The Bloody Doll Read online

  ‘Ah! those heydays of a joy inexpressible, when we joined our mouths!… how blue were the skies, how high our hopes grew! – The skies turned black: then, defeated, hope flew,’ etc. [2]

  Ah, the voice of Verlaine! Peace upon his ashes: he is my ideal, the greatest poet..!

  Still, I thought to myself: if he had been loved, it had nothing to do with his appearance, that’s for sure! It can be postulated, therefore, that there are women who allow themselves to be seduced, in dreaming, by the dream of a poet, who hides a divine liqueur in a crude vase that was created, one cruel day, by an ironic and unmotherly nature.

  The whole thing depended on having the opportunity to make myself understood! Here’s how I went about creating this opportunity...

  At the last annual exhibition of master bookbinders, I had achieved a great success. My Romantic bindings had obtained a first prize. Shortly afterwards, I placed a column in the newspapers, advertising for female students. I did not have to wait for long. The next day, a young girl presented herself on my doorstep: one Mademoiselle Henriette Havard.

  Charming and obviously highly intelligent, she told me that, since she had lost both her parents, she was dependent on an elderly aunt, and wanted to earn her own living. She proposed to become both my student and my employee. The business was concluded quickly. I owned a little villa in the suburbs of Paris, on the edge of a wood, a few yards away from a pond in a quite lonely, deserted place. That being said, I like solitude, and I imagined without difficulty that I would like it even more in the company of this pretty girl. It was there, moreover, that I worked all summer. I made an appointment to meet Henriette there the next day.

  That night, while we spoke, I had hidden my face in the half-light. I realized that, the following day, in the countryside, she would be able to see it in the full light of day. She saw it all right, but I never saw her again!... I waited for her for three days. She had given me the address of her aunt. I went to see this aunt and asked her for news of her niece, but she answered me in a tone, bordering on indifference, that she had not seen her either. I did not insist. I did not want to give the impression that I was any more worried than she was.

  In the meantime, another female student came to introduce herself, a certain Madame Claire Thomassin, a widow, who was still young and very pretty. She stayed with me for one day… This time, about forty-eight hours later, a gentleman, about fifty years old, came asking questions about Madame Claire. I replied that I had heard no news of her since she left my house. He became very sad.

  Well, I had another four female students in total… One stayed for five days, two others no more than twenty-four hours, and the last one stayed for three weeks. With her, I actually believed that the miracle would be accomplished: but, at the last moment, she vanished like all the others.

  In this last case, I wanted to feel that my conscience was clear, so I carried out an investigation… I could not find out, and, in fact, no-one could find what had become of her! This time, I do not deny that an immense, cold anguish began to take hold of me… I dared not go any further with my enquiry, fearing to learn that the other three had also disappeared! Three had disappeared, as far as I knew, and that was enough..!

  That women flee from me because I am so ugly, I could understand; but the reason they flee me as far as the end of the world, that they flee until they disappear, that they flee as far as suicide, was beyond me! Can you imagine that? Can you imagine where these hypotheses might lead..? Put yourself in my place! It’s horrible..! Even if, for that reason, or for another six reasons, they were all suicides, their corpses would have been found; but no trace of them has been found, either dead or alive!

  Dear God! I speak as if I were certain of the fate of the three others..! Well, yes: deep down, I believe that the same mystery connects all six of them…the same mystery of death..! And luckily, no-one suspects this as much as I do..!

  Luckily..! This is so immense and so absurd that I don’t want to think about it any more..! I have found that a good way to forget about it is to immerse myself in the vision and the love of Christine..! And now…

  Now, my eyes do not stray from the watchmaker’s front door… It is Sunday today, she will come out soon, when it’s time to go to mass, walking in between her father and the sawbones student… There she is! With her grand airs of an archduchess, the face of the Madonna, and the serene gaze.

  Sawbones student carries her hymn book… Ah, I too would happily go to confession for her..! But today I do not follow them..! I remain hidden behind my curtains… I shall wait, I shall watch, and surely I shall see that man from last night come out of his hiding place! I will see her secret lover! And then we shall decide what to do!

  I have been waiting for him for a half hour and still nothing has happened. Today is Sunday, and the shop presents a closed wooden front. All of the shutters have been fastened, even the one that covers the glass door. And the door does not open..! What is he waiting for..? The street is deserted, quite deserted… and he can only escape through that door. This part of the building, inhabited by this strange family, is constructed in such a way that it offers no other exit than the one that I am watching. In truth, they live there as if locked inside, as if in a prison, and the garden beyond, if one could give that name to a quadrangle planted with three trees, gives the effect of a courtyard, trapped between its two high walls that enclose it and defend it from the prying eye.

  This corner, where the building meets the garden, had once been part of the famous Coulteray mansion, whose main entrance still lies on the Béthune quays and where there resides – unique among all the old mansions on the Isle Saint-Louis, of which this cannot be said – the last representative of an illustrious family. He is Georges-Marie-Vincent, the current Marquis de Coulteray who, following a recent voyage to the British Indies, has married the youngest daughter of the Governor of Delhi: a Miss Bessie Clavendish.

  I have seen them only once. While passing an evening on the quayside, I saw the Marquis and the Marchioness at the moment they were climbing into their magnificent automobile. An electric lamp lit up the interior. The Marchioness was a young woman, who seemed to me to be rather languid, but not uninteresting, owing to a certain translucent beauty, characteristic of some English women, which is slowly disappearing in this epoch of sports.

  In contrast to this heroine from the pages of Walter Scott, the Marquis, in spite of his prematurely whitening hair, seemed to be a physically solid, alert kind of character. The blood circulated freely around his ruddy face, and his eyes, that shone as blue as steel, made him seem surprisingly young and agile for a man of fifty years or more. Georges-Marie-Vincent was the great grandson of the celebrated Marquis de Coulteray who, in the reign of Louis XV, following several memorable scandals, separated from his wife. She refused to listen to talk of divorce or suggestions that she should leave the conjugal domicile. So they were kept apart by a high wall that cut the property in two, leaving the unfortunate woman with a little tower, where she lived as a refugee, and where she died in voluntary isolation. It was there, at night, when her father and her fiancé were asleep, that the virtuous Christine received her lover.

  In order to get out of that prison of love, this man, whose appearance I still await, will have to cross this threshold. He makes me wait for a long time, there behind my curtains.

  And, by my faith, an hour has now passed, and still I have not seen the watchmaker’s door open. And now the watchmaker returns home from mass, with the proud Christine and her intrepid fiancé.

  So, the lover will pass another day in the antique cabinet, waiting for night to fall and the recompense he has promised himself!

  This idea, I must confess, does not do anything to calm my state of mind. As much as I try to think of other things, I reflect that, although I have seen Christine’s mysterious lover come out of the house, I have never seen him enter it, and this makes me wonder how long this strange honeymoon in the bottom of a closet has been going o
n.

  I find myself laughing a ferocious laugh as I think about women in general and about this one in particular, this divine Christine, with whom my heart is full. I catch myself wishing that some beautiful catastrophe might befall her, for the relief of my mind and the universal conscience! Maybe I should not go out today..!

  Five o’clock. – What has just happened is the last thing I was expecting! She came! She came here! But I should not run ahead of myself, for it is a tale worth telling, and I sense that there are more surprises in store for me!

  Ordinarily, on Sunday afternoon, the Norberts, both father and daughter, and Jacques Cotentin (the fiancé) all go out for a little stroll; but today, the old man and Jacques went out alone. The girl accompanied them to the threshold, exchanged a few pleasantries with them, and smiled her sovereign’s smile. Then she closed the door of the shop and, in the interim, in a single bound, I reached my observation post in the roof above.

  I arrived just in time to watch her traverse the small garden and to climb up the external staircase leading to the atelier, on the second floor at the top of the tower; the glass door was already wide open, out onto the balcony, and I could see the cabinet; she opened it without hesitation and the man emerged.

  She took him by the hand and whispered something into his ear; no doubt she was telling him that they would not be interrupted, and that the house was theirs for a few hours, as he proceeded straight out onto the balcony along the ramp, upon which he leaned, looking down into the garden with an expression of deep meditation.

  This time, I could see him clearly and in detail. My, my! She knew how to choose her lovers, the beautiful Christine! Here was someone that matched her in height, and I could not imagine that any daughter of Eve could desire a better man: the most handsome man in the world! When I saw that regal figure, that magnificent specimen of humanity, I swear that I cursed the Creator who made me what I am and reserved for this other the face of victory!

  This man is at the height of his strength; a perfect harmony directs his movements; nothing appears to disturb him; next to him, Christine, who has always impressed me with her fine poise seems an infantile little thing. Truly, I no longer recognise her – she seems to have changed in nature. Wearing her most radiant smile, she beckons to him with childish gestures: “Gabriel!”

  By my faith! He is as beautiful as the angel Gabriel, this man of about thirty years! Ah, how beautiful they both are! What a fine couple they make!

  I have to tell you how Gabriel is dressed, because this is also extraordinary! He is enveloped from head to toe in a cape with collars like the ones they wore at the time of the Revolution, and he wears, following the fashion of that time, hunting boots. He wears it so well that, as he stepped out of the cabinet into the light, in the back of this old house hidden on the Isle Saint-Louis, one might believe one was watching one of the adventures of the Chevalier de Fersen, arriving mysteriously in the capital in order to assist in the escape of the royal prisoner; and even Christine’s dress, with its Marie-Antoinette fichu crossed over her half-uncovered breast, adds to the illusion. What kind of game are we playing out here? How did it begin? How will it end? Where are we? I understand nothing!

  The man has not yet spoken, but he obeys her command. Gabriel descends the staircase ahead of Christine…

  Now both of them are in the garden. They sit down under a sycamore tree in front of a small table fitted with a tablecloth, upon which a bowl of fruit and some bottles remain. I can only see him partially; I see her better; she turns to him, she speaks to him, she sits close to him, she rests her head on his shoulder, I can see only their backs and the tree gets in my way. They don’t move; they rest so tenderly together, the one pressed against the other for a period of minutes that I was unable to count and which were among the most painful moments of my life.

  Ah, to have the head of a woman on my shoulder! And the head of Christine at that!

  If only I could tear the heart out of this other man!

  Finally they rose, they took each other by the hand; they climbed up the stairs, still holding hands, she led him into the atelier and then closed the door.

  I scurried downstairs, like a madman, into my workshop! And I wept! Yes, I wept! Those idiot poets are fond of saying one weeps tears of blood! How well they know!

  Suddenly, there came a knocking on the shop window. It was her! Her! Her! The one who had never spoken a single word to me! The one who had always passed by me as if I did not exist!

  I opened the door, and hung onto it lest I should fall. She saw me swaying, haggard, with red-rimmed eyes. I am horrible. I must have looked repulsive!

  In a supreme act of pity she appeared not to notice anything. She spoke to me with that air of serene nobility which in turn enchants, then crushes, then repels me: “Monsieur Benedict Masson, you are an artist; I have come to confide into your care what I value more than anything else in my bookcase – these five volumes of Verlaine’s poetry, which I want you to assemble according to your taste, which I know to be perfect.

  Some day soon, would you be so kind as to show me some samples of your Moroccan leathers, so that I can choose a different colour for the cover of each book?” And as I threw myself down to the left towards a small stock of hides that I had in stock, she raised her adorable, pale hand:

  “No, not today, if you’ll excuse me, I’m a little pressed for time!”

  And then she left, with her celestial eyes and her angel face. I had not spoken a single word. It was as if I had been annihilated. Any sense of equilibrium was broken in me. But she was perfectly self-controlled! She needed all of her serene self-control in order to navigate her way through this affair.

  Two o’clock in the morning. – A dreadful hour! This comedy could not possibly go on any longer. I came unexpectedly to witness the most rapidly unfolding and sombre of tragedies. It was a little past midnight; I was up in the skylight as usual, suffering all kinds of tortures, while the light from the top floor of the tower testified that Christine was not yet asleep, when all of a sudden, down in the moonlight that inundated the garden, I saw old Norbert appear. He began to scale the stairs like a cat; then, with his shoulder, forced open the door to the atelier. I heard Christine cry out: “Papa!”

  But old Norbert already brandished a formidable weapon above his head, something that looked like an old andiron, a fire poker made of bronze, which he brought down mercilessly, even as Christine pleaded: “Don’t kill him! Don’t kill him!”

  I saw a lurching figure – that of the man – that came tumbling out onto the balcony with his arms held out in front of him, while the crude and terrible weapon continued to bludgeon him… until he moved no more!

  Christine, beside herself by now, tore at her breast with despair.

  There followed an eerie silence.

  The old man folded his arms, glaring at the scene that had just taken place, a portrait of madness.

  At that moment Jacques, in turn, came up from out of his apartment and entered the scene: Christine got up from her knees and said : “Papa has killed him!”

  I distinctly heard the old man say: “He wouldn’t obey me any more! And it’s all your fault! I should have known!”

  As for the fiancé, he didn’t say a word, he gathered up the corpse and dragged it back into the atelier, where he had been all the time, and where they all remain at the moment when I write these lines.

  III

  Does She Have A Metronome Under Her Dress?

  Gabriel is dead! Gabriel is dead! The old man turned him into a bloody pulp! For my part, I do not worry about anything more than this single essential fact. The rest can be explained afterwards, if it becomes at all necessary but, for me, the only thing that matters is the death of Gabriel. He no longer stands between me and Christine! Will I get any further with her? I don’t really care! My heart has been reinvigorated by all the blood that the old man has spilled!

  Never again will she rest her head against the shoulder of this you
ng man, handsome as a demigod, and never again will I have to watch them kissing. But what are they going to do with the corpse? I waited and watched all night, but the door of the atelier was not opened again.

  At that point, drained by fatigue and emotion, I climbed downstairs, back to my room, threw myself onto my bed, and fell asleep in the clutches of an immense joy. Upon waking, I had the same feeling for the entire day: Gabriel is dead!

  Oh, what a cry of triumph on the threshold of a renewed life!

  My heart is grave and joyous as it pumps the blood through my chest! So how do I dare to write such words of fire? How can I delight at the sight of a cowardly murder? What does it matter? I’ve decided to believe in that principle of Schelling’s: “great minds are above the law!” Am I, then, a great mind? Perhaps I am, perhaps not. But, of one thing, I am certain: I am a great pariah!

  And that bestows rights upon me that are not understood by ordinary creatures… since I came into this world, God has tempted me! But beware! Enough of this nonsense..!

  Enough wallowing in sacrilege… time to come back down to earth… here is the sound of the cleaning lady, who comes knocking on the door of the shop.