Madeleine was a vivacious creature. Her graceful, subtle, intelligent
beauty was not coarsened by the ruddy vitality of her features and the
warmth of passion evident in the Southern blood that raced through her
blue veins. I must not linger on these impressions, however; they are
of interest only to me. I am not writing a diary of my inner life! I am
not writing my memoirs! This is a testament, in which I bequeath to the
generations after me a Secret which it behooves all men and women, my
brothers and sisters, to know. It were better, perhaps, to abbreviate
my story, suppress everything not pertinent to that Secret. But I must
convince the sceptical. The voice of Truth must be felt in every word I
say. I must show myself to be really the man I pretend to be: Charles
André Narcy, captain of cavalry, Distinguished Service Cross, detailed
to Staff Headquarters, born in Lyons, April 27th, 1876, died at Toulon,
December 21, 1908 (or January 22, 1909). That I am this person I can
prove only by this story. What desperation! Only by this story! I must
convince you by the detailed fullness of my account. And in this
sense, everything, everything, has a bearing on the Secret.
Now I must say that Madeleine was a beautiful, vivacious creature,
plump with the healthy vigor of her Provençal race. And as I took her
in my arms for the first time, I noted what a firm, solid, _heavy_
person she was.
Later, when once I took her in my arms again and playfully lifted her
from her feet, she seemed to me much _lighter_, much _lighter_!
Madeleine de X.... What horror! If only I could give her name! Then you
would know! And she would confirm my story! However ... honor impels
me at this point to evade a little, to falsify a number of dates, and
places, and details. You must get the meaning of what I say; but what
does it matter if I write “June” instead of “October,” or “Tamaris”
instead of “Hyères,” “taxicab” instead of “Peuchot.” I must be careful,
all the more because from moment to moment the flame of my memory
is weakening, trembling, threatening to go out, reviving again only
after minutes of anguish! The flame of my memory, and the flame of my
intelligence, also! If I am not on my guard, some word, blighting to a
lady’s honor, may escape me!
She was the only daughter of a rich man! He was a hard, sour,
ill-tempered fellow. During winter seasons he lived in a decrepit
castle lost in the chalk dunes between Toulon and Aubagne. There he
kept aloof from the world, receiving no visitors and making no calls
himself. One of those domestic tragedies, as laughable in the eyes of
society as they are torturing to the hearts they tear, had separated
him from his wife some twelve or fifteen years before. The old folks
in Toulon, Nice, Marseilles, used to refer amusedly to the story,
which they considered a most savory scandal. I never had an appetite
for such things. I am unable to tell exactly why that man and that
woman separated! I was never a friend of either of them. I saw him
occasionally, in the old days, at our officers’ balls. His wife I used
to meet from time to time at various resorts along the Riviera. She had
a luxurious villa at La Turbie and another at Beaulieu. Part of the
year she lived on her own properties; another part in Paris; usually
she spent two or three months with Madeleine in Toulon, for there her
daughter married and settled permanently.
In the summer months, Madeleine lived in a cottage of her own on Cépet
Point, where the peninsula juts out into the roadstead and is always
exposed to a cool breeze. Inspections often took me to the batteries in
that neighborhood, and I had occasion for many a delightful promenade
in the groves and forests of Cépet and Sicie. I would ride up on
horseback with an orderly, who came on the horse that Madeleine was to
ride. We kept a side-saddle for her in the sentry box at one of the
customs’ houses.... If you want details, there you have plenty of them.
However....
I have figured it out: It was in the month of May, of the year 1907,
that I met Madeleine for the first time at the old castle at La Garde;
it was in the month of June of the same year that I encountered her for
the second time at the _fiesta_; it was two or three weeks after that
when I first took her in my arms and lifted her from her feet.
And, she was a heavy person, robust, solid, well-built, but _heavy_,
_heavy_!
Some two months later, when we were playing on a beach, it occurred
to me to take her in my arms and lift her again. I turned all my
muscle to the task and prepared for the strain I so well remembered.
To my surprise she was _light_, as _light_ as a feather, strangely,
surprisingly _light_! I carried her about in my arms without effort.
And she had been such a _heavy_ person!