The Bark Tree Read online

  “It was bound to end like that, in a fight,” said the postman.

  “I have always thought that sailor a most undesirable individual,” said Meussieu Cocotier.

  “Personally, exhibitions of that sort quite take my appetite away,” said Mme. Sélénium.

  “Well, is it a Bugatti?” asked Hippolyte.

  “He says that, and he’s quietly strangling his opponent,” observed the postman.

  “No, it isn’t a Bugatti,” admitted Yves le Toltec, “but you owe me at least a quarter of a liter to celebrate your victory.”

  “Cock-a-doodle-doo, cock-a-doodle-doo,” bawled Meussieu and Madame Exossé’s cock.

  In its youth, this animal had fallen on its head; ever since, it had crowed at sundown, even when there was the extra hour for summertime; it was roasted, the following year, and its flesh delighted the omnivorous palate of its stupid owners.

  —oooooo—oooooo—

  The Belhôtel’s son, whose first name was Clovis, like his deceased grandfather, the one that had died of apoplexy on hearing of the declaration of war in 1914, the Belhôtel’s son, as he was saying, had, for nearly twenty-four hours, been keeping a secret. He had spoken of it neither to his father, nor to his mother, nor to Ernestine, nor to his pals, nor even to his little girl friend Ivoine, who was twelve years old and blonde. Serious and thoughtful, Clovis considered that his secret deserved better than to be shouted from the rooftops; one person, and one only, was, in his estimation, worthy of sharing it with him, and while he was waiting for that person on the road he was throwing stones at a condensed milk can.

  Hector (Totor) and Dagobert (Bébert) came by:

  “Hey, Cloclo, coming up to the repair yard with us? We’re going to throw stones at the switches.”

  “No, I’m waiting for my aunt,” replies Clovis.

  “Oh well, if you’re going to be with your family, then so long,” says Totor.

  “You know, that Saponaire, the one who snitched on us the other day, we tied his cat’s tail up to his bell, the other night. Dick thought that one up.”

  “And then,” added Totor, “Dick, he slopped a great big pail of water all over Polyte’s mother’s feet.”

  “That’ll teach the old bitch,” Clovis commented.

  “Well, so long.”

  A few paces farther on, Dagobert turned around:

  “You know Tatave, he’s making eyes at your chick.”

  “Let him try. I’ll bust his goddam nose.”

  Hector and Dagobert ran off, laughing.

  With renewed conviction, Clovis started stoning his condensed milk can again.

  At about 6 o’clock, an old woman appeared around a bend in the road; Clovis rushed up to her.

  “Hello, Aunt Sidonie.”

  “Hello, Clovis,” replied Mme. Cloche.

  She was anxious to see her brother, and didnt’ take much notice of her nephew.

  “You know, Aunt Cloche, I’ve got something serious to tell you.”

  “What? What?”

  “I’ve got a secret for you.”

  Oho, if it’s secrets, she’s ready.

  “You’re the only one I’m telling it to. It’s a real secret.”

  “Tell me, then.”

  “Promise you won’t tell it to everyone else?”

  “Yes, Clovis, my nephew, I promise.”

  Clovis gives a little cough, and looks all around to see whether anyone can hear him. Then, in a low voice:

  “Ole Taupe, he’s a millionaire.”

  Mme. Cloche receives the blow without flinching.

  “Howdger know?”

  “Th’yuther day, I was walking along the embankment by the Company’s workshops; I saw two well-dressed men coming out of ole Taupe’s. They passed very close to me, they dint see me, and one of them said: ’Zno doubt about it, he hides his money behind the door,’ and th’yuther, he said: ‘He’s an old miser, he must be very rich,’ and the first one, he said: ‘It’s quite certain he hides his money behind the door.’”

  “Then they never said he was a millionaire.”

  “I say that.”

  “And wattad they look like, those two men?”

  “Wz a tall fair-haired one, and th’yuther, I think he’s been and had a drink at Dad’s before.”

  Mme. Cloche cannot contain her joy. She holds the key to the mystery. Etienne Marcel wants to get hold of old Taupe’s hoard! That’s why he came to have some French fries at Dominique’s! There’s no other explanation. And he has an accomplice, and maybe that Meussieu Narcense is an accomplice too. The business of Théo’s hanging, that was a settling of accounts. Among international gangsters. And old Taupe’s hoard must be pretty sizable for gangsters of that kind to bother about.

  Hah! But the tall fair-haired one, he was the one whose taxi nearly ran into Meussieu Marcel. Etienne Marcel! outside the Gare du Nord! Yes, a tall fair-haired guy, that’s him all right! That accident, naturally it was all show, it was on purpose.

  Clovis contemplates the warty nose of his aunt twitching with the strain of meditation.

  Well, old Taupe! Always shouting from the rooftops about how you mustn’t own anything. It’s plain as the nose on your face, that’s just a cover! You old miser, you! you won’t keep your hoard much longer! I’m certny not going to stay here like a half-wit and let other people get their hands on it. Oh no, that snot the way it’s going to be. Those gangsters, they may know a thing or two, but I’ll find a way to get summing out of this business, I will.

  “Listen, Clovis, that wz very nice of you to tell me that. We’ll talk about it later on. And don’t tell a soul, eh? whatever you do.”

  “No, Aunt Cloche, I promise.”

  The old girl trots off to the French fries place; watch out, though, mustn’t mess around. First thing is to keep your trap shut. Dominique doesn’t need to know about it for the moment, nor his wife; and let’s hope the brat can hold his tongue.

  Dominique’s place is crowded. The factory’s finished for the day. Old Taupe is sitting at a table, knocking down his liter of white; he’s holding forth to a couple of workmen:

  “Yes,” he’s saying, “when you want something you can’t have, you’re unhappy, and if you’ve got a lot of money and piles of things, you’re afraid of losing them, so you’re unhappy.”

  “Old hypocrite,” thinks Mme. Cloche, as she goes by.

  Dominique is very busy; his wife receives her.

  “You know Meussieu Marcel, he came back.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Yes, he was with a fair-haired young man ’at wanted to go and have a look at old Taupe’s, maybe he’d find summing interesting. They both went off to his place. Don’t think they found anything. They came back past here again; they said hello, but they didn’t stop. What about you—seen Saturnin?”

  “Yes. He told me all about Saddy night. Well, nuh’ing happened. Kid didn’t turn up. Nor did Meussieu Marcel. Saturnin found Meussieu Narcense, all by himself, with the rope in his hand. He spoke to him, he persuaded him to go away, they went back to Paris together.”

  “Nuh’ing happened, then?”

  “No, nuh’ing.”

  “Nuh’ing ever does happen,” sighs Mme. Belhôtel, disillusioned.

  Mme. Cloche smiles. Nuh’ing happens to slobs like her sister-in-law. But to her ... Mme. Cloche looks at old Taupe; he’s going on; mustn’t have anything, he’s saying, if you want to not have any trouble. And women, they’re trouble all right. He makes jokes on the subject. His eyes, observes Mme. Cloche, never leave Ernestine; he follows her all the time. She happens to pass near him: if you don’t want to have any worries, mustn’t desire anything, proclaims old Taupe, and he pinches Ernestine’s bottom.

  Mme. Cloche has an idea.

  —oooooo—oooooo—

  Even though it was absurd, and Le Grand was against it, Etienne, the next morning, went to see Narcense. He got the mornin
g off and, at about 9 o’clock, turned up at 8 Boulevard of the Unknown Officer. Saturnin was sweeping up outside the door. Etienne recognized him and asked him whether his health was good. The other replied that it was not at all bad; and the fact is that he was extremely well. Then he too inquired after the health of the visitor and learned without surprise that the latter had nothing to grumble about in that respect. These preliminaries lasted only a few seconds, for their apparent complexity concealed a profound simplicity.

  Saturnin taught Etienne how to work the elevator, and the two latter immediately took flight toward the upper floors of the uninhabited apartment house. At the seventh, the elevator came to a halt and its contents having arrived, mirabile dictu, at the required landing, rang the bell at Narcense’s door, which Narcense almost immediately came and opened.

  Etienne apologized for the trouble he was causing, Narcense requested him to think nothing of it and, at the same time, to come in. When they were seated, for Narcense offered Etienne a chair, the latter, while inviting his interlocutor not to believe that his visit implied any suspicion of him, the latter, I say, informed Narcense that his son, Théo, had once again disappeared from the family residence; he added that, even though it seemed to him to be highly improbable, Narcense might perhaps be in possession of some information on this matter. Narcense appeared to be just as amazed as he was in reality, and stated that it was a grave mistake to believe that he might spend his whole life thinking about Théo; that it must not be imagined that this child was his sole preoccupation and his sole anxiety; that, on the contrary, he was extremely little concerned with his acts and deeds and would even prefer not to hear anything about him. Etienne rejoined that he had not thought his question would have irritated him to such an extent; to which Narcense replied that he was in no way irritated, but that he had not the slightest wish to have Théo dogging his footsteps all his life.

  Etienne agreed with him, which did not fail to astonish Narcense, who added that, furthermore, he had no news of the fugitive adolescent. He inquired as to the possible causes of this departure; Etienne knew of none; he feared an accident, and alluded to his wife’s despair.

  After a few moments’ silence, Narcense asked Etienne whether he was not a bank clerk and, on receiving a reply in the affirmative, added that he, Narcense, played the saxophone; that it so happened that at the moment he was out of work, but that their mutual friend was going to get him some. Etienne was amazed, for he knew of no one who was also Narcense’s friend, but when the latter had mentioned the name of Pierre Le Grand, Etienne realized his mistake—and many other things as well. For the prophecy in the restaurant was immediately transformed into a remarkably successful conjuring trick; and Etienne was still unaware of the fact that Pierre had driven Narcense to Les Mygales in his car. This discovery of Pierre’s duplicity fascinated Etienne more than it disconcerted him. The conjuring trick seemed to him to be skillful, and he admitted being quite incapable of accomplishing anything of the sort. He asked the musician whether he knew anything of what their friend did or how he lived; Narcense knew nothing; they both knew only one thing about him: that he had a car. Each inquired of the other how he had got to know him; one of them had seen him for the first time in Obonne, in a little restaurant. Etienne preferred not to ask which, because that reminded him of the reasons why Narcense had gone to Obonne; he himself had made Pierre’s acquaintance as a consequence of a slight accident outside the Gade du Nord—and Narcense then remembered his best friend being run over in the same circumstances, and, once again, he thought of death. Once again, because that same morning, when he was only half awake, he had seemed to see a clenched fist outside his window; and while he was describing his friend Potice’s death to Etienne, he was seeing before his eyes a succession of pictures which started with his grandmother’s chin strap and finished with his own hanging, by way of the absurd incident of the incongruous poodle.

  While he was continuing to stem the tide of mental pictures, from the hanging to Théo, and from Théo to Alberte, he revealed to Etienne the fact that before Pierre had got to know him, he had been observing him. And as Etienne asked for details, Narcense told him that Pierre had observed him changing. Etienne admitted this change; but that anyone else could have noticed it seemed to him to be singularly mysterious. He didn’t try to go any deeper into the problem, and decided that from now on, Pierre Le Grand would be his friend, even though he had, at least once, played a trick on him. As for Narcense, what he was seeing was not Etienne, but, very far away, behind him, a woman.

  The series of revelations concerning Etienne was interrupted by the entrance of Saturnin bringing a post card addressed to Narcense; on the back, these words were to be read: “Best regards, Théo”; it came from a seaside resort on the Atlantic coast.

  —oooooo—oooooo—

  After they had covered with humus and compost the rectangular parallelepiped in which the fermentation had already begun of the mortified mortal remains of the sordid old man called Bousigue by custom and Thomas by his father, his pointed-nosed daughter returned to the dead man’s house at the very end of the village.

  For years and years, he had been moldering in a rabbit hutch near the old tile works; during that time, his daughter was selling split peas and vegetable butter a long way away from him, in one of the suburbs of a big town. People used to give the old man alms; she never went to see him, for business does not forgive absenteeism. For the demise, however, she did put herself out, and pushed open the door. A straw mattress was recumbent on the floor; a chair adorned a corner; some packing cases; everything was covered in filth. It would all have to be burned. She got hold of the mattress, rolled it up, and threw it into a corner; something fell out of it.

  Soon, the news spread that Bousigue’s daughter had found two hundred thousand francs, in bank notes and defense bonds, hidden in the mattress of that old bum, her father. The whole village soon heard of it, and to think that we used to give him alms, said they, the villagers of the village. The news reached the neighboring town, and there the druggist, who was a correspondent of the Petit Tourangeau, wrote about it for his paper; and in Tours it was thought of sufficient interest to be sent to Paris.

  There, this news item was held over for three days, until the end of the Tour de France. And then, when its last echoes had died away, they found a little corner on the fifth page to place:

  A MISER, etc.

  Chinon, etc.

  This was printed during the night, then, with the first light, the paper left, and some people bought it. A lot of people, because a lot read the papers, even some who don’t read anything else, so they say. Belhôtel Dominique was one of these. He read his paper in the morning, while he drank his coffee; then his wife read it; then the customers read it.

  The paper hung around on the table all day. Toward the evening, covered with blobs of wine and grease marks, and slightly torn, it was rescued by Ernestine, who opened it carefully and smoothed out its crumples with her hand. Her head between her hands, she read the serial, then various crimes, and finally:

  A MISER, etc.

  Chinon, etc.

  Bousigue, two hundred thousand francs, Bousigue two hundred thousand francs. Behind her, someone whispered in her ear:

  “Two hundred thousand, huh, my girl.”

  “Yes, two hundred thousand,” murmured Ernestine, shattered.

  “Some luck for the heirs!” Mme. Cloche went on.

  “Whew, talk about luck, that’s luck all right.”

  “And he used to beg, too,” added Sidonie.

  “Mm, he used to beg.”

  “Pooh,” said the old woman, “zbags of ’em like that, old men people give money to, and in a corner of their wardrobe, or in their mattress, they’ve got a fortune tucked away. Misers, huh, there’s hundreds of ’em, you just don’t realize, honey. They look poor, yet they could live in the swankiest places. There’s tons of ’em like that.”

  “Yes, of course,” replies Ernestine, ove
rwhelmed.

  Ernestine wasn’t counting on spending her whole life serving white wine and half pints. That she wasn’t. She’d find a way to put some money to one side. Belhôtel had promised her that she’d be assistant madame in the brothel he was going to buy. But even so, to make your fortune overnight like that, it was enough to give you an apoplectic fit. When she was a kid, she’d once read in Belles Images the veracious account of the treasure of the Incas. And this news item and the odious life she led reminded her of that wonderful tale. But she suddenly thought that really, she wasn’t the sort of person who had the luck to become the heroine of an adventure like that. Not like the daughter of that Bousigue, whose name kept running through her head now, pulling its little trailer of bank notes and defense bonds behind it.

  “There’s things you go a long way to get, and very often they’re right under your nose,” murmured Mme. Cloche pensively.

  “Could well be, but snot me things like that’d happen to.” Ernestine added:

  “I’ve never had any luck.”

  “One day, your luck will change.”

  Could be so, could be. And Mme. Cloche pressed the point:

  “There’s things you go a long way to get, and very often they’re right under your nose.”

  “Now that’s very true,” said Etienne, who had just come in.

  Mme. Cloche remained speechless for a few moments. She stood up convulsively.

  “Ah! hello, Meussieu Marcel.”

  “Hello, Madame,” rejoined Etienne, with infinite presence of mind. “It’s getting late. I’ve got an appointment with a friend who will be here in a few minutes. Ernestine, a white wine!”

  At this late hour, there wasn’t a single customer. The Belhôtels were at their bistro in town.

  “And how is that old junk dealer?”

  “Oho, oho,” said Mme. Cloche.