A BROKEN NEGATIVE
To have made himself unrecognizable was, without doubt, a safe
precaution; but having started on this course, he would not be easy until
he had destroyed all traces of himself in such a way that Madame
Dammauville would never be able to find the man that she had seen so
clearly under Caffie's lamp.
Precisely because he was not vain and had no pretension to beauty, he had
escaped the photograph mania. Once only he had been photographed in
spite of himself, simply to oblige a classmate who had abandoned medicine
for photography.
But now this once was too much, for there was danger that this portrait
taken three years before, and showing him with the hair and beard that he
wished to suppress, might be discovered. Without doubt there were few
chances that a copy of it would be seen by Madame Dammauville; but if
there existed only one against a hundred thousand, he must arrange it so
that he need have no fear.
He had had a dozen copies of this photograph, but as his relatives were
few, he kept the majority of them. One he sent to his mother, who was
living at that time; another went to the priest of his village, and later
he had given one to Phillis. He must, then, have nine in his possession.
He found them and burned them immediately.
Of the three that remained, only one might testify against him, the one
belonging to Phillis. But it would be easy for him to get it again on
inventing some pretext, while as to the others, truly he had nothing to
fear.
The real danger might come from the photographer, who perhaps had some of
the photographs, and who undoubtedly preserved the negative. This was
his first errand the next day.
On entering the studio of this friend, he experienced a disagreeable
feeling, which troubled him and made him uneasy; he had not given his
name, and counting on the change made by the cutting of his hair and
beard, he said to himself that his friend, who had not seen him for a
long time, certainly would not recognize him.
He had taken but a few steps, his hat in his hand, like a stranger who is
about to accost another, when the photographer came toward him with
outstretched hand, and a friendly smile on his face.
"You, my dear friend! What good fortune is worth the pleasure of your
visit tome? Can I be useful to you in any way?"
"You recognize me, then?"
"What! Do I recognize you? Do you ask that because you have cut your
hair and beard? Certainly it changes you and gives you a new
physiognomy; but I should be unworthy of my business if, by a different
arrangement of the hair, I could not recognize you.
Besides, eyes of steel like yours are not forgotten; they are a
description and a signature."
Then this means in which he placed so much confidence was only a new
imprudence, as the question, "You recognize me, then?" was a mistake.
"Come, I will pose you at once," the photographer said. "Very curious,
this shaved head, and still more interesting, I think, than with the
beard and long hair. The traits of character are more clearly seen."
"It is not for a new portrait that I have come, but for the old one.
Have you any of the proofs?"
"I think not, but I will see. In any case, if you wish some they are
easily made, since I have the plate."
"Will you look them up? For I have not a single proof left of those you
gave me, and on looking at myself in the glass this morning I found such
changes between my face of to-day and that of three years ago, that I
would like to study them. Certain ideas came to me on the expression of
the physiognomy, that I wish to study, with something to support them."
The search for the proofs made by an assistant led to no results; there
were no proofs.
"Exactly; and for several days I have thought of making some," the
photographer said. "Because your day of glory will come, when your
portrait will be in a distinguished place in the shop-windows and
collections. Every one talks of your 'concours'. Although I have
abandoned medicine without the wish to return to it, I have not become
indifferent to what concerns it, and I learned of your success. Which
portrait shall we put in circulation? The old or the new?"
"The new."
"Then let us arrange the pose."
"Not to-day; it is only yesterday that I was shaved, fearing an attack of
pelagre, and the skin covered by the beard has a crude whiteness that
will accentuate the hardness of my physiognomy, which is really useless.
We will wait until the air has tanned me a little, and then I will
return, I promise you."
"How many proofs do you want of your old portrait?"
"One will do."
"I will send you a dozen."
"Do not take the trouble; I will take them when I come to pose. But in
the mean time, could you not show me the plate?"
"Nothing easier."
When it was brought, Saniel took the glass plate with great care, holding
it with the tips of his fingers by the two opposite corners, in order not
to efface the portrait. Then, as he was standing in the shadow of a blue
curtain, he walked towards the chimney where the light was strong, and
began his examination.
"It is very good," he said; "very curious."
"Only a photograph can have this documentary value."
To compare this document with the reality, Saniel approached the chimney
more closely, above which was a mirror. When his feet touched the marble
hearth he stopped, looking alternately at the plate which he held
carefully in his hands, and at his face reflected in the glass. Suddenly
he made an exclamation; he let fall the plate, which, falling flat on the
marble, broke into little pieces that flew here and there.
"How awkward I am!"
He showed a vexation that should not leave the smallest doubt in the
photographer's mind as to its truth.
"You must get one of the proofs that you have given away," his friend
said," for I have not a single one left."
"I will try and find one."
What he did try to find on leaving was whether or no he had succeeded in
rendering himself unrecognizable, for he could not trust to this
experience, weakened by the fact that this old friend was a photographer.
With him it was a matter of business to note the typical traits that
distinguish one face from another, and in a long practice he had acquired
an accuracy Madame Dammauville could not possess.
Among the persons he knew, it seemed to him that the one in the best
condition to give certainty to the proof was Madame Cormier. He knew at
this hour she would be alone, and as she had not been, assuredly, warned
by her daughter that he intended to shave, the experiment would be
presented in a way to give a result as exact as possible.
In answer to his ring Madame Cormier opened the door, and he saluted her
without being recognized; but as the hall was dark this was not of great
significance. His hat in his hand, he followed her into the dining-room
without speaking, in order that his voice should not betray him.
Then, after she had looked at him a moment, with uneasy surprise at
first, she began to smile.
"It is Doctor Saniel !" she cried. "Mon Dieu! How stupid of me not to
recognize you; it changes you so much to be shaved! Pardon me."
"It is because I am shaved that I come to ask a favor."
"Of us, my dear sir? Ah! Speak quickly; we should be so happy to prove
our gratitude."
"I would ask Mademoiselle Phillis to give me, if she has it, a photograph
that I gave her about a year ago."
As Phillis wished the liberty to expose this photograph frankly, in order
to have it always before her, she had asked for it, and Saniel had given
it to her, in her mother's presence.
"If she has it!" exclaimed Mme. Cormier. "Ah! my dear sir, you do not
know the place that all your goodness, and the services that you have
rendered us, have made for you in our hearts."
And passing into the next room, she brought a small velvet frame in which
was the photograph. Saniel took it out, on explaining the study for
which he wanted it, and after promising to bring it back soon, he
returned to his rooms.
Decidedly, everything was going well. The plate was destroyed, Phillis's
proof in his hands; he had nothing more to fear from this side. As to
the experiment made on the mother, it was decisive enough to inspire him
with confidence. If Madame Cormier, who had seen him so often and for so
long a time, and who thought of him at every instant, did not recognize
him, how was it possible that Madame Dammauville, who had only seen him
from a distance and for a few seconds, could recognize him after several
months?
Would he never accustom himself to the idea that his life could not have
the tranquil monotony of a bourgeois existence, that it would experience
shocks and storms, but that if he knew how to remain always master of his
force and will, it would bring him to a safe port?
The calm that was his before this vexation came back to him, and when the
last proofs of his concours, confirming the success of the first, had
given him the two titles that he so ardently desired and pursued at the
price of so many pains, so many efforts and privations, he could enjoy
his triumph in all security.
He held the present in his strong hands, and the future was his.
Now he could walk straight, boldly, his head high, jostling those who
annoyed him, according to his natural temperament.
Although these last months had been full of terrible agitation for him,
on account of everything connected with the affair of Caffie and
Florentin, and above all, on account of the fatigue, emotion, and the
fever of his 'concours', yet he had not interrupted his special works for
a day or even an hour, and his experiments followed for so many years had
at length produced important results, that prudence alone prevented him
from publishing. In opposition to the official teaching of the school,
these discoveries would have caused the hair to stand upright on the old
heads; and it was not the time, when he asked permission to enter, to
draw upon himself the hostility of these venerable doorkeepers, who would
bar the way to a revolutionist. But, now that he was in the place for
ten or twelve years, he need take no precautions, either for persons or
for ideas, and he might speak.