The Conqueror of Death, page 25
A violent ring of the doorbell, which resounded at that moment, seemed to respond to that desperate appeal.
IV. Stanislas Borichevski
Marthe went to open the door, and the father and the daughter were able to hear a hoarse voice asking: “Is this really Monsieur Dumortier’s house? There can’t have been a mistake, though: the first house on the right, at the entrance to the Pavé-des-Gardes, Villa des Orchidées. That’s here!”
“Yes, but what do you want?” said Marthe, in an ill-tempered voice.
“It’s a message that I have to deliver to Monsieur Dumortier on behalf of Monsieur Christian Norval—a great character, believe me!”
“Christian Norval!” exclaimed Lauriane, involuntarily. “Marthe! Show him in!”
The individual that Marthe introduced to the drawing-room merits a detailed description.
It would have been difficult to determine his age. He was a tall, thin, stiff and angular man, with a sun-tanned face riddled with scars. Like chaotic brushwood, his hair, beard and moustache framed his peculiar physiognomy, at the center of which a red nose, striped with violet-tinted veins, testified to regrettable habits of intemperance on the part of its owner. The individual’s costume corresponded in every respect with his physiognomy; it was made up of disparate garments, half-savage and half-civilized, including a deformed and discolored soft felt hat, a leather jacket, and velvet trousers engulfed by Mexican boots.
Not at all disconcerted by the expressions of astonishment that had greeted his entrance, the newcomer introduced himself.
“Monsieur! Mademoiselle! My name is Stanislas Borichevski, at your service. Here is a letter from Monsieur Christian Norval for Monsieur Dumortier.”
And he held out to the latter an envelope that he had taken from beneath his felt hat, while bowing to the father and daughter.
“I also had something for Mademoiselle,” he continued, “”but I had an accident. Instead of taking the boat that would have disembarked me at Bas-Meudon, I made a mistake and took the one that stopped at the Point-du-Jour. There I said to myself: Meudon isn’t much further away, I’ll go on foot…but it was much further than I thought. It was hot, the wind was raising dust, I was thirsty...
“In brief, I went into a wine-merchant’s near the Pont de Billancourt, and drank a half-liter, another half-liter…as I was about to leave, I perceived that I didn’t have enough money to pay my bill…the innkeeper made a fuss, called me a thief...
“Monsieur Christian had asked me to bring to Mademoiselle a whole packet of rare orchids that he had discovered out there in Guiana. I said to the fellow: ‘There’s more than a hundred francs’ worth of flowers here; keep this package until I come back and pay you.’ And they’re back there...”
“Oh! Here!” cried Lauriane, giving Stanislas a two-franc piece. Take the boat there and back, and bring them to me!”
And while the singular messenger, very happy with this solution, hastened to carry out Lauriane’s commission, the latter urged her father to read the young plant-hunter’s missive.
The letter was only a few lines long.
Dear Monsieur Dumortier,
I have just arrived in Paris. Fortune has favored me. Not only have I gathered an ample harvest of flowers for the Van Houtten Company, which sent me to Surinam, but I have also found on my travels, if not wealth, at least the means to live independently henceforth.
Permit me to offer Mademoiselle Lauriane these few orchids, while awaiting something better.
After taking the time to settle my accounts with the Van Houtten Company, to which I am in haste to bid a definitive farewell, I will come to see you, and bring you a few curiosities, in Meudon, where I intend to take up residence myself, in your neighborhood.
Excuse the negligent appearance and manners of my envoy. I owe him a great deal and he is very devoted to me.
While awaiting the joy of seeing you again, I renew the assurance of my very sincere sentiments of affectionate respect, and beg you to present my best wishes to Mademoiselle Lauriane.
Your devoted friend,
Christian Norval.
Blushing with emotion, Lauriane could not hide the joy that this unexpected and, so to speak, providential return caused her, for she established a kind of mysterious connection between her supplication and the ringing of the bell that had immediately followed it.
In fact, nothing had changed in Monsieur Dumortier’s situation, and yet Lauriane had begun to hope again—and that confidence even affected her father, for he smiled on seeing joy reborn on the young woman’s face.
“Christian Norval’s return gives you a great deal of pleasure, then?” he said, enveloping her with an attentive gaze.
“Oh, yes—a great deal.”
Monsieur Dumortier became serious again, nodded his head several times, and simply murmured: “Who knows? Perhaps you’re right.”
And the father and daughter, forgetting Monsieur Roret, the speculation and its consequences, continued talking about Christian Norval while awaiting the return of his messenger.
Thus time, the latter did not dally on his route. In less than half an hour he returned to the villa, carefully carrying an enormous clump of orchids with numerous, rather large flowers, striped and spotted with brown on a lemon yellow background.
“But that is, indeed, a veritable rarity,” said Monsieur Dumortier, filed with delight. “It’s Oncidium rigbyanum, which I haven’t yet been able to procure in Europe.24 Oh, that dear Norval! He has no idea of the joy he’s given me.”
“On the contrary,” said Lauriane, “he must have some idea, for it’s certainly with that aim in mind that he’s sent us these flowers.”
“Well, my friend,” Dumortier added, addressing Stanislas, who was wiping his brow, “are you still thirsty or hungry? Don’t worry—I’ll have you served anything you need. Monsieur Norval has said good things about you.”
“Monsieur Norval is very kind, and you too, Monsieur. At the moment, I have no need of anything. Do you have a reply to give me for my master?”
“Oh! You’re in Monsieur Norval’s service?”
“Which is to say that Monsieur Norval has been kind enough to take responsibility for me, although I’m not much good for anything; I try to make myself as useful as I can.”
“And your master is well? The voyage hasn’t overtaxed him?”
“He’s marvelously well. Oh, he’s strong, indefatigable—and often, out there although I’m an old hand, his resistance astonished me.”
“You met him in Surinam, then?”
“No, it was in French Guiana—or, rather, in the contested territory between French Guiana and Brazil. You know that gold has been discovered there. It’s always been my destiny to go from placer to placer. I was among the first in the Transvaal, Australia and Guiana, but it hasn’t made me rich.
“To cut a long story short, I was prospecting for gold when Monsieur Norval, who was looking for flowers, met me in the upper reaches of the Carsewene river, just in time to prevent me from dying of starvation, for I hadn’t had a bite to eat in two days.
“Since then, I’ve been attached to his fortune, and I’ve had the good luck to render him a small service. I’d found a tiny nugget in the alluvial mud of a river, and that permitted him, thanks to his mineralogical knowledge, to discover what I’d never have been able to find by myself—the original deposit.
“I was used to exploitations of that sort. We succeeded in hiring a hundred Indians to work it, and in a matter of months, Monsieur Norval had deposited a small fortune in ingots in the bank of Paramaribo.
“He gave me a generous share in his profits, but I could never hang on to it. I gambled, I drank…in brief, I’m still as poor as Job. I’m very glad that Monsieur Norval has consented to keep me on.”
Monsieur Dumortier and his daughter had listened to Stanislas’ story with interest, by virtue of the clarifications it gave them with regard to Christian’s adventures in Guiana. He was obliged to do honor to a copious collation, while Monsieur Dumortier wrote a letter to the young plant-hunter.
My dear Monsieur Norval,
How many thanks we owe you, my daughter and I, for the superb orchids you have sent us. Thank you, above all, for having sent us news as soon as you arrived.
We learn with joy that you are in good health and in possession of an independent fortune, and we are looking forward to seeing you again as soon as you are free.
Since you are thinking of becoming our neighbor, we shall have more than one opportunity to talk at length about your voyage and our favorite flowers.
Your most grateful
Robert Dumortier
Stanislas did not want to stay at the villa any longer. He knew with what impatience Christian was waiting for the response to his letter and his gift, and although his master had not taken him into his confidence, he divined that the beautiful Lauriane was not unconnected with that impatience.
Monsieur Dumortier obliged him to accept a five-franc piece “to pay for his railway ticket” and permit him to arrive more rapidly at the hotel where the traveler was staying, but made him promise nevertheless not to stop on the way.
Then the father and the daughter went into the greenhouse, to install in the place of honor the magnificent Oncidium rigbyanum, which they never tired of admiring. There was no longer any question in their conversation of anything but orchids, Guiana and Christian Norval—as if Roret did not even exist, and the threat of imminent ruination were not hanging over their heads.
In the meantime, Roret was waiting anxiously for the response to his proposal, not daring to hurry matters along by an untimely visit, and astonished by the fact that his neighbors’ reflections were so prolonged.
One day, he could no longer contain himself, and wrote a note to Monsieur Dumortier, which he sent via his housekeeper.
My dear friend,
You know that the first of the options you have contracted expires in forty-five days.
What are you going to do?
Yours,
Roret
Monsieur Dumortier, thus recalled to reality, hid that “reminder” from Lauriane, but set about study the means by which he could confront the situation without compromising his future, and that of his daughter, irremediably.
V. The Return of Christian Norval
It was a beautiful morning in May. In its frame of fresh verdure, Meudon was basking in the sunlight, with a festival air. The breeze, which was arriving from the woods in gusts, brought spring scents and birdsong.
Monsieur Dumortier, however—and consequently Lauriane—were very anxious. The future remained ominous, and the temporary brightness provoked by Christian Norval’s letter had given way, in a matter of days, to bleak depression.
The father and daughter did not say much, having only sad ideas to exchange. Monsieur Dumortier had resumed reading the Orchidophile; Lauriane had returned to her water-colors, plants and birds.
Such were their occupations that morning, when the sound of a rumbling carriage that came to a stop outside the villa caused them to raise their heads. They looked at one another and smiled, having had the same thought at the same time.
Thus, it was without astonishment that they heard Marthe announce, as she opened the greenhouse door: “Monsieur Christian Norval.”
The latter made his appearance almost immediately, followed by Stanislas Borichevski, carrying a large cage full of brightly-colored birds.
Tall, well-built, full of elegance and distinction, his face and hands bronzed by the tropical sun, Christian Norval bowed with ease and cordiality, as if he had only quit the father and daughter the day before. He took the cage from Stanislas’ hand and signaled to the latter to withdraw.
Then, when the three of them were alone, he let loose all the emotion that he had suppressed until then and exclaimed: “Ah, Monsieur Dumortier! Ah, Mademoiselle Lauriane! How many times I thought of you, out there, lost in the bosom of the virgin forest!” He collected himself, and continued more calmly: “The proof is that I’ve brought you some of the charming birds whose song cradled my memories and my hopes.”
“You’re really too kind, Monsieur Norval,” said Dumortier, pressing the young ma’s hands in his. “These orchids, these graceful birds...”
“How can we thank you?” stammered Lauriane.
“I’m sufficiently recompensed,” Christian put in, “by the fact that these flowers and birds have given you pleasure.”
“They’re truly extraordinary!” said the young woman, who could not weary of admiring the guests of the cage.
“One of them, especially,” said the scientist, acquiescing to Monsieur Dumortier’s gesture inviting him to sit down. “Look, that one, with the russet head, the black wings and the pale gray body. You can see that it’s only ten inches long at the most, tail included. Well, of all the creatures living in Guiana and Brazil, that’s the one with the most powerful voice. There’s a humorous story told in the Brazilian interior about that subject, which I’ll tell you some day.”
“What is it called?”
“I’ll tell you—but in order for you to understand, I’ll tell you first how I made the acquaintance of the bird.
“At that time, I was traveling in the mountains where the river Maroni has its source. I had just met that eccentric Borichevski, whom you’ve seen, and had taken him into my service.
“One day, at about midday, exhausted by the heat, I was getting ready to take my siesta in my hammock, suspended between two palm trees. I was already beginning to doze off when, in the relative silence of the forest, I heard, quite clearly and quite distinctly, to sound of a bell.
“I sat up and pricked up my ears, quite astonished to see Stanislas continuing to stuff his pipe as if he hadn’t heard anything. A minute went by, and then a second chime of the bell resounded in the depths of the forest.
“This time there was no doubt about it. Utterly astonished, I said to my companion: ‘Is there a mission near here, then?’
“No, Monsieur,” Borichevski replied, calmly lighting his pipe. It’s the Campanero.”
“What’s the Campanero?” I asked.
“Eh? Yes—a bell-bird, the one the natives call guira-punga.”
“Guira-punga! I get it! That’s the name that travelers have corrupted into araponga. It’s the Portuguese ave de verano—the summer bird—which Buffon renders as averano. Other naturalists call it the ‘blacksmith,’ the ‘locksmith’ or the ‘field marshal,’ while scientists know it as Casmarhynchus variegatus.25
“Then I got my bearings. I recalled that Marcgrave, in his Histoire des Oiseaux,26 had commented on hat singular song, sometimes similar to the sound of a hammer falling on an anvil, sometimes reminiscent of that of a cracked bell. And that curious bird was in the vicinity!
“When I say ‘in the vicinity’…well, it was from four kilometers away that we had heard it singing. Judge the amplitude of its voice!”
“I couldn’t rest until I’d captured one. It wasn’t without difficulty—but there it is!”
“And which of its names should we conserve?” asked Lauriane.
“The bell-bird! That’s the one that corresponds most closely to its strange particularity.”
“Will it sing in the cage?”
“Undoubtedly. It’s already done so.”
“They’re veritable rarities that you’ve brought us,” said Monsieur Dumortier. “We’re confused...”
Christian Norval avoided the thanks by hastening to name the other prisoners offered to Lauriane, and listing their qualities.
“But capturing all hose birds must have lost you a lot of time!” Lauriane exclaimed.
“Oh, Stanislas helped me,” the young man said, smiling.
“So,” said Dumortier, “you’re thinking of taking up residence in Meudon?”
“I’ve decided to do that. Meudon is the point of the globe that pleases me most…probably because you live here.”
“Oh, Monsieur Norval!” Dumortier protested, while Lauriane blushed deeply.
“And as I’ve made a small fortune from the gold mines in Guiana,” the scientist continued, “I’m going to buy a villa near here, and like you, I’ll devote myself to the cultivation of flowers and breeding birds. I hope you’ll be willing to help me with your advice, in your capacity as a neighbor.”
Monsieur Dumortier could not help uttering a sigh, and murmuring: “Gladly—if I remain your neighbor.”
“What!” Christian exclaimed, utterly astonished. “You’re thinking of leaving Meudon, at the very moment when I want to set up home here! When I say set up home…nothing’s settled as yet. Meudon pleases me, I repeat, because you’re here…but if you weren’t...”
Monsieur Dumortier’s face and Lauriane’s expressed such constraint that the young man trailed off. His interrogative, almost imploring, gaze went from the father to the daughter, trying to divine what their silence was hiding.
Finally, he could to longer contain himself, and he exclaimed: “Forgive my persistence, my indiscretion, but I beg you, if you consider me a friend, to confide to me, if it’s possible, the reason that might oblige you to quit Meudon. What has happened since my departure for Guiana that could…?”
“Don’t go on, my friend!” said Dumortier. “I’ll explain to you briefly what had happened. I allowed myself to be tempted by my neighbor, Monsieur Roret, and entered into a speculation with him that has turned out badly. I might be obliged, in order to liquidate my position, to sell this villa...”
At the name of Roret, Christian Norval frowned. With the delicate sentiment of divination that jealousy gives to lovers, he had perceived the passion experienced by the neighbor for Lauriane, and had the presentiment that it had had a role to play in the circumstances that Monsieur Dumortier had just admitted to him.
Without seeking to delve into that question, for the moment, he insisted on having all the details of the speculative venture, and when he knew what it was amounted to, he was much less anxious, and strove to reassure his hosts.
