The Givreuse Enigma Read online

  For Thérèse, the renewal was of another kind. She too saw the past phantasmagorically rejuvenated, but with the certainty that Philippe was someone other than Pierre. What she rediscovered of Givreuse’s voice, gestures and ideas was only a repetition, in the same way that the flowers of spring are a repetition of those of previous springs. What had seduced her in one man she found again in another, and, as she retained a nostalgic regard for Givreuse—who had been the great love of her life—she experienced an intoxicating rebirth of her destiny.

  She had no idea what she was going to do, though. A widow, she had only succumbed to temptation once, after long resistance. By nature, she was correct; after the break-up with Pierre, she had sworn never to accept love again, except within marriage. But did she love Philippe? She could not tell. She surrendered to the impulse of the moment, to a sort of psychic miracle that could have no future. Everything was contained in conversations punctuated by languorous silences, during which she thought about the brevity of existence and its bitter uncertainty. One day when he had stayed longer than usual, she said to him: “It’s rather late to go back to Carolles. Do you know what? We’ll dine together.”

  She regretted her invitation immediately; then, thinking that within three weeks she would be crossing an ocean full of snares, she shrugged her shoulders.

  They dined on the luminous terrace in front of huge copper beeches and Hungarian linden-trees, separated by an extensive lawn beyond which garden flowers and wild flowers grew randomly. It was the season when the lindens were beginning to emit their magical scent; it arrived at the whim of the breeze, expressive of the obscure desire of that which is determined to grow and multiply.

  The evening passed extraordinarily slowly. Bats circled the treetops and flew along the wall, melancholy dancers in the dusk.

  “I’ve detested the evening twilight for a long time,” said Thérèse, as she nibbled one of those little elongated strawberries that are neither entirely domesticated nor entirely wild. “It seems to me to be the hour of anguish, of evil expectation. I imagine that those great fires illuminating the clouds are about to set fire to the Earth and the sky.”

  “I’ve always liked the evening twilight,” Philippe replied.

  “Are you sure of that? Children don’t like it at all…nor do most animals. That’s perfectly natural. It announces the advent of nature’s mourning-dress—the night.”

  He contemplated the enchanted silhouette, over which the occident spread a variegated light. A few bright stars were beginning to appear. A cricket trilled in the grass; another soon replied from the far side of the lawn. Glow-worms lit their little pale green lanterns.

  “Is it possible that we’re at war?” she said, her expression suddenly darkening. “And that so many others…” She did not finish the sentence; she lowered her head. Both of them shared in the bitter pain she had evoked.

  The coffee evaporated its aroma, replete with promise and consolation. Night had fallen. Insects fluttered around the candle-flames; with every passing minute a tiny roasted corpse fell upon the tablecloth, agitating its minuscule limbs for an instant before falling asleep for eternity.

  “That’s strange!” she said. “Why do these tiny creatures come to die in this fashion? Life is full of impenetrable stupidities!”

  “These insects seem to us to be automata of a sort—but what about the thousands of birds which precipitate themselves at lighthouses and break their bodies thereon? Yes, an incredible stupidity is mingled with the ingenuity of creatures—and we’re just as much animals as those insects!”

  “More, perhaps, for we can foresee events—and look at what our foresight does for us! I assume you smoke…”

  “Not much—only at times when the sadness becomes too great.”

  “For the mirage?”

  “Tobacco doesn’t provide me with any mirage. It dissolves and disperses my ideas. This evening, I prefer the odor of the linden-trees.” In the dancing and indeterminate light, he breathed in that accompaniment, which seemed to spring from a magical Earth. “How sweet it is to look at you,” he murmured, in a tone that she recognized.

  She started slightly, and plunged into the depths of the dream. “Really,” she said, with a hint of mockery. “Are you being sincere?”

  “Is it possible that I might not be? Are there many Frenchmen for whom you would not be a marvelous spectacle?”

  “Marvelous! That’s a rather extravagant word…”

  “Since the gods are dead, what remains to man of the marvelous, except for woman?”

  “Good—if you’re talking about all women.”

  “I’m talking about those of whom old Priam said: ‘It’s right that one should die for them!’”

  “Priam was an old fool.” She shook her head. “Let’s go for a walk in the moonlight—it’s rising behind the copper beeches.”

  She got up and went down to the lawn, bare-headed. He followed her, all a-tremble. Confused glimmers of light guided them. He knew her too well not to know that it was a provocation, but he also knew that she was provocative by virtue of caprice, curiosity and the spirit of bravado.

  “At heart,” she said, “I’m a country-dweller, with a slight hint of savagery. It’s not because it’s beautiful that I love nature, it’s because it’s redoubtable.”

  At first they walked on the lawn; then Thérèse took an oblique pathway that led through the beeches. The delicate odor of the young woman dominated the odors of the vegetation; he listened to the rustle of her skirt. When she turned round, he perceived the whiteness of her face, whose form was vaporous, and a dark mass that was her hair…

  Blood rose to Philippe’s head; he seized her little hand and squeezed it.

  “Oh!” she said, reproachfully. She snatched her hand away, and her laughter gushed out, silvery and slightly hoarse. “You shan’t catch me!”

  She had disappeared. He heard her light footfalls in the shadows. A sort of gleam shone momentarily beneath the trees, then was lost in the darkness. Philippe shivered; all the ancient dreams, all the amorous fables concerning forests, nymphs and elves, intoxicated him. He ran at hazard, losing his head. Suddenly, laughter burst forth behind him; turning round, he saw her pale silhouette three paces away.

  “You see,” she said, “I can’t be caught. And here’s what we’re looking for…”

  A phosphorescence insinuated itself between the trees, then the glimmer of a night-light; there was a sensation of an immense presence. Finally, the red, cold orb stood out amid the colonnades.

  “Here’s the hand that you wanted to take,” she said, with an equivocal softness. “It’s a friendly hand.”

  He took the little hand fearfully; he knelt down to kiss it.

  “Are you really paying court to me? Be careful.”

  “What else can I do, if I love you?”

  “Love me? Do you think so?” She took his arm and drew him back to the lawn, which resembled a vast green pool. Noctules were flying hectically back and forth; a toad was croaking its obscure love-song. “What you just said to me is frightening!” she murmured. “But it’s not true…”

  “Not true!” he groaned. “As true as my life itself…”

  “That would be even more frightening. It’s not permissible to love so quickly. And if you really love me, unfortunate boy, remember that I shall soon be leaving…that you won’t see me again—if you ever do—for a long time. One doesn’t squander one’s love in such a manner!”

  “Does our will ask such questions? Besides, to suffer because of you, Madame, is a further delight.”

  She looked at him amicably, but she made no reply.

  For a week, their meetings were brief. She displayed variable moods; there were moments when she treated him as a stranger, others when she was almost wheedling. Neither of them thought about the denouement. Thérèse had the countless reasons that women have for not wanting to do so. Perhaps she would have restricted herself to a platonic remembrance even with Pierre—she did
not know. With Philippe the adventure unfolded all the more equivocally for being a combination of the love of yesterday and the love of today. The attraction that she experienced with regard to Givreuse’s fantastic double, however, increased with an unexpected rapidity. Although born of the resemblance between the two men, it was quite different; the new love had, in Thérèse’s view, a greater intimacy than the other…

  One day, when she was listening to Philippe, she experienced a sharp suspicion. The same suspicion had occurred to her several times before, but it had seemed so absurd that she had not entertained it for a moment; this time, it was irresistible. She watched Philippe slyly, and asked him insidious questions…

  He was on his guard. Mademoiselle de Varsennes’ crisis had taught him to mistrust his memories; he only spoke about the past with extreme prudence. Thérèse did not catch him out in any mistake, and yet the suspicion lingered. There was even a moment when she was convinced that Pierre de Givreuse was with her, playing the role of Philippe.

  That’s idiotic, she thought. Why would he do that?

  The suspicion persisted, however, equivocal and manifold.

  And what if it were Pierre?

  She was not a woman to live in doubt. She had the two men watched; she knew, in broad terms, what they were doing and where they went. She obtained information on Mademoiselle de Varsennes that was fragmentary, but decisive for a mind like hers.

  Is that why Pierre hasn’t come? she wondered. But if my suspicions are accurate, that might explain why he’s playing the role of Philippe with me. That would be abominable and cunning—he’d have the old love and the new, without any risk!

  The female imagination dabbles in the impossible, especially when the impossible is mixed up with the age-old battle of the sexes. She laughed at herself; even so, she went to take a peek at the Château de Givreuse and keep watch on Pierre’s movements.

  One day, flushed with excitement, she lay in wait for him. He found her suddenly in front of him, on the road. Hypnotized, his gaze fixed itself upon her, with a naïve stupefaction that could not be feigned. “Thérèse!” he stammered.

  She examined him with avid curiosity. Very quickly, she saw that he had thinner cheeks than Philippe, a paler complexion, and something in his entire bearing that was dreamier, more indecisive. This is Pierre, she said to herself. It’s him that I loved…

  She felt, with muted joy, that that love, once so profound and so terrible, now left her almost indifferent. It had disappeared conclusively into the gulf of dead things. Only Philippe moved her. She divined a similar indifference in the young man, and that was the only reason that she felt slightly resentful. “I’ve seen your double, you know,” she said, slightly sarcastically. “The resemblance is certainly uncanny —but I wouldn’t be deceived by it.”

  They stayed there briefly, exchanging remarks that were of scant interest to them; then she offered him her hand, without rancor.

  Pierre thought that he ought to telegraph Philippe, who arrived at the château that evening. “I ran into Thérèse,” he said, as soon as they were alone.

  Philippe went pale, suffering a sudden surge of jealousy. “Where?” he asked, hoarsely.

  “On the Avranches road.”

  “She must have contrived it.”

  “I don’t think so. The conversation was brief and insignificant.”

  Philippe walked with his head bowed for some time. A profound wrinkle brought his eyebrows closer together; an anguished severity contracted his lips.

  “I don’t need any exaggeration of my ordeal,” he said, finally. “I’m conforming strictly with the lot; I didn’t want there to be any de facto rivalry between us. Thérèse is completely indifferent to you?”

  “Completely.”

  “Good! For myself, I love her…”

  “You love her!” Pierre exclaimed. The evolution of his own life bore such scant resemblance to Philippe’s that he was dumbfounded. He could not understand how, having loved Valentine, one could revert to loving Madame de Lisanges.

  “Yes,” said Philippe. “And take note that my loving her is not a return to the past—the past is almost an obstacle. I love her by virtue of a renewal of my person, and of hers—which is as inexplicable as our unity. Doubtless I have not entirely ceased to love Valentine, but now the abandonment of that love is no longer tragic. Even if she does not love me, Thérèse has saved me…to suffer for her sake is an ordinary suffering. Do you understand why I need to be entirely certain of your indifference?”

  Pierre listened, fascinated. The youth of the universe entered into him again, all the scattered favors that illusion gathers together in heaven and Earth. He was hopeful, as one breathes in the fresh morning breeze.

  “Is that true?” he stammered. “Oh, if you knew how remote Thérèse is…how she has faded into the darkness…”

  “That’s more than I asked for. Be free. Between you and Valentine, there’s no longer any obstacle…”

  They had stopped in a covert resplendent with vagabond flowers; they looked at one another with that expression which surpassed affection—but they made none of the gestures that display the amity of men.

  III.

  Thérèse was playing one of those Slavic sonatas vibrant with the same rebellious, dissatisfied and fraternal soul as War and Peace or Crime and Punishment. Phantoms were passing over the steppes in the surge of the sea-wind; waves of mysticism were swelling hearts; men were bewailing their bitter destiny and their eternal isolation.

  Philippe contemplated her harmonious figure and her neck, as round as the neck of the Shulamite,9 overhung by her fabulous hair. The sonorous enchantments evoked his own destiny. He was astonished not to find it even stranger.

  “Do you like it?” she asked.

  “Sometimes it’s too fluid…everything escapes me…then there’s an imperious envelopment, almost morbid but very gentle nevertheless…”

  The dark lashes of Thérèse’s changing eyes fluttered; love radiated from her like the perfume of linden-trees—and Philippe remembered, with astonishment, that she had been his mistress, although she did not know it, and that they were now confronting one another like people in love with one another for the first time…

  It was necessary to conquer her! She sat there, enigmatic and new, and he, who had pressed her to his heart on countless occasions, did not even know whether he would obtain a kiss on the lips…

  “Will you love me forever?” she asked, with a mixture of coaxing and sarcasm.

  “You’re too womanly not to be sure of that!”

  “Sure? The most deceptive of words. How can creatures around whom everything changes, and who change themselves, be sure of anything?”

  “E pur si…”10

  “You think so—and it isn’t false…but it’s impossible that it should already be true…or, if so, it’s a poor love, of which it’s necessary to be afraid.”

  “Don’t say that,” he said, in a pleading tone. “Who knows whether a great love might not be born in a matter of days?”

  “All right…let’s say that it’s not verified. I’m a classicist; I have a sense of time…and I only have faith in that which lasts! First, I have to know whether the love I’m offered will be a great adventure—if not, what good is it? In this tragic world, where we receive so little happiness and so little beauty, what remains to a woman if love is merely a caprice?” She inclined her sparkling head. “You don’t displease me… but how do I know whether I can love you? How many times shall I see you before my departure? Perhaps ten. And how many times have I seen you already? We’re strangers—is it possible that we shall cease to be within such a short interval.”

  “But what if you were to fall in love with me?”

  “Well then,” she said, with her little ambiguous laugh, “I would love you, and that’s all. You can’t think that I’d surrender at the last moment, like a thunderclap. That would be the surest means of being forgotten.”

  “I wouldn’t forget you.�
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  “What do you know about it? You’re not yet at the age when a man knows himself; and I don’t know whether that age ever arrives for one in 1000! What I do know is that perfidious masculine moralists have lied throughout the centuries in charging woman with the infidelity that is the very essence of man!” She had drawn closer; she put her little hands on Philippe’s shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “Mystery! Mystery” she whispered.11

  He shuddered. With an irresistible gesture, he took Thérèse in his arms and drew her to his bosom. She scarcely resisted. Her hair was there, so soft and wild; he plunged his lips into it recklessly, and felt the young woman’s delightful body shiver. “Thérèse!” he stammered.

  She detached herself from his grasp with a brisk and lithe movement. “You don’t have the right to call me that!” she protested. Momentarily, emotion retained its grip on her and twisted her mouth. Her pupils were dilated to the point at which the iris was no more than a shining ring. She collected herself; her face became serious and severe. “I’m on my guard, you see!” she said, defiantly. “Don’t count on any surprise!”

  He knew her well. He knew that she would remain mistress of herself, until the moment when she consented freely…

  The clock chimed 6 p.m. “I’m expecting a visitor,” she said. “Shall I see you tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know. We’re trying out an electric boat—a large pinnace, unsinkable, which might, when it’s perfected, be useful against submarines…”

  “Ah!” she said, interestedly. “They say that there are submarines close to the shore. How could a pinnace combat those monsters?”

  “The boat is extremely fast…an advantage increased by its smallness. It could launch a light torpedo, which is believed to be effective.

  Anxiety spread across Thérèse’s features; she squeezed Philippe’s hand nervously. “Come as soon as you return…it doesn’t matter what time!”