The Tenth Man

18

CAROSSE CALLED HARSHLY DOWN, “YOU’RE MAD,” BUT Chavel went on speaking quietly to the girl. “That man is an actor called Carosse. You’ve probably heard of him. He’s wanted by the police as a collaborationist and the murderer of a man called Toupard.”

“You’re crazy.”

“I don’t understand,” the girl said. She wiped a damp strand of hair from her forehead. She said, “So many lies. I don’t know who’s lying. Why did you say you recognized him?”

“Yes, tell us that,” Carosse called triumphantly.

“I was afraid to tell you who I was because I knew how much you hated me. When he came I thought here was a chance of losing myself forever. He could have all the hatred.”

“What a liar you are,” Carosse mocked him over the banister. They stood side by side above him and it occurred to Chavel with horror that perhaps he was too late: perhaps this was not simply the lust of grief that the priest had spoken of, but genuine love which would be as ready to accept Carosse that cheat as it had Chavel the coward. He no longer cared about anything in the world but building an indestructible barrier between them-at whatever risk, he thought, at whatever risk.

Carosse said, “You’d better pick up your bed and walk. You’re not wanted here any more.”

“This house is Mademoiselle Mangeot’s. Let her speak.”

“What a cheat you are.” Carosse put his hand on the girl’s arm and said, “He came to me yesterday and told me that this house was really mine: that some decree or other, I don’t know what, had made changes during the occupation illegal. As if I’d take advantage of a quibble like that.”

Chavel said, “When I was a boy in this house I had a game I used to play with a friend across the valley.”

“What on earth are you talking about now?”

“Be patient. You’ll find the story interesting. I used to take a torch like this or a candle, or if it was a sunny day a mirror-and I used to flash a message like this through the door here. Sometimes it would be just ‘Nothing doing.’”

Carosse said, with a note of anxiety, “What are you doing now?”

“This message always meant: ‘Help, the Redskins are here.’”

“Oh,” the girl said, “I can’t understand all this talk.”

“The friend still lives over the valley-even though he’s not a friend any more. This is the time he’ll be going out to the cows. He’ll see this light on and off and he’ll know Chavel’s back. The Redskins are here, he’ll read. No one else would know that message.” He saw Carosse’s hand tighten in the pocket: it was not enough to prove the man a liar. He could turn even a lie to romantic purposes. There must be the indestructible barrier.

Therese said, “You mean that if he comes it will prove you are Chavel?”

“Yes.”

“He won’t come,” Carosse said uneasily.

“If he doesn’t come, there are other ways of proving it.”

“Who is your friend?” Therese said, and he noticed that she said “your friend” as if she were already half convinced.

“The farmer Roche: the head of the Resistance here.”

The girl said, “But he’s seen you already-on the road to Brinac.”

“He didn’t look very closely. I am much changed, mademoiselle,” He took the torch again and stood in the doorway. He said, “He can’t help seeing this. He’ll be in the yard now-or the fields.”

“Put that torch down,” Carosse shrieked at him. It was Chavel’s moment of triumph. The pretense was over. The actor was like a man under third degree: the sweat, even in the cold early air, stood on his forehead.

Chavel, watching the pocket, shook his head and his body stiffened against the coming pain.

“Put it down.”

“Why?”

“Mademoiselle,” Carosse implored, “a man has the right to fight for his life. Tell him to put down the torch or I’ll shoot.”

“You are a murderer then?”

“Mademoiselle,” he said with absurd sincerity, “there’s a war on.” He backed along the banister away from her and taking the revolver from the pocket swiveled it between them: they were joined by the punctuation of the muzzle. “Put the torch down.”

In the village a clock began to strike seven. Chavel, with the torch depressed, counted the hour: it was the hour of the cinder track and the blank wall and the other man’s death. It seemed to him that he had taken a lot of trouble to delay a recurring occasion. Carosse mistook his hesitation: he became masterful. “Now drop your torch and stand away from the door.” But Chavel raised it and flashed it again off and on and off and on again.

Carosse fired in quick succession. In his agitation the first bullet went wide, splitting the glass of a picture; at the second the torch fell and lay on the hall floor making a little bright path to the door. Chavel’s face creased with pain. He was driven back as though by the buffet of a fist against the wall and then the acuteness of the pain passed: he had had far worse pain from an appendix. When he looked up Carosse was gone and the girl was in front of him.

“Are you hurt?”

“No,” he said. “Look at the picture. He missed.” The two shots had been too rapid for her to distinguish them. He wanted to get her out of the way before anything ugly happened. He moved a few feet gingerly toward a chair and sat down. In a few moments the stain would soak through. He said, “That’s over. He’ll never dare come back.”

She said, “And you really are Chavel?”

“Yes.”

“But that was another lie about the message, wasn’t it? You never flashed the same way twice.”

“Another lie. Yes,” he said. “I wanted him to shoot. He can’t come back now. He thinks he’s killed me like… like…” He couldn’t remember the other man’s name. The heat in the hall seemed to him extraordinary at that early hour; sweat ran like mercury beads across his forehead. He said, “He’ll have gone the opposite way from St. Jean. Go down there quickly and get the priest to help you. Roche will be useful. Remember he’s the actor Carosse.”

She said, “You must be hurt.”

“Oh, no. I got a ricochet from the wall. That’s all. It’s shocked me a bit. Get me a pencil and paper. I’ll be writing a report of this while you fetch the police.” She brought him what he wanted and stood puzzled and ill at ease before him. He was afraid he’d faint before she’d gone. He said gently, “You’re all right now, aren’t you? All the hatred’s gone?”

“Yes.”

“That’s good,” he said, “good.” There was nothing left of his love-desire had no importance: he felt simply a certain pity, gentleness, and the tenderness one can feel for a stranger’s misfortune. “You’ll be all right now,” he told her. “Just run along,” he said with slight impatience, as to a child.

“You’re all right?” she asked anxiously.

“Yes. Yes.”

Immediately after she had gone he began to write: he wanted to tie everything up. His lawyer’s instinct wanted to make a neat end. He wished he knew the exact wording of the decree, but it was unlikely to affect the original transfer without a denunciation by one party. This note he was writing now-“I leave everything of which I die possessed…”-was merely contributing evidence to prove that he had no intention of denouncing; it had no legal force in itself-he had no witness. The blood from his stomach was running now down his leg. It was as well that the girl was out of the way. The touch of blood cooled his fever like water. He took a quick look round: through the open door the light returned now across the fields; it was oddly satisfactory to die in his own home alone. It was as if one possessed at death only what the eyes took in. Poor Janvier, he thought-the cinder track. He began to sign his name, but before he had quite finished he felt the water of his wound flowing immeasurably: a river, a torrent, a tide of peace.

The paper lay on the floor beside him, scrawled over with almost illegible writing. He never knew that his signature read only Jean-Louis Ch… which stood of course as plainly for Charlot, as for Chavel. A crowning justice saw to it that he was not troubled. Even a lawyer’s meticulous conscience was allowed to rest in peace.