Vertigo by Pierre Boileau Page A

gently behind him. He crossed the hall on tip-toe. He felt sick with disgust, and yet relieved. The hardest part was over. The Gévigne Case was wound up. As for what Gévigne was suffering… But wasn’t he, Flavières, suffering just as much? More! He had to admit, as he got into his car and slammed the door, that he had almost from the first regarded himself as Madeleine’s real husband. Gévigne was only a usurper. And you don’t sacrifice yourself for a usurper; you don’t go to the police, to your former colleagues, and explain to them that you’ve allowed a young woman to kill herself because you hadn’t the courage to go to her rescue… You don’t for the second time in your life accept dishonour for the sake of a man who… No. Leave that alone! Silence! Peace! The thing now was to get away, and did not that client of his at Orléans provide an excellent pretext for leaving Paris?
    Flavières never knew how he managed to drive back to the garage. He was walking now, not caring where he went, down a street bathed in an evening light which seemed to float instraight from the country, very blue, sad, and with overtones of war. At a crossing there was a crowd pressing round a car which had two mattresses lashed down on the roof. The world was becoming chaotic. As darkness fell all lights were extinguished, and the subdued crowd ebbed back into their homes leaving deserted squares whose silence tore at one’s heart. Everything conspired to bring his mind back to the dead woman. He entered a small restaurant in the Rue Saint-Honoré and chose a table in the far corner.
    ‘ A la carte ?’ asked the waiter.
    ‘No, I’ll have the table d’hôte .’
    He couldn’t bear to choose, yet he must eat something. He must try to go on living as before. He thrust his hand in his pocket to touch the lighter, and Madeleine’s face sprang up before him, floating between his eyes and the white tablecloth.
    ‘She never loved me,’ he mused. ‘She never loved anybody.’
    He swallowed his soup mechanically. He was detached from the things of the world, like an ascetic. He would live henceforth as a pauper, wallowing in his grief, imposing penances to punish himself. He might even buy a whip and take to flagellation. It was only right he should hate himself. He must hate himself for a long time before he had a right to any self-respect.
    ‘They’ve broken through at Liège,’ said the waiter. ‘Seems the Belgians are falling back, just as they did in ’14.’
    ‘Gossip,’ said Flavières. ‘Pay no attention to it.’
    Liège was a long way off, right up at the top of the map. What happened up there had nothing to do with Flavières. In any case, this war they talked so much about was only a tiny episode in the death-struggle which was his.
    ‘On the Place de la Concorde one of our customers saw a car that was fairly riddled with bullets.’
    ‘The next course, please,’ said Flavières.
    Why couldn’t they leave him alone? Belgians! Why not Dutchmen? Silly ass! He hurried over the meat. It was tough, but he didn’t complain, since he had resolved never to complain again. He would accept anything. What was painful would be grist to his mill. With the fruit, however, he drank two glasses of brandy, and his thoughts began to emerge from the fog in which they had been floundering for the last few hours. His elbows on the table, he lit a cigarette. With the lighter, of course, and that gave the smoke he inhaled something of the substance of Madeleine. He tasted her, retained her for a moment within him.
    He was certain now that Madeleine hadn’t done anything wrong before her marriage. It was a stupid supposition. Gévigne would have made enquiries: he wasn’t the man to buy a pig in a poke. Another thing: Madeleine’s remorse would have been inexplicably tardy, since for several years she had appeared quite normal. The trouble had started at the beginning of February—there was no getting away from