Aux gouvernantes qu’il entretenait jadis avec un certain décor succèdent aujourd’hui des gothons et des servantes, qui sont ses tyrans domestiques. Il excuse de son mieux leur langue familière, affecte une bonhomie navrante, détourne l’attention d’un rire qui sonne faux, tandis qu’il suit du regard, à la dérobée, le cotillon court sur lequel, tout à l’heure, il ira rouler sa tête blanche.
Mais hélas ! cette morne débauche l’épuise sans le rassasier ; il n’imagine rien de plus bas, il touche le fond de son grotesque enfer. Au désir, jamais plus âcre et plus pressant, succède un trop court plaisir, furtif, instable. L’heure est venue où le besoin survit à l’appétit, dernière énigme du sphinx charnel… C’est alors qu’entre ce vieux corps inerte et la volupté vainement pressée la mort se leva, comme un troisième camarade.
Celle qu’il avait tant de fois caressée dans ses livres, et dont il croyait avoir épuisé la douceur, la mort, — d’ailleurs partout visible à travers sa froide ironie, comme un visage sous une eau claire et profonde, — cent fois rêvée, savourée, il ne la reconnut plus. Il la voyait désormais de trop près, bouche à bouche. Il avait choisi l’image d’une lente vieillesse, à la pente douce et fleurie, et qui s’endort contente, au dernier pas. Mais il n’attendait point cette surprise en plein jour, cette effraction… Hé quoi ? déjà ?
Il s’efforce d’en chasser la pensée, de la déguiser au moins ; il dépense à ce jeu misérable des ressources infinies. À peine ose-t-il confier aux plus intimes quelque chose de son angoisse, et ils ne l’entendent qu’à demi ; nul ne veut voir, dans les yeux du grand homme, le regard tragique où s’exprime une terreur d’enfant. Au secours ! dit le regard. Et l’auditoire s’écrie : Quel merveilleux causeur !
Chapitre XII
M. Gambillet s’avança vers le célèbre auteur du Cierge Pascal, et se présenta lui-même, non sans esprit, car il ne manque tout à fait ni de malice ni d’à-propos. Puis, se tournant vers son compagnon, et lui donnant la parole :
— M. le curé de Luzarnes, fit-il, est plus qualifié que moi pour vous souhaiter la bienvenue dans ce miraculeux pays de Lumbres, à deux pas de la petite église que vous êtes venu visiter.
Antoine Saint-Marin pencha vers l’abbé Sabiroux sa longue face blême, le considérant de haut en bas, avec ennui.
— Cher et illustre maître, dit alors celui-ci d’un ton mesuré, je ne m’attendais pas à vous voir jamais d’aussi près. Le ministère que j’exerce au fond de ces campagnes nous condamne tous à l’isolement jusqu’à la mort, et c’est un grand malheur que le clergé de France soit ainsi tenu à l’écart de l’élite intellectuelle du pays. Qu’il soit au moins permis à l’un de ses plus humbles représentants…
Saint-Marin secoua de haut en bas cette fine main blanche qu’immortalise le tableau de Clodius Nyvelin.
— L’élite intellectuelle du pays, monsieur l’abbé, est une société bien bruyante et bien désagréable que je vous conseillerai plutôt de tenir éloignée de vos presbytères. Et pour l’isolement, ajouta-t-il avec un petit rire, puissé-je y avoir été jadis condamné comme vous !
L’ancien professeur de chimie, un moment déconcerté, choisit de sourire aussi. Mais le jeune docteur de Chavranches, déjà familier :
— Allons, allons ! l’abbé, vous voilà comme un bourgmestre à l’entrée du roi dans sa bonne ville. L’illustre maître n’a pas fait cent lieues pour s’entendre louer. Dois-je l’avouer, monsieur, continua-t-il en s’inclinant vers Saint-Marin. je suis prêt moi-même à commettre envers vous une faute plus grave.
— Ne vous gênez pas, répondit le romancier d’une voix douce.
— Permettez-moi seulement de vous demander pour quel motif…
— N’ajoutez plus un mot, si vous tenez à mon estime ! s’écria l’auteur du Cierge Pascal. Je devine que vous désirez connaître la raison qui m’a déterminé à entreprendre ce petit voyage ? Or, grâce à Dieu, je n’en sais pas là-dessus plus long que vous. Le travail de composition, jeune homme, est le plus ennuyeux et le plus ingrat de tous ; c’est bien assez de composer mes livres, je ne compose pas ma vie. Cette page-ci est une page blanche.
— J’espère que vous l’écrirez, cependant, soupira le curé de Luzarnes, et j’ose dire que vous nous la devez.
Le regard toujours un peu vague de l’illustre maître tomba de haut sur son benoît quémandeur, et l’effleura sans se poser. Puis il demanda, les yeux mi-clos :
— Ainsi nous attendons tous les trois le bon plaisir d’un saint ?
— Les clefs du sanctuaire d’abord, remarqua l’enfant terrible de Chavranches, et le bon plaisir du sacristain Ladislas.
— Comment cela ? fit Saint-Marin, sans daigner voir le geste du curé de Luzarnes demandant la parole.
Mais Gambillet, plus prompt, fit à sa manière le récit des événements de la journée, vingt fois repris par son sourcilleux compagnon, qu’un léger mouvement d’impatience de l’illustre maître rejetait chaque fois au néant. Lorsqu’il eut tout entendu :
— Ma foi, monsieur, dit le romancier, je n’espérais pas tant d’une journée mal commencée. Ô la rafraîchissante surprise d’un peu de surnaturel et de miraculeux !
— Surnaturel et miraculeux ? protesta d’une voix grave le curé de Luzarnes.
— Pourquoi pas ? demanda brusquement Saint-Marin, se retournant tout d’une pièce vers son inoffensif ennemi.
(Si bas que le grand homme soit tombé, la bêtise toute nue lui fait honte. Mais il redoute par-dessus tout de rencontrer son image dans la sottise ou la lâcheté d’autrui, comme dans un tragique miroir.)
— Pourquoi pas ? répéta-t-il, plutôt sifflant qu’épelant chaque mot entre ses longues dents jointes. Nous espérons tous un miracle, monsieur, et le triste univers l’appelle avec nous. Aujourd’hui, ou dans un millier de siècles, que m’importe, si quelque événement libérateur doit faire brèche un jour dans le mécanisme universel ? J’aime autant l’attendre pour demain et m’endormir content. De quel droit la brute polytechnique viendrait-elle m’éveiller de mon rêve ? Surnaturel et miraculeux sont des adjectifs pleins de sens, monsieur, et qu’un honnête homme ne prononce qu’avec envie…
De son aveu, jamais le curé de Luzarnes ne se sentit plus injustement mortifié.
— M. Saint-Marin, confia-t-il à son ami Gambillet, m’a paru plus poète que philosophe et capable d’interpréter à sa guise les paroles d’autrui. Mais quelle raison de se mettre en colère ?
L’auteur du Cierge Pascal lui-même eût été bien embarrassé de répondre. Car il hait d’instinct ce qui lui ressemble et goûte, sans l’avouer, l’amère ivresse de se mépriser chez les autres. Mieux que personne, il sait par quelle nuance légère et fragile l’homme qui ne fait profession que d’esprit se distingue du sot, et dans certains niais bien disants le vieux cynique flaire avec rage un petit de la même portée.
— Si vous n’avez point vu l’ermite, reprit le docteur de Chavranches pour rompre le silence, au moins connaissez-vous l’ermitage ? Quelle curieuse maison ! Quelle solitude !
— J’étais tout à l’heure sous le charme, dit Saint-Marin. Il n’y a de vraiment précieux dans la vie que le rare et le singulier, la minute d’attente et de pressentiment. Je l’ai connue ici.
M. Gambillet hocha la tête, approuva d’un sourire prudent. Cependant le grand vieillard, s’approchant de la fenêtre, commença de promener ses longs doigts sur les vitres. La lumière de la lampe faisait danser son ombre au mur, la diminuant et l’allongeant tour à tour. Au dehors, les yeux ne distinguaient rien que la tâche blême de la route. Et dans le profond silence le docteur de Chavranches entendait le léger grincement des ongles sur le verre poli.
La voix de Saint-Martin le fit tout à coup sursauter :
— Ce diable de sacristain, dit-il, veut nous tuer de mélancolie. Je suis une grande bête d’attendre et de bâiller ici, quand j’ai devant moi tout un jour. Car je ne quitterai Lumbres que demain. Et puis, ma parole ! je suis bizarrement rompu.
— D’ailleurs, remarqua M. Gambillet, si les imaginations de l’abbé Sabiroux ont quelque réalité, son pauvre confrère sera hors d’état de vous entretenir ce soir.
— Pour cette fois, d’ailleurs, répondit l’illustre maître, c’est assez de connaître ce presbytère campagnard : un lieu unique.
(Il désignait la pièce aux quatre murs nus d’un geste caressant, comme un rarissime bibelot à tenter le collectionneur.)
Cette simple phrase fut à l’amour-propre du curé de Luzarnes comme un baume.
— Je dois vous faire remarquer, dit-il, que cette salle est improprement désignée sous le nom d’oratoire : mon vénéré confrère s’y tient rarement. À vrai dire, il ne quitte guère sa chambre.
— Ouais ? fit l’auteur du Cierge Pascal, intéressé.
— Je me ferai une joie de vous y conduire, s’empressa le futur chanoine. Monsieur le curé de Lumbres, j’en suis sûr, vous donnerait volontiers cette marque d’égards, et je ne ferai qu’interpréter sa pensée.
Il prit la lampe, l’éleva au-dessus de sa tête, puis, marquant un petit temps, la main sur le bouton de la porte :
— Si ces messieurs veulent me suivre ?
Au premier étage, le curé de Luzarnes, désignant à l’extrémité d’un long couloir une porte entr’ouverte :
— Permettez-moi de vous précéder, fit-il.
Ils entrèrent après lui. La lampe, tenue à bout de bras, éclairait une longue salle mansardée, peinte à la chaux, et qui parut d’abord absolument vide. Le parquet de sapin, récemment lavé, exhalait une odeur tenace. Quelques meubles, ingénument rangés contre la muraille, apparurent, dénoncés par leurs ombres ; deux chaises de paille, un prie-Dieu, une courte table chargée de livres…
— Cela ressemble à n’importe quel grenier d’étudiant pauvre, dit Saint-Marin, déçu.
Mais le futur chanoine, infatigable, les entraînait plus loin, penchant vers le sol son lumignon fumant.
— Voilà son lit, dit cet homme incomparable, avec une espèce de fierté.
L’enfant terrible de Chavranches, et l’écrivain, pourtant tous deux sans vergogne, échangèrent par-dessus le large dos un sourire gêné. La paillasse, ridiculement étroite et menue, couverte d’un amas de hardes, faisait à elle seule un spectacle d’une assez pitoyable mélancolie. Cependant, Saint-Marin la vit à peine ; il regardait deux gros souliers béants, verdis par l’âge, l’un debout, drôlement campé, l’autre à plat, montrant ses clous rouillés, son cuir gondolé, le retroussis de sa semelle, deux pauvres souliers, pleins d’une lassitude infinie, plus misérables que des hommes.
— Quelle image ! dit-il à voix basse ; quelle ridicule et merveilleuse image !
Il pensait à la fuite circulaire de toute vie humaine, au chemin vainement parcouru, au suprême faux pas. Qu’était-il allé chercher si loin, ce vagabond magnanime ? La même chose qu’il attendait lui-même, au milieu des objets familiers, ses chères estampes, ses livres, ses maîtresses et ses courtisans, dans l’hôtel de la rue de Verneuil, où mourut Mme de Janzé. Jamais le patriarche du néant, à ses meilleures heures, ne s’éleva plus haut qu’un lyrique dégoût de vivre, un nihilisme caressant. Néanmoins, sa gorge se serra, son cœur battit plus vite.
Alors, il parla d’abondance.
— Nous sommes ici, dit-il, dans un lieu consacré, aussi vénérable qu’un temple. Si le vaste monde est un champ clos, la place vaut d’être marquée où fut donné le grand effort, tentée la plus folle espérance. Les anciens eussent considéré sans doute notre saint de Lumbres avec mépris ; mais une longue expérience du malheur nous a rendus moins sévères pour cette espèce de sagesse, un peu barbare, qui trouve dans l’élan même de l’action sa raison d’être et sa récompense. La différence est moins grande qu’on imagine entre celui qui veut tout étreindre et celui qui repousse tout. Il y a une grandeur sauvage que la sagesse antique n’a pas connue…
La belle voix grave de l’illustre écrivain resta comme perchée sur la dernière syllabe, tandis que son regard se fixait à l’angle du mur où le diligent Sabiroux promenait à ce moment la lumière de sa lampe. Dans une sorte de renfoncement, formé par l’arête extérieure du toit, une planchette grossièrement clouée supportait un crucifix de métal. Au-dessous, jetée sur le sol, dans le coin le plus obscur, une lanière repliée, de celles que les toucheurs de bœufs nomment « coutelas », aiguë à sa pointe, large de trois doigts à sa base, pareille à un plat serpent noir. Mais ni le crucifix ni le fouet ne retenaient le regard du maître. C’était, à hauteur d’homme, une singulière éclaboussure, couvrant presque un pan de la muraille, faite de mille petites traces si rapprochées vers le centre qu’elles n’y formaient plus qu’une masse unique, d’un roux pâli, quelques-unes plus fraîches, d’un rose encore vif, d’autres à peine visibles, dans l’épaisseur de la chaux, comme absorbés, des séchées, d’une couleur indéfinissable. La croix, le fouet de cuir, la muraille rougie… Cette grandeur sauvage que la sagesse antique… L’éminent musicien n’eut pas le courage de plaquer son dernier accord, et cessa brusquement sa chanson.
Immobile, M. Gambillet bredouilla plusieurs fois dans sa moustache les mots de folie mystique, guettant en dessous Saint-Marin muet. L’irrésistible confident de la société chavranchaise, si vif à retourner un drap sur des nudités lamentables, et qui se vanta souvent de tout regarder et de tout entendre avec un front d’airain, eut, comme il l’avoua plus tard, froid dans le dos. Le plus épais des hommes ne voit pas sans trouble violer devant lui l’humble secret d’un grand amour, la part réservée du pauvre, son seul trésor, et qu’il emporte avec lui.
M. le curé de Luzarnes, détournant la lampe, dit aussitôt, avec un naturel parfait :
— Mon vénérable ami, messieurs, se maltraite et compromet gravement sa santé ! Dieu me garde de blâmer son zèle ! Mais je dois dire que ces violences contre soi-même, non pas prescrites, seulement tolérées, furent néanmoins regardées par plusieurs comme un dangereux moyen de sanctification, et trop souvent le scandale des faibles ou la risée des impies.
L’ancien professeur appuya ce dernier mot d’un geste familier, le pouce et l’index joints, le petit doigt levé, du ton d’un homme qui précise un point contesté. L’embarras du docteur, le silence de l’autre, lui parurent une preuve assez flatteuse de leur bienveillante attention. Il le marqua d’un sourire, puis partit content, car le prêtre médiocre est, entre tous, impénétrable.
— Que ce grand homme est donc nerveux ! se disait Gambillet, marchant sur les talons de Saint-Marin, et regardant curieusement la longue main d’ivoire crispée sur la canne, dont elle frappait parfois le sol à petits coups. Depuis quelques instants l’auteur du Cierge Pascal faisait, en effet, pour cacher son trouble et se surmonter, un effort presque héroïque. Sans doute. il n’était pas resté insensible à cette lugubre poésie dè la maison du pauvre, mais il y a beau temps que le romancier n’est plus dupe d’aucun battement de son vieux cœur ! L’émotion à peine formée, et comme à l’état naissant, est aussitôt mise en ordre, utilisée ; c’est la matière première qu’accommode au goût de l’acheteur son industrieux génie.
Le vieux comédien n’est accessible que par les sens ; la tache rousse, sur le mur, dans l’auréole de la lampe, avait mis ses nerfs à nu.
On connaît de lui, on sait de mémoire vingt pages effrontées où, de toutes les ressources de son art, le malheureux s’exerce à conjurer son intraitable fantôme. Nul n’a parlé plus librement de la mort, avec plus de nonchalance et d’amoureux mépris. Nul écrivain de notre langue ne semble l’avoir observée d’un regard si candide, raillée d’une moue si moqueuse et si tendre… Pour quelle mystérieuse revanche, la plume posée, la craint-il comme une bête, comme une brute ?
À l’idée de la chute inexorable, ce n’est pas sa raison qui cède au vertige, c’est la volonté qui fléchit, menace de se rompre. Ce raffiné connaît avec désespoir le soulèvement de l’instinct, l’odieuse panique, le recul et le hérissement de l’animal qui, à l’abattoir, vient flairer le mandrin du tueur. Ainsi jadis, si l’on en croit Goncourt, le père du naturalisme et des Rougon-Macquart, réveillé en pleine nuit par les mêmes affres, se jetait au bas du lit, donnant le spectacle d’un accusateur en bannière et tremblant de peur à son épouse consternée.
Debout, sur la première marche, le visage tourné vers la cage obscure, les tempes serrées, la gorge sèche, il respire à grands coups, seul remède à de telles crises. Derrière lui, Gambillet, bloqué, s’étonne, écoute avec inquiétude le souffle irrégulier, profond, du maître. Il appuie légèrement la main sur son épaule :
— Seriez-vous souffrant ? dit-il.
Saint-Marin se détourne avec peine, et répond d’une voix fausse :
— Non pas ! Non pas… un malaise… une légère suffocation… Cela va mieux… tout à fait bien…
Mais il se sent encore si faible et si lâche que la banale sympathie du médecin de Chavranches est incroyablement douce à son cœur. Dans l’euphorie de la détente nerveuse, il est ainsi souvent tenté de parler, de donner son secret, de mendier au plus près un conseil et un appui. Par bonheur, l’amour-propre engourdi le réveille toujours à temps de son mauvais rêve.
— Docteur, dit-il avec un sourire paternel, l’expérience vous fera connaître que les voyages ne peuvent plus former la vieillesse, mais seulement hâter sa fin. Avantage encore précieux ! Car, au dernier détour, lorsqu’un vieux bonhomme souhaite et redoute le petit faux pas qui le précipite au néant, un rien de brusquerie est quelquefois nécessaire.
— Le néant ! proteste poliment le curé de Luzarnes, voilà, maître, un bien gros mot ?
(Saint-Marin, par-dessus l’épaule du Chavranchais, considère une seconde son insupportable galant.)
— Qu’importe le mot ? fait-il. A-t-on le choix ?
— Il y a des mots si désespérés… si douloureux… s’écrie le pauvre prêtre, déjà pâlissant.
— Permettez, poursuit l’auteur du Cierge Pascal, je n’espère pas qu’une syllabe de plus ou de moins va me conférer l’immortalité !
— Je me fais mal comprendre, riposte le futur chanoine, enragé de conciliation. Sans doute, un esprit comme le vôtre se fait… de la vie future… une autre image… probablement… que le commun de nos fidèles… mais je ne puis croire que… votre haute intelligence… accepte sans révolte… l’idée d’une déchéance absolue, irrémédiable, d’une dissipation dans le néant ?
Les derniers mots s’étranglent dans sa gorge, tandis qu’il implore des yeux, avec une émouvante confusion, l’indulgence, la pitié du grand homme.
La férocité du mépris que Saint-Marin témoigne aux sots étonne d’abord, car il affecte volontiers par ailleurs un scepticisme complaisant. Mais c’est ainsi qu’il peut manifester au dehors, avec un moindre risque, sa haine naturelle des infirmes et des faibles.
— Je vous remercie, dit-il au curé de Luzarnes, de me réserver un autre paradis que celui de votre vicaire et de vos chantres. Les dieux me préservent cependant d’aller chercher là-haut une nouvelle Académie, quand la seule française m’ennuie assez !
— Si j’entends bien votre raillerie, répond le futur chanoine, vous m’accusez…
— Je ne vous accuse pas, s’écrie Saint-Marin tout à coup, avec une extraordinaire violence. Sachez seulement que je craindrais moins le néant que vos ridicules Champs Élysées !
— Champs Élysées… Champs Élysées, ronchonne le bonhomme abasourdi… Loin de moi la pensée de défigurer l’enseignement… Je voulais seulement mettre à votre portée… parlant votre langage…
— Ma portée… mon langage ! répète l’auteur du Cierge Pascal, avec un sourire empoisonné. Il s’arrête un moment, reprend haleine. La lampe, qui tremble dans les mains du curé de Luzarnes, éclaire en plein son visage blême. La bouche mauvaise s’abaisse aux coins, comme pour un haut-le-cœur. Et c’est son cœur, en effet, son vrai cœur, que le vieux comédien va jeter, va cracher une fois pour toutes, aux pieds de ce prêtre stupide.
— Je sais ce que m’offrent les plus éclairés de vos pareils, l’abbé : l’immortalité du sage, entre Mentor et Télémaque, sous un bon Dieu raisonneur. J’aime autant celui de Bérenger en uniforme de garde national ! L’antiquité de M. Renan, la prière sur l’Acropole, la Grèce de collège, des blagues ! Je suis né à Paris, l’abbé, dans une arrière-boutique du Marais, d’un papa beauceron et d’une mère tourangelle. J’ai répondu la messe comme un autre. Si j’avais à me mettre à genoux, j’irais encore tout droit à ma vieille paroisse de Saint-Sulpice, on ne me verrait pas faire des grimaces aux pieds de Pallas-Athénée, comme un professeur ivre ! Mes livres ! Je me moque bien de mes livres ! Un dilettante, moi ! Un bec fin ? J’ai pris de la vie tout ce que j’ai pu prendre, entendez-vous, à grandes lampées, la gorge pleine ! Je l’ai bue à la régalade : advienne que pourra ! Il faut en prendre son parti, l’abbé. Qui jouit craint la mort. Autant s’essayer à la regarder en face que se distraire aux bouquins des philosophes, ainsi qu’un patient chez le dentiste feuillette les journaux illustrés. Un sage couronné de roses, moi ! Un bonhomme antique ! Ah !… il y a tel moment où l’adoration des niais vous fait envier le pilori ! Le public ne nous lâche plus, veut toujours la même grimace, n’applaudit qu’elle, et demain nous traitera de menteurs et de baladins. Hé ! Hé ! si les bigots savaient peindre ! Au fond, nous sommes dupes, l’abbé, repics et capots ! Un gâcheur de plâtre, qui ne songe qu’à se remplir les tripes, montre plus de malice que moi ; jusqu’à la dernière minute, il peut espérer boire et manger son saoul. Mais nous !… On sort du collège avec des illusions de poète. On ne voit rien de plus désirable au monde qu’un beau flanc de marbre vivant. On se jette aux femmes à corps perdu. À quarante ans, on couche avec des duchesses, à soixante il faut déjà se contenter d’aller riboter avec des filles. Et plus tard… Plus tard… Hé ! Hé ! plus tard… on porte envie à des hommes comme votre saint de Lumbres qui eux au moins savent vieillir !… La voulez-vous, ma pensée ? La pensée de l’illustre maître, ma pensée toute crue ? Quand on ne peut plus…
Il acheva sa phrase, toute crue en effet, dans une véritable explosion de dégoût. Les traits si fins eurent alors cette expression d’hébétude, le rictus sournois, l’effrayante immobilité du vice sur un masque de vieillard. Gambillet l’observait en dessous avec un sourire cruel. Le curé de Luzarnes avait reculé de deux pas. Sa détresse à ce moment eût attendri le baron Saturne de l’immortel Villiers.
— Voyons… voyons… maître… bégaya-t-il. La religion dont je suis le ministre… a des trésors d’indulgence… de charité… Le scrupule touchant le dogme… peut… doit en quelque mesure… s’accorder avec une paternelle sollicitude… une bienveillance particulière même… pour certaines âmes exceptionnelles… Je ne croyais pas qu’un effort sincère de conciliation… de synthèse… une certaine largeur de vues… La vie future… selon l’enseignement de l’Église.
Les arguments se pressaient dans sa pauvre cervelle confuse ; il eût voulu les donner à la fois, sa pensée sautant de l’un à l’autre, comme l’aiguille affolée d’une boussole…
Alors, le robuste vieil homme marcha vers lui, le masquant de ses larges épaules :
— La vie future ? L’enseignement de l’Église ? s’écria-t-il en le défiant de ses yeux pâles, y croyez-vous ?… Y croyez-vous sans barguigner ? Tout bêtement ? Oui ou non ?…
(Et, certes, il y avait dans la voix de l’auteur du Cierge Pascal peut-être autre chose que l’accent d’un injurieux défi…) Mais qui peut espérer tenir le curé de Luzarnes dans les deux branches de la pince ? Il n’a jamais douté sérieusement des vérités qu’il enseigne, simplement parce qu’il n’a jamais douté de lui-même, de son critère infaillible. Il hésite pourtant. Il cherche en hâte une formule heureuse, un de ces mots adroits… Hélas ! son redoutable adversaire le serre décidément de trop près… Il lève vers lui une main qui demande grâce. « Comprenez-moi bien… » commence-t-il d’une voix mourante.
Saint-Marin lui jette un regard véritablement flambant de haine. Puis il lui tourne le dos. L’infortuné s’efforce en vain ; la phrase commencée s’étrangle dans sa gorge, tandis que montent à ses yeux de vraies, de honteuses larmes.
M. Gambillet ne comprit jamais par quel miracle une conversation d’abord paisible, haussant de ton par degrés, pût s’achever dans un tel désordre qu’ils s’entrevirent un moment, tous les trois, sous la lumière de la lampe, face à face, ainsi que d’irréconciliables ennemis. C’est qu’ils vivaient une de ces minutes singulières où la parole et l’attitude ont chacune un sens différent, lorsque les témoins s’interpellent sans plus s’entendre, poursuivent leur monologue intérieur et, croyant s’indigner contre autrui, s’animent seulement contre eux-mêmes, contre leur propre remords, comme les chats mystérieux jouent avec leur ombre.
Dans le silence qui suivit, gros d’un nouvel orage, la porte extérieure s’ouvrit tout à coup, et les marches de l’escalier craquèrent une à une, sous un pas pesant. Leur surexcitation était telle qu’ils se regardèrent avec une espèce de terreur sacrée. Mais, en reconnaissant le calme visage de Marthe, l’abbé Sabiroux, le premier, respira :
— En voilà bien d’une affaire ! marmottait la vieille, essoufflée.
Puis, sur la dernière marche, frappant à petits coups son tablier pour le défriper, elle observa les trois hommes d’un regard rapide.
— Ladislas vous attend, messieurs, dit-elle.
Ils la suivirent jusqu’à la porte du jardin, docilement, sans parler. Le ciel était plein d’étoiles.
— Ladislas aura pris les devants, reprit la servante, en montrant du doigt une lanterne balancée dans l’ombre, à travers le cimetière. J’entends son pas. Vous trouverez l’église ouverte.
Un instant, elle retint le curé de Luzarnes par sa manche et, dressée sur la pointe de ses galoches, lui glissa ces mots à l’oreille :
— Faites-lui entendre raison, au moins ; depuis hier au soir, il n’a pas mangé ! Si c’est Dieu possible !
Elle disparut sans attendre la réponse. Le futur chanoine rattrapa ses deux compagnons sous le porche. Au-dessous d’eux, la haute église s’enlevait dans la nuit, incomparablement vive et claire. On entendait au dedans les souliers ferrés du sacristain traînant sur les dalles.
— Nous continuerons donc à courir ensemble notre aventure, dit aimablement Saint-Marin à l’ancien professeur, auquel le sourire du grand homme rendit la vie. Je n’aurais pas le cœur de dîner avant que vous n’ayez remis la main sur votre insaisissable saint ; et d’ailleurs il ne faut pas moins que cette intervention d’en haut pour clore ce soir nos petites querelles.
La fraîcheur de l’air après l’averse dissipait sa mauvaise humeur. Hors de la pauvre chambre du curé de Lumbres, et du cercle enchanté de la lampe sur le mur, son accès de fureur n’était guère plus qu’un méchant rêve.
— Entrons donc… dit simplement Sabiroux (mais avec quel regard de gratitude !)
Dès qu’il les aperçut, Ladislas se hâta vers eux. Le futur chanoine l’accueillit d’un ton gaillard :
— Hé bien, Ladislas, dit-il, quoi de neuf ?
(Le visage du bonhomme exprimait une stupéfaction profonde.)
— Notre curé n’est point là, dit-il.
— Par exemple ! s’écria Sabiroux, d’une voix dont l’écho roula longtemps sous les voûtes.
Il croisait les bras, révolté.
— Soyons sérieux ! reprit-il… Êtes-vous si sûr que ?…
— J’ai tout visité, répondit Ladislas, coin par coin. Je pensais bien le trouver à la chapelle des Anges ; il y va chaque jour, après souper, dans un petit coin qu’il faut connaître… Mais ni là, ni ailleurs… J’ai fouillé jusqu’à la tribune, ainsi…
— Mais que supposez-vous ? intervint Gambillet. Un homme ne se perd pas, que diable !
Le futur chanoine approuva d’un signe de tête.
— Pour moi, dit Ladislas, M. le curé a pu sortir par la sacristie, gagner la route de Verneuil, jusqu’au calvaire du Roû. C’est une promenade qu’il aime à faire, la nuit tombante, en récitant son chapelet.
— Ah ! Ah ! soupira bruyamment le docteur de Chavranches.
— Laissez-moi finir, reprit le sacristain ; à l’heure où nous voilà, vingt minutes avant le salut du Saint-Sacrement, il serait rentré, rentré depuis longtemps… J’ai bien réfléchi là-dessus… Il était ce soir si faible, si pâle… À jeun depuis hier soir… À mon idée, il a pu tomber de faiblesse…
— Je commence à le craindre, dit Sabiroux.
Il réfléchit un moment, les bras toujours croisés, plus d’aplomb que jamais, gonflant ses joues. Tout à coup son parti fut pris :
— Je suis désolé, mon cher maître… d’être… indirectement… la cause d’un dérangement…
— Aucun… aucun dérangement, protesta le cher maître, décidément radouci. Je dirais presque, en somme, que l’histoire m’amuse, si je ne devais partager votre inquiétude… Je ne vous proposerai pas toutefois d’aller plus loin, sur mes vieilles jambes… Je préfère vous attendre ici…
— La course ne sera pas longue, j’espère, conclut l’ancien professeur. Mathématiquement, nous devons le trouver là-bas… Monsieur Gambillet voudra bien m’accompagner ; son assistance m’est plus nécessaire que jamais. Venez avec nous, Ladislas, dit-il au sacristain, et prenez en passant le fils du maréchal. Si notre malheureux ami doit être transporté…
La voix s’éteignit peu à peu dans l’éloignement. La porte se referma sur elle. L’illustre auteur du Cierge Pascal se trouva seul et sourit.
Once there was a young bookbinder who was tramping about the country in search of pleasure more than a job. By soon all his money was spent and he thought it was high time to seek for work and fill his purse again. He was lucky enough to meet with a master bookbinder at once.
The man said as soon as he had introduced the young bookbinder to his new workshop, "You will suit me very well if you will always do the work I give you and nothing else. All you have to do is to sew these books together in the order I place them; but this book, lying apart here, you must not touch, much less look into, or it will be your ruin. Remember, you may read every other in the shop if you do stay away from that one."
The young fellow minded what his master said and for two long years everything went well. His hard work and careful work soon won the heart of his master, and he was often left whole days to himself - now and then for a week at a time.
One day, however, when his master was away, he was seized with an uncontrollable urge to look into the book that he had been forbidden ever to move from its place. He had already read through every other book in the shop and although his conscience told him that he had no right to look into this one, he got so curious that he lifted the book from the shelf and turned its pages. There were secret, elaborate spells on every page. As the young bookbinder read the spells, he found that everything happened as they said. When he said one of the rhymes in the book, at once the thing wished for lay before his eyes.
The book taught him beside how to change himself into whatever form he wished; and as a last experiment he changed himself into a swallow and the book into a little grain in his beak, and flew to his father's house. His father was much astonished when a bird flew in at his window and then turned into his son. He had not seen him for two years, but welcomed him heartily.
"Now, dear father," said the son, "now we can be happy and contented, for I have with me a book that makes wise men of both of us."
The old man was well pleased at this, for lately he had become poor. The young fellow changed himself into a fine fat ox and bade his father take him to market and sell him at a high price. "But before you let my buyer have me," he added, "take care to untie the cord round my left back foot, or you will lose me altogether."
A great crowd gathered around the old man as soon as he came to the market. All would like to buy the fine fat ox. After a long bargaining, a jolly butcher paid a heavy sum for the fat ox and led him off in triumph. But his triumph lasted only briefly, for when he went to look after his prize in the morning, he found just a bundle of straw instead of a fine fat ox. The bookbinder had made himself a human again, and slipped back to his father's house to the gold they had got by deceit.
After a while the old man and his son had used up the money they had got by cheating the butcher, and wanted to try another trick. The son took the shape of a gallant black horse, and his father led him to a horse-fair to be sold. Many people were gathered round this time too, but one of them was the master-bookbinder. When he came home and the bookbinder and his book of spells were gone, and had found it out too.
The wizard now wanted to have the horse, and his first offer was much more than anybody else cared to give. The father did not know the wizard and sold the horse to him. The animal began to shiver and tremble violently to make his father understand he had done a mistake, but he found no ways of doing in when he was in the garb of a horse.
The wizard led the horse off to the stable. There the old man would have loosened the string about the horse's neck, but the wizard suspected some trick and would not let him do it. The father then went home. He took comfort in the belief that his son could easily deliver himself from his buyer too, as he could change his form.
In every stall a crowd of people was waiting to see the wonderful horse, for there had been much talk of him throughout the fair. In the crowd was a little fellow who ventured to stroke and pat the animal. The horse allowed him to do as he liked, and when the boy, taking courage, patted him on the neck, he bent his head down and softly whispered in the lad's ear, "Have you got a knife with you, my boy?"
"Yes," was the astonished reply, "a sharp one!"
"Then cut the string round my left hindfoot," the horse whispered softly again.
The boy did so, and at the same moment the horse disappeared and there was only a bundle of straw left in the stable. But out of the window a swallow flew up high into the clear blue sky.
The wizard had left the stable for a moment. As soon as he saw what had happened, he changed himself into a hawk and pursued the swallow as fast as he could. Right before he had the swallow in his claws the swallow swirled downwards and towards a castle. In the garden a princess was walking. Then the bookbinder made himself into a ring and dropped into the lap of the princess as she sat on a bank. She wondered where the ring could come from and put it on her finger.
But the hawk had seen it all with his keen eyes and he quickly changed into a handsome youth, and then bowed gracefully to the princess and asked her to return to him the ring he had used for some trick.
The fair princess laughed and blushed and drew the ring from her finger, but then it fell to the ground and rolled into a hole in the shape of a grain of millet. In the twinkling of an eye the wizard changed into a turkey-cock and pecked about for the grain, but the seed at the same time had became a fox and bit off the head of the cock.
Now the fox changed into a man and thanked the princess for her protection and begged that he might always have it - he wanted to marry her.
The princess was scared with all that had happened, for she was young and inexperienced in the ways of wizards. However, she told the youth that she would have him if he forsook witchcraft and remained unchangeably true to her. This he readily promised, and to show his good faith he threw his book of old spells into the fire.
The sun was lowering in the west now, and when Minna reappeared it seemed that she materialized from the shadows, so quietly did she move. Jim Wilson opened another bottle and put it before her. "Here—have a drink, baby."
Obediently, she tilted the bottle and drank.
"What do you plan to do?" Frank asked.
"It'll be dark soon," Wilson said. "We ought to go out and try to scrounge some flashlights. I bet the power plants are dead. Probably aren't any flashlights either."
"Are you going to stay here?" Nora asked. "Here in the Loop?"
He seemed surprised. "Why not? A man'd be a fool to walk out on all this. All he wants to eat and drink. No goddam cops around. The life of Reilly and I should walk out?"
"Aren't you afraid of what's going to happen?"
"I don't give a good goddam what's going to happen. What the hell! Something's always going to happen."
"They didn't evacuate the city for nothing," Frank said.
"You mean we can all get killed?" Jim Wilson laughed. "Sure we can. We could have got killed last week too. We could of got batted in the can by a truck anytime we crossed the street." He emptied his bottle, threw it accurately at a mirror over the cash register. The crash was thunderous. "Trouble with you people, you're worry warts," he said with an expansive grin. "Let's go get us some flashlights so we can find our way to bed in one of those fancy hotels."
He got to his feet and Minna arose also, a little tired, a little apprehensive, but entirely submissive. Jim Wilson said, "Come on, baby. I sure won't want to lose you." He grinned at the others. "You guys coming?"
Frank's eyes met Nora's. He shrugged. "Why not?" he said. "Unless you want to start walking."
"I'm too tired," Nora said.
As they stepped out through the smashed window, both Nora and Frank half-expected to see other forms moving up and down Madison Street. But there was no one. Only the unreal desolation of the lonely pavement and the dark-windowed buildings.
"The biggest ghost town on earth," Frank muttered.
Nora's hand had slipped into Frank's. He squeezed it and neither of them seemed conscious of the contact.
"I wonder," Nora said. "Maybe this is only one of them. Maybe all the other big cities are evacuated too."
Jim Wilson and Minna were walking ahead. He turned. "If you two can't sleep without finding out what's up, it's plenty easy to do."
"You think we could find a battery radio in some store?" Frank asked.
"Hell no! They'll all be gone. But all you'd have to do is snoop around in some newspaper office. If you can read you can find out what happened."
It seemed strange to Frank that he had not thought of this. Then he realized he hadn't tried very hard to think of anything at all. He was surprised, also, at his lack of fear. He's gone through life pretty much taking things as they came—as big a sucker as the next man—making more than his quota of mistakes and blunders. Finding himself completely alone in a deserted city for the first time in his life, he had naturally fallen prey to sudden fright. But that had gradually passed, and now he was able to accept the new reality fairly passively. He wondered if that wasn't pretty much the way of all people. New situations brought a surge of whatever emotion fitted the picture. Then the emotion subsided and the new thing became the ordinary.
This, he decided, was the manner in which humanity survived. Humanity took things as they came. Pile on enough of anything and it becomes the ordinary.
Jim Wilson had picked up a garbage box and hurled it through the window of an electric shop. The glass came down with a crash that shuddered up the empty darkening street and grumbled off into silence. Jim Wilson went inside. "I'll see what I can find. You stay out here and watch for cops." His laughter echoed out as he disappeared.
Minna stood waiting silently, unmoving, and somehow she reminded Frank of a dumb animal; an unreasoning creature with no mind of her own, waiting for a signal from her master. Strangely, he resented this, but at the same time could find no reason for his resentment, except the feeling that no one should appear as much a slave as Minna.
Jim Wilson reappeared in the window. He motioned to Minna. "Come on in, baby. You and me's got to have a little conference." His exaggerated wink was barely perceptible in the gloom as Minna stepped over the low sill into the store. "Won't be long, folks," Wilson said in high good humor, and the two of them vanished into the darkness beyond.
Frank Brooks glanced at Nora, but her face was turned away. He cursed softy under his breath. He said, "Wait a minute," and went into the store through the huge, jagged opening.
Inside, he could barely make out the counters. The place was larger than it had appeared from the outside. Wilson and Minna were nowhere about.
Frank found the counter he was looking for and pawed out several flashlights. They were only empty tubes, but he found a case of batteries in a panel compartment against the wall.
"Who's there?"
"Me. I came in for some flashlights."
"Couldn't you wait?"
"It's getting dark."
"You don't have to be so damn impatient." Jim Wilson's voice was hostile and surly.
Frank stifled his quick anger. "We'll be outside," he said. He found Nora waiting where he'd left her. He loaded batteries into four flashlights before Jim Wilson and Minna reappeared.
Wilson's good humor was back. "How about the Morrison or the Sherman," he said. "Or do you want to get real ritzy and walk up to the Drake?"
"My feet hurt," Minna said. The woman spoke so rarely, Frank Brooks was startled by her words.
"Morrison's the closest," Jim Wilson said. "Let's go." He took Minna by the arm and swung off up the street. Frank and Nora fell in behind.
Nora shivered. Frank, holding her arm, asked, "Cold?"
"No. It's just all—unreal again."
"I see what you mean."
"I never expected to see the Loop dark. I can't get used to it."
A vagrant, whispering wind picked up a scrap of paper and whirled it along the street. It caught against Nora's ankle. She jerked perceptibly and kicked the scrap away. The wind caught it again and spiralled it away into the darkness.
"I want to tell you something," she said.
"Tell away."
"I told you before that I slept through the—the evacuation, or whatever it was. That wasn't exactly true. I did sleep through it, but it was my fault. I put myself to sleep."
"I don't get it."
"I tried to kill myself. Sleeping tablets. Seven of them. They weren't enough."
Frank said nothing while they paced off ten steps through the dark canyon that was Madison Street. Nora wondered if he had heard.
"I tried to commit suicide."
"Why?"
"I was tired of life, I guess."
"What do you want—sympathy?"
The sudden harshness in his voice brought her eyes around, but his face was a white blur.
"No—no, I don't think so."
"Well, you won't get it from me. Suicide is silly. You can have troubles and all that—everybody has them—but suicide—why did you try it?"
A high, thin whine—a wordless vibration of eloquence—needled out of the darkness into their ears. The shock was like a sudden shower of ice water dashed over their bodies. Nora's fingers dug into Frank's arm, but he did not feel the cutting nails. "We're—there's someone out there in the street!"
* * *
Twenty-five feet ahead of where Frank and Nora stood frozen there burst the booming voice of Jim Wilson. "What the hell was that?" And the shock was dispelled. The white circle from Wilson's flash bit out across the blackness to outline movement on the far side of the street. Then Frank Brook's light, and Nora's, went exploring.
"There's somebody over there," Wilson bellowed. "Hey, you! Show your face! Quit sneaking around!"
Frank's light swept an arc that clearly outlined the buildings across the street and then weakened as it swung westward. There was something or someone back there, but obscured by the dimness. He was swept by a sense of unreality again.
"Did you see them?"
Nora's light beam had dropped to her feet as though she feared to point it out into the darkness. "I thought I saw something."
Jim Wilson was swearing industriously. "There was a guy over there. He ducked around the corner. Some damn fool out scrounging. Wish I had a gun."
Frank and Nora moved ahead and the four stood in a group. "Put out your lights," Wilson said. "They make good targets if the jerk's got any weapons."
They stood in the darkness, Nora holding tightly to Frank's arm. Frank said, "That was the damndest noise I ever heard."
"Like a siren?" Frank thought Jim Wilson spoke hopefully, as though wanting somebody to agree with him.
"Not like any I ever heard. Not like a whistle, either. More of a moan."
"Let's get into that goddam hotel and—"
Jim Wilson's words were cut off by a new welling-up of the melancholy howling. It had a new pattern this time. It sounded from many places; not nearer, Frank thought, than Lake Street on the north, but spreading outward and backward and growing fainter until it died on the wind.
Nora was shivering, clinging to Frank without reserve.
Jim Wilson said, "I'll be damned if it doesn't sound like a signal of some kind."
"Maybe it's a language—a way of communication."
"But who the hell's communicating?"
"How would I know?"
"We best get to that hotel and bar a few doors. A man can't fight in the dark—and nothing to fight with."
They hurried up the street, but it was all different now. Gone was the illusion of being alone; gone the sense of solitude. Around them the ghost town had come suddenly alive. Sinister forces more frightening than the previous solitude had now to be reckoned with.
"Something's happened—something in the last few minutes," Nora whispered.
Frank leaned close as they crossed the street to the dark silent pile that was the Morrison hotel. "I think I know what you mean."
"It's as though there was no one around and then, suddenly, they came."
"I think they came and went away again."
"Did you actually see anyone when you flashed your light?"
"No—I can't say positively that I did. But I got the impression there were figures out there—at least dozens of them—and that they moved back away from the light. Always just on the edge of it."
"I'm scared, Frank."
"So am I."
"Do you think it could all be imagination?"
"Those moans? Maybe the first one—I've heard of people imagining sounds. But not the last ones. And besides, we all heard them."
Jim Wilson, utterly oblivious of any subtle emanations in the air, boomed out in satisfaction: "We don't have to bust the joint open. The revolving door works."
"Then maybe we ought to be careful," Frank said. "Maybe somebody else is around here."
"Could be. We'll find out."
"Why are we afraid?" Nora whispered.
"It's natural, isn't it?" Frank melted the beam of his light with that of Jim Wilson. The white finger pierced the darkness inside. Nothing moved.
"I don't see why it should be. If there are people in there they must be as scared as we are."
Nora was very close to him as they entered.
The lobby seemed deserted. The flashlight beams scanned the empty chairs and couches. The glass of the deserted cages threw back reflections.
"The keys are in there," Frank said. He vaulted the desk and scanned the numbers under the pigeon holes.
"We'd better stay down low," Jim Wilson said. "Damned if I'm going to climb to the penthouse."
"How about the fourth floor?"
"That's plenty high enough."
Frank came out with a handful of keys. "Odd numbers," he said. "Four in a row."
"Well I'll be damned," Jim Wilson muttered. But he said no more and they climbed the stairs in silence. They passed the quiet dining rooms and banquet halls, and by the time they reached the fourth floor the doors giving off the corridors had assumed a uniformity.
"Here they are." He handed a key to Wilson. "That's the end one." He said nothing as he gave Minna her key, but Wilson grunted, "For crissake!" in a disgusted voice, took Minna's key and threw it on the floor.
Frank and Nora watched as Wilson unlocked his door. Wilson turned. "Well, goodnight all. If you get goosed by any spooks, just yell."
Minna followed him without a word and the door closed.
Frank handed Nora her key. "Lock your door and you'll be safe. I'll check the room first." He unlocked the door and flashed his light inside. Nora was close behind him as he entered. He checked the bathroom. "Everything clear. Lock your door and you'll be safe."
"Frank."
"Yes?"
"I'm afraid to stay alone."
"You mean you want me to—"
"There are two beds here."
His reply was slow in coming. Nora didn't wait for it. Her voice rose to the edge of hysteria. "Quit being so damned righteous. Things have changed! Can't you realize that? What does it matter how or where we sleep? Does the world care? Will it make a damn bit of difference to the world whether I strip stark naked in front of you?" A sob choked in her throat. "Or would that outrage your morality."
He moved toward her, stopped six inches away. "It isn't that. For God's sake! I'm no saint. It's just that I thought you—"
"I'm plain scared, and I don't want to be alone. To me that's all that's important."
Her face was against his chest and his arms went around her. But her own hands were fists held together against him until he could feel her knuckles, hard, against his chest. She was crying.
"Sure," Frank said. "I'll stay with you. Now take it easy. Everything's going to be all right."
Nora sniffled without bothering to reach for her handkerchief. "Stop lying. You know it isn't going to be all right."
Frank was at somewhat of a loss. This flareup of Nora's was entirely unexpected. He eased toward the place the flashlight had shown the bed to be. Her legs hit its edge and she sat down.
"You—you want me to sleep in the other one?" he asked.
"Of course," Nora replied with marked bitterness. "I'm afraid you wouldn't be very comfortable in with me."
There was a time of silence. Frank took off his jacket, shirt and trousers. It was funny, he thought. He'd spent his money, been drugged, beaten and robbed as a result of one objective—to get into a room alone with a girl. And a girl not nearly as nice as Nora at that. Now, here he was alone with a real dream, and he was tongue-tied. It didn't make sense. He shrugged. Life was crazy sometimes.
He heard the rustle of garments and wondered how much Nora was taking off. Then he dropped his trousers, forgotten, to the floor. "Did you hear that?"
"Yes. It's that—"
Frank went to the window, raised the sash. The moaning sound came in louder, but it was from far distance. "I think that's out around Evanston."
Frank felt a warmth on his cheek and he realized Nora was by his side, leaning forward. He put an arm around her and they stood unmoving in complete silence. Although their ears were straining for the sound coming down from the north, Frank could not be oblivious of the warm flesh under his hand.
Nora's breathing was soft against his cheek. She said, "Listen to how it rises and falls. It's almost as though they were using it to talk with. The inflection changes."
"I think that's what it is. It's coming from a lot of different places. It stops in some places and starts in others."
"It's so—weird."
"Spooky," Frank said, "but in a way it makes me feel better."
"I don't see how it could." Nora pressed closer to him.
"It does though, because of what I was afraid of. I had it figured out that the city was going to blow up—that a bomb had been planted that they couldn't find, or something like that. Now, I'm pretty sure it's something else. I'm willing to bet we'll be alive in the morning."
Nora thought that over in silence. "If that's the way it is—if some kind of invaders are coming down from the north—isn't it stupid to stay here? Even if we are tired we ought to be trying to get away from them."
"I was thinking the same thing. I'll go and talk to Wilson."
They crossed the room together and he left her by the bed and went on to the door. Then he remembered he was in his shorts and went back and got his trousers. After he'd put them on, he wondered why he'd bothered. He opened the door.
Something warned him—some instinct—or possibly his natural fear and caution coincided with the presence of danger. He heard the footsteps on the carpeting down the hall—soft, but unmistakably footsteps. He called, "Wilson—Wilson—that you?"
The creature outside threw caution to the winds, Frank sensed rather than heard a body hurtling toward the door. A shrill, mad laughter raked his ears and the weight of a body hit the door.
Frank drew strength from pure panic as he threw his weight against the panel, but perhaps an inch or two from the latch the door wavered from opposing strength. Through the narrow opening he could feel the hoarse breath of exertion in his face. Insane giggles and curses sounded through the black stillness.
Frank had the wild conviction he was losing the battle, and added strength came from somewhere. He heaved and there was a scream and he knew he had at least one finger caught between the door and the jamb. He threw his weight against the door with frenzied effort and heard the squash of the finger. The voice kited up to a shriek of agony, like that of a wounded animal.
Even with his life at stake, and the life of Nora, Frank could not deliberately slice the man's fingers off. Even as he fought the urge, and called himself a fool, he allowed the door to give slightly inward. The hand was jerked to safety.
At that moment another door opened close by and Jim Wilson's voice boomed: "What the hell's going on out here?"
Simultaneous with this, racing footsteps receded down the hall and from the well of the stairway came a whining cry of pain.
"Jumping jees!" Wilson bellowed. "We got company. We ain't alone!"
"He tried to get into my room."
"You shouldn't have opened the door. Nora okay?"
"Yeah. She's all right."
"Tell her to stay in her room. And you do the same. We'd be crazy to go after that coot in the dark. He'll keep 'til morning."
Frank closed the door, double-locked it and went back to Nora's bed. He could hear a soft sobbing. He reached down and pulled back the covers and the sobbing came louder. Then he was down on the bed and she was in his arms.
She cried until the panic subsided, while he held her and said nothing. After a while she got control of herself. "Don't leave me, Frank," she begged. "Please don't leave me."
He stroked her shoulder. "I won't," he whispered.
They lay for a long time in utter silence, each seeking strength in the other's closeness. The silence was finally broken by Nora.
"Frank?"
"Yes."
"Do you want me?"
He did not answer.
"If you want me you can have me, Frank."
Frank said nothing.
"I told you today that I tried to commit suicide. Remember?"
"I remember."
"That was the truth. I did it because I was tired of everything. Because I've made a terrible mess of things. I didn't want to go on living."
He remained silent, holding her.
As she spoke again, her voice sharpened. "Can't you understand what I'm telling you? I'm no good! I'm just a bum! Other men have had me! Why shouldn't you? Why should you be cheated out of what other men have had?"
He remained silent. After a few moments, Nora said, "For God's sake, talk! Say something!"
"How do you feel about it now? Will you try again to kill yourself the next chance you get?"
"No—no, I don't think I'll ever try it again."
"Then things must look better."
"I don't know anything about that. I just don't want to do it now."
She did not urge him this time and he was slow in speaking. "It's kind of funny. It really is. Don't get the idea I've got morals. I haven't. I've had my share of women. I was working on one the night they slipped me the mickey—the night before I woke up to this tomb of a city. But now—tonight—it's kind of different. I feel like I want to protect you. Is that strange?"
"No," she said quietly. "I guess not."
They lay there silently, their thoughts going off into the blackness of the sepulchral night. After a long while, Nora's even breathing told him she was asleep. He got up quietly, covered her, and went to the other bed.
But before he slept, the weird wailings from out Evanston way came again—rose and fell in that strange conversational cadence—then died away into nothing.
* * *
Frank awoke to the first fingers of daylight. Nora still slept. He dressed and stood for some moments with his hand on the door knob. Then he threw the bolt and cautiously opened the door.
The hallway was deserted. At this point it came to him forcibly that he was not a brave man. All his life, he realized, he had avoided physical danger and had refused to recognize the true reason for so doing. He had classified himself as a man who dodged trouble through good sense; that the truly civilized person went out of his way to keep the peace.
He realized now that that attitude was merely salve for his ego. He faced the empty corridor and did not wish to proceed further. But stripped of the life-long alibi, he forced himself to walk through the doorway, close the door softly, and move toward the stairs.
He paused in front of the door behind which Jim Wilson and Minna were no doubt sleeping. He stared at it wistfully. It certainly would not be a mark of cowardice to get Jim Wilson up under circumstances such as these. In fact, he would be a fool not to do so.
Stubbornness forbade such a move, however. He walked softly toward the place where the hallway dead-ended and became a cross-corridor. He made the turn carefully, pressed against one wall. There was no one in sight. He got to the stairway and started down.
His muscles and nerves tightened with each step. When he reached the lobby he was ready to jump sky-high at the drop of a pin.
But no one dropped any pins, and he reached the modernistic glass doorway to the drugstore with only silence screaming in his ears. The door was unlocked. One hinge squeaked slightly as he pushed the door inward.
It was in the drugstore that Frank found signs of the fourth-floor intruder. An inside counter near the prescription department was red with blood. Bandages and first-aid supplies had been unboxed and thrown around with abandon. Here the man had no doubt administered to his smashed hand.
But where had he gone? Asleep, probably, in one of the rooms upstairs. Frank wished fervently for a weapon. Beyond doubt there was not a gun left in the Loop.
A gun was not the only weapon ever created, though, and Frank searched the store and found a line of pocket knives still in neat boxes near the perfume counter.
He picked four of the largest and found, also, a wooden-handled, lead-tipped bludgeon, used evidently for cracking ice.
Thus armed, he went out through the revolving door. He walked through streets that were like death under the climbing sun. Through streets and canyons of dead buildings upon which the new daylight had failed to shed life or diminish the terror of the night past.
At Dearborn he found the door to the Tribune Public Service Building locked. He used the ice breaker to smash a glass door panel. The crash of the glass on the cement was an explosion in the screaming silence. He went inside. Here the sense of desolation was complete; brought sharply to focus, probably, by the pigeon holes filled with letters behind the want-ad counter. Answers to a thousand and one queries, waiting patiently for someone to come after them.
Before going to the basement and the back files of the Chicago Tribune, Frank climbed to the second floor and found what he thought might be there—a row of teletype machines with a file-board hooked to the side of each machine.
Swiftly, he stripped the copy sheets off each board, made a bundle of them and went back downstairs. He covered the block back to the hotel at a dog-trot, filled with a sudden urge to get back to the fourth floor as soon as possible.
He stopped in the drugstore and filled his pockets with soap, a razor, shaving cream and face lotion. As an afterthought, he picked up a lavish cosmetic kit that retailed, according to the price tag, for thirty-eight dollars plus tax.
He let himself back into the room and closed the door softly. Nora rolled over, exposing a shoulder and one breast. The breast held his gaze for a full minute. Then a feeling of guilt swept him and he went into the bathroom and closed the door.
Luckily, a supply tank on the roof still contained water and Frank was able to shower and shave. Dressed again, he felt like a new man. But he regretted not hunting up a haberdashery shop and getting himself a clean shirt.
Nora had still not awakened when he came out of the bathroom. He went to the bed and stood looking down at her for some time. Then he touched her shoulder.
"Wake up. It's morning."
Nora stirred. Her eyes opened, but Frank got the impression she did not really awaken for several seconds. Her eyes went to his face, to the window, back to his face.
"What time is it?"
"I don't know. I think it's around eight o'clock."
Nora stretched both arms luxuriously. As she sat up, her slip fell back into place and Frank got the impression she hadn't even been aware of her partial nudity.
She stared up at him, clarity dawning in her eyes, "You're all cleaned up."
"I went downstairs and got some things."
"You went out—alone?"
"Why not. We can't stay in here all day. We've got to hit the road and get out of here. We've overshot our luck already."
"But that—that man in the hall last night! You shouldn't have taken a chance."
"I didn't bump into him. I found the place he fixed his hand, down in the drugstore."
Frank went to the table and came back with the cosmetic set. He put it in Nora's lap. "I brought this up for you."
Surprise and true pleasure were mixed in her expression. "That was very nice. I think I'd better get dressed."
Frank turned toward the window where he had left the bundle of teletype clips. "I've got a little reading to do."
As he sat down, he saw, from the corner of his eye, a flash of slim brown legs moving toward the bathroom. Just inside the door, Nora turned. "Are Jim Wilson and Minna up yet?"
"I don't think so."
Nora's eyes remained on him. "I think you were very brave to go downstairs alone. But it was a foolish thing to do. You should have waited for Jim Wilson."
"You're right about it being foolish. But I had to go."
"Why?"
"Because I'm not brave at all. Maybe that was the reason."
Nora left the bathroom door open about six inches and Frank heard the sound of the shower. He sat with the papers in his hand wondering about the water. When he had gone to the bathroom the thought had never occurred to him. It was natural that it should. Now he wondered about it. Why was it still running? After a while he considered the possibility of the supply tank on the roof.
Then he wondered about Nora. It was strange how he could think about her personally and impersonally at the same time. He remembered her words of the previous night. They made her—he shied from the term. What was the old cliche? A woman of easy virtue.
What made a woman of that type, he wondered. Was it something inherent in their makeup? That partially opened door was symbolic somehow. He was sure that many wives closed the bathroom door upon their husbands; did it without thinking, instinctively. He was sure Nora had left it partially open without thinking. Could a behavior pattern be traced from such an insignificant thing?
He wondered about his own attitude toward Nora. He had drawn away from what she'd offered him during the night. And yet from no sense of disgust. There was certainly far more about Nora to attract than to repel.
Morals, he realized dimly, were imposed—or at least functioned—for the protection of society. With society gone—vanished overnight—did the moral code still hold?
If and when they got back among masses of people, would his feelings toward Nora change? He thought not. He would marry her, he told himself firmly, as quick as he'd marry any other girl. He would not hold what she was against her. I guess I'm just fundamentally unmoral myself, he thought, and began reading the news clips.
* * *
