The Secret Book of Paradys (76 page)

Rendart regretted his smile all night as he lay dozing in the fearful dank white bedroom. He was sorry he had lapsed, for it had been the smile of a torturer if not the executioner: He had punished them by making a gift to the dead, rather than to themselves, the living – that state and title to which they so obstinately clung.

A month later, as the heat of summer baked into a fruiting jamlike autumn, the tower of the mansion was opened, the stair ascended, the door undone, and the heap of bones placed in a box and borne away.

Rendart for his part contracted with the workmen, and the priest who had spiritually cleansed the room of any impressed miseries, that they should monthly submit to the de Vennes, for one year after the enterprise, continued proof of their life and health, which was accordingly done. All those who entered Morcara’s room, including Rendart himself, are still hale and going about their deeds in the world.

For of course, as Rendart had seen, having the youth, the scope for it, it was no curse at all Morcara Venka had laid upon her room in the tower. For she told no more than the truth, the truth which the old monsieur and mademoiselle must not be made to face so bitterly, the truth at which she, Morcara,
in anticipating, had thumbed her nose. Pure self-deception caused others to dance thereafter to Morcara’s tune. (As she surely knew, adding a cunning flick of the wrist to her phrase.) It was only necessary to open the eye of the mind as well as the door of the chamber, in order to go in there without terror. Or at least without any terror that was not already inherent and inevitable, and that each of us must dwell with for every year we are on the earth.
All you who dare to enter here will die
. It was a fact. All who dared the room would die. What else? For death is the destiny of all, and unavoidable, be it now, tomorrow, or eight decades hence. But how often do we like to be told, how often do we not convince ourselves we are
immortal
?

Y
ou can tell the graves of the bourgeois, always so ornate and yet so cautious, as if even here they were afraid to try too far above their stations, lest they be smitten. Sometimes you see how the living attempt to make reparation. Here the neglectful parent has strewn stony flowers above his child, but none of the real sort. The story associated with this grave is very horrible and very strange. Hearsay.

From the glycerine water they pulled her up, first hauling on the sodden shreds of her robe, but these gave way, finally getting purchase on the bones of her corset which had not rotted. Her hair streamed back into the water, like weed, and in the pre-dawn nothing-light, she was no longer pretty, or easily to be recognized.

There were many who got their trade out of the river, that Styx of Paradys. By night suicides came down to the edge like parched deer. Others, murdered, were thrust out into the depths, surfacing days or weeks later, by this or that bridge or muddy bar, to render up, to the scavengers of the river, a pearl locket, a silver watch, or a jet in a ring of mourning.

But Jausande Marguerite, she was not quite of the usual order, for they had heard of her, perhaps been looking out, and for that reason, wrapped in an oilskin, her body was taken presently to one of the judiciary buildings behind the Scholars’ Quarter. Here, under the dreadful probing of the new electric lamps, she was identified, she was given back her name, which was no longer any use to her.

And soon after that the hunt was on, but the hunt found not a thing. Thereafter all this was sensational for a brief month, then passed into the mythology of the City, that makes itself from the ragbag of everything.

“Lower the lights,” said the young man in the loud coat. “He’ll perform a miracle.”

“What nonsense,” they said generally. And then, another: “It isn’t necessary to lower the gas. He’ll do it without.”

Across the salon, the man with whom they were spicing their conversation glanced at them, and the group fell silent.

“What eyes,” said one of the women feebly, once the man had turned away.

“Oh? I thought them surprisingly poor, considering he’s supposed to use them in order to entrance, and hypnotize.”

“Probably uses his ring for that,” said another.

The loud coat admired the ring, someone else remarked pointedly that it was very vulgar. But others had not at all observed a ring, and looked for it in vain.

Then the group began to discuss a different topic. Their flylike minds were unable to remain for long in any one spot.

The man they had spoken of, however, was now and then commented upon by all sides. His nickname was The Conjuror, for it was said of him that he had made some money in a vaudeville act to the north. He represented therefore to the bourgeois evening salons of Paradys all that was ludicrous, contemptible, quaint; a butt for jokes, and perhaps needful in a dry social season.

In appearance, certainly, The Conjuror was recognizable by his very ordinariness. Not short, decidedly not tall, thinly built, and neither well nor badly dressed, his hair was combed back and his face shaven, leaving – washed up there, as it were – two normal eyes, without exceptional luster, and actually apt to turn as dull as misted spectacle lenses.

His notoriety was founded on a collection of odd stories, the facts of which came always in an altered version.

Meanwhile, he had not said, written, done, or vowed to do anything at all celebrated. There was a rumor the walls of his narrow flat near the Observatory were plastered by bills and photographs depicting him as an archmagician, raising the dead from the floorboards of a stage. But who had been to the flat to see? He was unmarried, had no servant. He went out only to those functions to which some frustrated hostess had, on a whim, summoned him. With the perversity of the City, however, his utter dreariness – he had neither wit nor charm about him – soon lifted him to a bizarre pinnacle, that of the Anticipated. There he stayed, or nearly stayed, by now fading a little, for even if lighted by others, a candle must have wax enough to burn of itself.

“My dear,” said the hostess of the evening salon, as she led her niece into the room, “I should have been lost without you.”

“Why?” said her niece, who dreaded finding the salon tedious, and longed to escape.

“Your youth and prettiness,” said the flattering aunt, “your poise. That dress which is – oh, perfection.”

Jausande Marguerite smiled. She was one of those girls who had somehow always managed to draw genuine praise from both sexes. She was
attractive enough to please but not beautiful enough to pose a threat, she was kind enough to be gentle, cruel enough to amuse, and young enough to be forgiven.

“Look there, what a fearful coat,” said Jausande, and avoided the eye of the loud young man swiftly, with a delicate, apparently spontaneous vagueness.

“Yes, his father has been a great help to your uncle. Vile people, but money … there we are …”

Jausande sighed, and cleverly concealed her sigh as she had learned to conceal a yawn at the opera.

Beyond the salon windows the evening, through which she had been driven, still had on it a light blush of promise. Jausande had caught the terrible sweet illness, often recurrent as malaria, and most unbearable in youth and middle age, the longing for that nameless thing given so many names – excitement, adventure, romance, love. Every dawn, each afternoon, all sunsets, aggravated the fever.

But through the promising dusk she had come, to this. Already her eyes had instinctively swept the room over, and found all the usual elements both inanimate and physical. There was nothing here for Jausande Marguerite. But she must pretend that there was.

Her aunt led the girl about, introducing her like a flower. Everyone liked Jausande at once, it was one of her gifts, and she perpetuated it by being nice to everyone, but not so nice that they felt under an obligation. Of course, Jausande’s aunt did
not
introduce her to any but the most deserving. And beyond the pale, no doubt, was The Conjuror, that awful little man. No, he did not meet Jausande in the formal way.

The gas lamps were already lit, and burned up steadily as the windows went out. The long room in which the gathering mingled grew close. White wine was being drunk, and small unsatisfying foods eaten. In half an hour, the evening party would break up, unless something should happen.

“Now what about” – shouted the young man in the loud coat – “a game of some sort? Some charade –” He winked at Jausande across the crowd, and she did not notice. He added, to a ripple of encouragement, “What if we have some magical tricks?”

“Now, now,” said Jausande’s aunt, “Philippe, we mustn’t turn my drawing room into a bear garden.”

“The idea,” said loud Philippe. “But surely there’s someone here can give us a show?”

At that, some of the heads turned, looking for the drab figure of The Conjuror. There he was, between the windows, a shadow with a glass of wine in its bony hand, and something repellent to him, like a smell – but he smelled of nothing at all.

To become abruptly the center of the room’s gaze did not seem to trouble him. Nor did he bloom. He did nothing.

“Monsieur,” said Jausande’s aunt, who had forgotten his name into the bargain, “you must forgive Monsieur Philippe Labonne.”

It was very strange. It was as if (as with a spell) this silly outburst, drawing attention to the supposed origins of The Conjuror, which in fact had never even been verified, were all hearsay, called up some power. The creature himself was not imbued by anything apparent. He did not change, in looks or manner (which were rather those of a funeral assistant caught out at the wake). And yet the salon, so boring a moment earlier, took on a dangerous quality, like the air during a bitter quarrel when any terrible truth may be said.

“Madame,” said The Conjuror, quietly, and there was nothing of note either in his voice or his accent, accept that the latter had a slight tinge of the streets. And he gave a nasty graceless little bow.

“There now,” said the aunt of Jausande. “But perhaps
you
, darling, will play for us on the piano?”

Jausande did not wilt or beam. She played the piano as she did all things – nicely, effectively, not brilliantly. It gave her sometimes a quiet pleasure to play in private, none in public, nor any qualms. She would do what she must.

But it was as she took a step toward the piano that she saw The Conjuror looking at her. She saw, and she could not help but see and show that she had seen. And a flush, of a sort of ghastly shame, spread over her face and neck. There was something so awful in The Conjuror’s look, for it said everything that must, by such as he, never be said, and so very openly, and so very intently.
I love you
, said the look.
I love you at first sight
.

“Whatever –?” began Jausande’s aunt.

“I’m very warm,” said Jausande. “Will you excuse me if I don’t play for a moment?”

She had averted her eyes, but still, still, she felt the eyes of
him
clinging on to her. Here and there in the recent past indecorous outpourings had been made to her.
Never
in
that
way.

And now other people in the room became aware of it, both the intensity of The Conjuror, and its object, and tiny, barely audible sounds were breaking across the audience, the whispers of sneers and laughs.

Perhaps what made it so appalling was its mediocrity. Here, in this unimportant drawing room, the birth of an obsession. And if he had been grotesque, and she amazingly beautiful, there would have been to it the dignity of tragedy. But she was only rather pretty, and he – He was nothing on earth.

And then he spoke again. They all heard him.

“If you like, madame, I can offer my poor skills, a few of them. If the ladies won’t be alarmed.”

“Why – monsieur –” and Jausande’s aunt actually stammered, so instinctively startled she was. Every line of her corseted form revealed she wanted to deny him. But it was absurd – why not? In hopes of something like this she had asked him here. It would be a coup. Nowhere else, that she knew of, had he “entertained.”

Besides, the mechanism was already in motion. As if at a signal, her guests were drawing back, leaving a broad space at the room’s far end into which The Conjuror propelled himself. He had discarded his wineglass. His hands were empty. He lifted them slightly. They were horribly bare, as if peeled.

“Look – nothing up his sleeve,” loudly said the loud Philippe.

And one of the others called, “Lower the gas!”

“No,” said The Conjuror, and from his position at their front, he had now taken some authority. “That won’t be necessary.”

And then the extraordinary did happen. He snapped his fingers (as the aunt of Jausande said afterward, for all the world like a grocer’s clerk) and each of the six gas fitments in the room was reduced to a smoky sublume. Contrastingly, the light in the area of The Conjuror was heightened. Its source was invisible.

Some of the ladies shrieked. Then there was chastened laughter.

Philippe said, “Been at the lamps – planted a helper in the basement –”

“Monsieur,” said The Conjuror, “please do yourself the kindness of becoming silent.”

This was nearly as dramatic as the trick of the lamps. It was so audacious, so frankly rude. It carried such weight. The stance of The Conjuror had changed, his voice had done so. This must be his stage presence, and as such, it was a good one.

“Now,” said The Conjuror. “Mesdames, messieurs. I must ask you all to remain as still as possible. Not to move about. To restrain your outcry. If you will do that, I can show you something, although very little. We are surrounded by wonders, kept from us only by a veil. You must understand,” he said, and now there was not a sound otherwise, “that I know how to twitch aside that veil, a fraction. To reveal more would be to endanger your sanity. You must trust me in this. You must trust me utterly. From this moment, your lives and hearts hang from my grip. I will not let you go. But your obedience is essential. How else can I protect you?”