He had only to climb back to the top of the roofs to hear the ceaseless traffic of the tumbrels, a muffled clamor full of groans, and the sound, like fine rain, made by the smoke from the pyres brushing the tiles.
Angelo went back to sit by the window of the attic. For several hours he breathed it in every now and then, the way one smells a flower. He put his head through the opening, he gazed at the bodices, the dresses, the little shoes, the boots, the saber; he savored the perfume of souls he imagined to be sublime.
“I’m not generally considered frivolous,” he said to himself. “How many times haven’t they reproached me for my lack of taste for pleasure? And I certainly made that poor Anna Clèves unhappy with my coldness, although really she asked very little of me, to judge from the way the young officers who went to the same fencing-school as I in Aix-en-Provence carried on with the ladies. She’d never believe me capable of creating a being who puts on these shoes, wears these dresses, carries this parasol in her hand, draws this mauve faille hood over her head and walks in this attic (which is moreover a park, a château, an estate, a country complete with parliament), and who is bringing me at this present moment the greatest pleasure I could have (indeed the only one), merely at seeing her walk.”
He went back to sit by the little wall. Again he saw the black smoke riding in the chalky sky. He heard the tumbrels rolling over the cobbles, stopping, starting again, stopping, starting again, indefatigably going their rounds through the streets. He listened to the great silence relentlessly pressing down around the noise of the tumbrels, around groans and cries for help.
At length he tried to squeeze through the window. He only managed to wedge his shoulders and scrape his arms. But suddenly he thought of the attitude one adopts when giving a thrust according to the rules, the right arm stretched out, head flat against the right shoulder, left arm straight down the thigh, left shoulder drawn back.
“It’s a regulation thrust that’s needed here,” he told himself. “If I can hold myself that way, I bet I can get through.”
He tried, and would have succeeded but for the pistols bulging his pockets. He stuffed the pistols into his boots and lowered the boots into the attic. The window, inside, stood about four and a half feet from the floor. He reached down as far as possible, but had to let his boots fall all the same, with no hope of being able to recover them if he failed to get through.
“You’ve burned your bridges,” he thought; “now you must go ahead. If you stay here without boots and pistols, you’re just a yokel.”
In spite of his thinness and the perfection of his dueling position, he remained stuck, luckily at the hips. By wriggling like a worm and pushing with his right hand, he managed to wrench himself free and roll down inside, where he made a considerable noise falling on the wooden floor.
“Madonna!” he said, picking himself up, “grant that the people here are dead!”
He remained a long while on the alert, but nothing stirred.
The attic was even more enchanting than it had appeared. The far end, invisible from the window and lit by a few glass tiles scattered about the roof, now struck by the setting sun, was bathed in an almost opaque sirup of light. Objects emerged only in fragmentary shapes that no longer bore any connection with their true meaning. That gracefully curved chest of drawers was now just a belly covered with a plum-colored silk waistcoat; a tiny headless Dresden figure that must have started life as an angelic musician, had become, through the enlargement of the sweeping shadows, through the keen sparkle the light gave to the break at its neck, a sort of South Sea island bird: a Creole girl’s or a pirate’s cockatoo. The dresses and coats were really at a party. The shoes showed beneath fringes of light as though peeping from under a curtain, and the shadowy people whose presence they thus betrayed were standing not on a floor but on the tiered perches of a vast bird cage. The rays of the sun, darting in glittering linear constellations of dust, brought these strange beings to life in triangular worlds, and the perceptible descent of the setting sun, slowly shifting the circles of light, filled them with movement stretching indefinitely as though in the tepid water of an aquarium. The cat came to greet Angelo, stretched itself too, opened its mouth wide, and gave an inaudible mew.
“A grand camping-ground,” thought Angelo. “Only the victualing’s a bit shaky; but when it’s dark I’ll go and explore the depths. Anyhow, here I’m in clover.”
And he lay down on an old divan.
He woke up. It was night.
“En route!” he said to himself. “Now I really must have something to get my teeth into.”
The depths, seen from the little landing outside the attic door, were terribly dark. Angelo lit his tinder. He blew on the wick, saw the top of the banister in the pink glow, and began to descend slowly, accustoming his feet gradually to the rhythm of the steps.
He came to another landing. This seemed to be the third floor, judging from the echo down the stairwell, in which the least slither had its shadow. He blew on the wick. As he had supposed, the space around him was extensive. Here, three doors, but all three shut. Too late to force the locks. He would see tomorrow. He must go down further. His feet recognized the feel of marble steps.
Second floor: three doors, also shut; but these were unquestionably bedroom doors: their panels were adorned with round bosses and quiver-and-ribbon motifs. These people had surely gone. The quivers and ribbons were not the attributes of people who allow their corpses to be piled into tumbrels. Indeed, the chances were they had swept the kitchen clean, or rather had it swept clean, to the smallest recesses of its cupboards. He must look lower down. Perhaps even as far as the cellar.
From this point the stairs were carpeted. Something slid between Angelo’s legs. It must be the cat. There were twenty-three steps between the attic and the third floor; twenty-three between the third and second. Angelo was on the twenty-first step between the second and the first when, opposite him, a sudden streak of gold framed a door, which opened. It was a very young woman. She was holding a three-branched candlestick, level with a spearhead face framed in heavy dark hair.
“I am a gentleman,” said Angelo stupidly.
There was a brief moment of silence, and she said:
“I think that was just what needed saying.”
She was so far from trembling that the three flames of her candlestick were stiff as the prongs of a fork.
“It’s true,” said Angelo.
“The oddest thing is that it rings true,” she said.
“Thieves don’t have cats,” said Angelo, who had seen the cat slip in front of him.
“But who does have cats?” said she.
“This one is not mine,” said Angelo, “but it follows me because it has recognized a peaceable man.”
“What is a peaceable man doing at this hour and in the place where you are?”
“I arrived in this town three or four days ago,” said Angelo. “I was nearly hacked to pieces as a fountain-poisoner. Some people with one-track minds chased me through the streets. When I took refuge in a doorway the door opened and I hid in the house. But there were corpses, or, to be exact, one corpse. So I went up on the roof. I’ve lived up above ever since.”
She had listened without moving a muscle. This time the silence was just a little longer. Then she said:
“So I expect you’re hungry?”
“That’s why I came down to look,” said Angelo. “I thought the house was empty.”
“Be thankful that it isn’t,” said the young woman with a smile. “My aunts leave deserts behind them.”
She drew back, though still lighting the landing.
“Come in,” she said.
“I don’t want to intrude,” said Angelo. “I shall be disturbing your company.”
“You’re not intruding,” she said, “I am inviting you. And you aren’t disturbing any company: I am alone. Those ladies left five days ago. I myself have found it very hard to get enough to eat since they left. Even so, I’
m better off than you.”
“Aren’t you afraid?” said Angelo, moving toward her.
“Not the least bit.”
“If not of me—and a thousand thanks for that—” said Angelo, “what about the plague?”
“Don’t thank me, monsieur,” she said. “Come in. Our doorway compliments are absurd.”
Angelo entered a fine drawing-room. He immediately saw his own reflection in a tall mirror. He had eight days’ growth of beard and long streaks of black sweat all over his face. His shirt hanging in ribbons over his bare arms and chest covered with black hair, his dusty breeches still bearing traces of the plaster from his entry through the garret window, his torn stockings from which two rather savage feet emerged, conferred on him a highly regrettable appearance. All he had in his favor was his eyes, which still, in spite of everything, had an attractive warmth.
“I’m terribly sorry,” he said.
“What are you terribly sorry about?” said the young woman, who was lighting the wick of a small spirit lamp.
“I realize,” said Angelo, “that you have every reason to mistrust me.”
“What makes you think I mistrust you? I’m making you some tea.”
She moved without a sound over the carpets.
“I suppose you haven’t had anything hot to drink for a long time?”
“I can’t remember how long!”
“Unfortunately I have no coffee. Anyhow, I wouldn’t know where to find the coffeepot. Outside one’s own home one can never find anything. I arrived here eight days ago. My aunts left nothing behind them; I’d be surprised if they had done anything else. This is some tea, which I luckily thought of bringing with me.”
“Please excuse me,” said Angelo in a stifled voice.
“This is no time for apologies,” she said. “What are you doing, standing there? If you really want to reassure me, behave in a reassuring way. Sit down.”
Docilely, Angelo placed the tip of his backside on the edge of an exquisite chair.
“Some cheese that smells of goats (indeed, that’s why they left it), the bottom of a pot of honey, and, of course, some bread. Will that do?”
“I’ve quite forgotten the taste of bread.”
“This bread is hard. You need good teeth. How old are you?”
“Twenty-five,” said Angelo.
“As old as that?” she said.
She had cleared the corner of a table and laid on it a huge soup bowl on a plate.
“You are too kind,” said Angelo. “I thank you with all my heart for anything you care to give me, for I’m dying of hunger. But I’ll take it away; I couldn’t sit down and eat in front of you.”
“Why not?” she said. “Am I repulsive? And what would you take your tea away in? I couldn’t possibly lend you any bowl or dish, put that out of your head. Take plenty of sugar, and break your bread as you would to dip it in soup. I’ve made the tea very strong, and it’s boiling. Nothing could be better for you. If I embarrass you, I can go out.”
“It’s my dirtiness that embarrasses me,” said Angelo. He had spoken abruptly, but he added: “I feel shy.” And he smiled.
She had green eyes and could open them so wide that they filled the whole of her face.
“I don’t dare give you anything to wash in,” she said softly. “All the water in this town is contaminated. Just now it is much wiser to be dirty but well. Eat quietly. The only advice I can give you,” she added, smiling in turn, “is to wear shoes if you can, from now on.”
“Oh!” said Angelo, “I’ve got some boots up there, indeed very handsome ones. But I had to pull them off to be able to walk on the tiles, which are slippery, and also to come down into the houses without making any noise.”
“I’m a perfect idiot,” he said to himself, but a sort of critical sense added: “At least you are naturally so.”
The tea was excellent. At the third spoonful of soaked bread, he no longer thought of anything but eating voraciously and drinking the boiling liquid. For the first time in a long while he was quenching his thirst. He actually did not think any more about the young woman. She was walking across the carpet. As a matter of fact she was busy preparing a second pot of tea. As he was finishing, she refilled his bowl to the brim.
He would have liked to say something, but his throat had begun to work madly. He couldn’t stop swallowing saliva. He felt as if he were making a terrible noise. The young woman was watching him wide-eyed, but she did not appear to be astonished.
“Now I shan’t give in to you any more,” he said firmly when he had finished his second bowl of tea. (“I’ve managed to speak firmly but politely,” he told himself.)
“You haven’t been giving in to me,” said she. “You’ve been giving in to a hunger even greater than I’d supposed, and above all to thirst. This tea is a real blessing.”
“I’ve made you go short?”
“No one’s making me go short,” she said; “don’t worry.”
“I’ll accept one of your cheeses and a piece of bread to take away, if you’ll let me, and ask your leave to withdraw.”
“Where to?” she said.
“Just now I was up in your attic,” said Angelo. “Needless to say, I shall leave it at once.”
“Why needless to say?”
“I suppose I don’t really know.”
“If you don’t know, you might just as well stay there tonight. You can decide tomorrow when day comes.”
Angelo bowed.
“May I make a suggestion?” he said.
“Please do.”
“I have two pistols, one of them empty. Will you accept the loaded one? These exceptional times have let loose a lot of exceptional passions.”
“I’m pretty well provided for,” she said; “see for yourself.”
She lifted a shawl that had been lying all this time beside the spirit lamp. It covered two powerful horse pistols.
“You are better equipped than I,” said Angelo coldly, “but those are heavy weapons.”
“I’m used to them,” she said.
“I should have liked to thank you.”
“You’ve done so.”
“Good night, madame. Tomorrow, first thing, I shall have left the attic.”
“Then it is for me to thank you,” said she.
He was at the door. She stopped him.
“Would a candle be of help to you?”
“The greatest help, madame, but I’ve only tinder in my box; I can’t strike a flame.”
“Would you like a few matches?”
Returning to the attic, Angelo was astonished to find the cat still at his heels. He had forgotten this creature whose company had given him so much pleasure.
“I’m going to have to squeeze through that narrow window once more,” he told himself, “but in all decency a gentleman can’t remain alone with so young and pretty a woman; even cholera is no excuse in such cases. She kept perfect control over herself, but there’s no denying my presence in the attic could easily be an embarrassment to her. Ah well! I’ll squeeze through that narrow window once more.”
The tea had given him strength and, above all, a great feeling of well-being. He was full of admiration for everything the young woman down below had done. “Had I been in her place,” he said to himself, “would I have carried off as well as she that air of cold scorn for danger? Could I have played as well as she did, a hand where I had everything to lose? One must admit I’m pretty terrifying to look at; even, what’s worse, repellent.” He was forgetting the light in his eyes.
“She didn’t once give a trick away, and yet she is hardly twenty; let us say twenty-one or two at the most. I always find women old, but I can see that this one is young.”
Her reply on the subject of the horse pistols also intrigued him greatly. Angelo had plenty of wits, above all in the matter of weapons. But even in these cases he only had an esprit d’escalier. A solitary man acquires, once and for all, the habit of brooding over his own dreams; he can no lo
nger react immediately to the assault of suggestions from outside. He is like a monk at his breviary in the middle of a ball game, or a skater who takes too much trouble with his form and can only answer calls for help by describing a long curve.
“I was angular and all of a piece,” said Angelo to himself. “I ought to have behaved like a brother. That would have been a splendid way of playing my own cards. The horse pistols were a good opening. I should have told her that a small weapon well handled is more dangerous, inspires more respect than a big and heavy weapon, which is a great nuisance, especially when there is such a difference in size as there is between her hand and the thick butt, fat barrels, and heavy metalwork of those pistols. It’s true she’s facing dangers of a quite different kind, and one can’t fire pistols at the tiny flies that carry the cholera.”
At this point he was overcome by a thought so appalling that he started up from the divan where he was lying.
“What if I have given her the plague myself?” This “myself” froze him with terror. He always responded to the most trivial acts of generosity by a debauch of generosity. The idea of having probably brought death to that brave and lovely young woman, and after she had made tea for him, was intolerable. “I’ve been with, I’ve not only been with, I’ve touched, I’ve tended cholera victims. No doubt I am covered with vapors that don’t attack me, or perhaps haven’t attacked me yet, but may well attack and kill that woman. She was very sensibly keeping out of it, shut up in her house; and I forced my way in, she received me nobly, and she will perhaps die for that nobility, for that unselfishness, from which I’ve been the one to benefit.”
He was overwhelmed.
“I went all through the house from cellar to attic where the dry cholera had struck down that woman with the lovely golden hair before she could reach the door. This one is darker than the night, but dry cholera strikes like terrible lightning and people haven’t even time to call for help. And … have I gone mad, or what does the color of a woman’s hair count in a case of dry cholera?”