Before going home, he was stubbornly determined to call in at Les Trois Boules again. Too late! He was told that the medical officer had come back that evening but had left again almost immediately with his belongings, and that he had left no address.
Napoleon was never to see him again. He made some inquiries in the days that followed, but his heart was not in it. Actually, he was no longer so anxious to lay hands on the deserter again. If he had wanted to, he could probably have found a lead from Dr. Quinton, but he found the very idea of meeting this person and revisiting the scene of his recent ordeal unspeakably repugnant.
As for the Ostrich, she was even less enthusiastic about seeing her former boarder again. His departure had brought her a sudden feeling of relief. The goodhearted soul could never have deliberately done anything to get rid of him, but now that he had left, it seemed that nothing could stand in the way of the new life that she saw opening up ahead of her — a calm life, a far cry from the stormy existence through which her heroic husband and his friends had dragged her for so many years — an ordinary life perhaps, but one that could finally bring her something like happiness.
She felt an ever-increasing admiration and affection for the man she always called Eugène. Perhaps she was vaguely worried by a certain aloofness, a certain moodiness that her companion could not manage to suppress — although this mystifying aspect of his character played some part in the very respect and blind faith that she had come to feel toward him.
One deep desire obsessed her — it was the hidden thorn in her side. She dreamed of being able to legalize their union. She tried to reason with herself, and tell herself time and time again that the tranquil intimacy of their life together had no real need to be sanctioned by a mayor, but to no avail. In spite of everything, it seemed to her that without this official ceremony something would always be missing, the one thing perhaps that would have allowed her to know that happiness she secretly longed for. However, she would never have dared confess it to him openly; in spite of everything, he still made her feel a shyness she could not overcome. Perhaps one day he would, of his own accord, make the suggestion she wished so much to hear. Perhaps it was just a question of time; perhaps she just had to wait patiently. Perhaps… She cherished this hope, while sensing that there were some secret obstacles the exact nature of which she could not fathom.
At an auction sale she bought a huge Empire-style mahogany bed, with brass mounts in the shape of sphinxes, that had belonged to a bankrupt solicitor. It was a real extravagance — in spite of the upturn in business under Napoleon’s forceful and imaginative direction, their capital was still relatively modest — but failing the ceremony she longed for, this majestic piece of furniture did at least seem to confer some sort of semiofficial ratification on their union.
So, from that day on, they slept together in the big bed. But they dreamed different dreams.
WHILE HE APPRECIATED the Ostrich’s devotion, Napoleon was worried by the new turn his situation seemed to be taking.
His indomitable will, which the worst misfortunes could not have shaken, had imperceptibly been diverted toward domestic joys and small-time prosperity. This unexpected success, trifling though it was, nevertheless brought with it a kind of ease which he could not entirely ignore. It was beginning to transform the ground beneath his feet into a soft, shifting terrain where his resolution could become weak and slowly sink without trace. The more business improved and the Ostrich filled his life with touching new comforts, the less he resembled the real Napoleon.
Every time he went to the barber’s, he stared into the double mirror and was horrified yet fascinated to see how his original features were disappearing little by little and being replaced by those of a stranger he despised and hated, and who inspired in him a growing feeling of disgust. He had put on a lot of weight and was now completely bald. If he had looked like this when he met Bommel (Justin), how could the sergeant ever have recognized him? And — not so long ago — the medical officer himself? When, after finalizing a particularly clever deal, he heard himself being congratulated by some broker in colonial goods who paid tribute to his brilliant business acumen, a burning lust for action ran through him — oh! to start again from scratch, to break free at once from this warm morass that threatened to engulf him!
Yet the medical officer’s prophetic jibe, advising him to be content with making his fortune in watermelons, still rang in his ears, and the memory of that twilight visit to Dr. Quinton’s asylum hung over him like an imminent threat. Besides, this threat was quite real, as he was soon to find out.
He had made a tentative attempt — rather an awkward one, it is true — to get the Ostrich to share in his secret.
The result of this approach was disastrous. At first, she did not understand anything; then, when she finally made out what he seemed to be aiming at, a heartrending look of astonishment and terror spread over her face. Napoleon realized how distressed she was and did his best to beat a retreat, making a laborious effort to change the subject of their conversation. She pretended to follow what he was saying, fighting hard not to burst into tears.
During the days that followed, she was careful not to mention the incident, but she secretly watched him all the time. She tended him with anxious concern, as if he were a convalescent getting over a serious illness; she begged him to look after himself, forbade him to stay up late; she lovingly prepared nourishing broths, and made him swallow potions. She was forever putting her hand on his forehead, pretending it was a caress, so that she could take his temperature.
Napoleon feigned not to notice, but he was perfectly well aware of the panic that his rash move had caused. The Ostrich’s reaction had filled him with utter dismay, and he now realized that a lot of preparatory work would have to be done before she was able to accept the truth.
First he waited until the unfortunate effect of his first approach had somewhat abated.
When the Ostrich seemed to have almost forgotten the incident, and to a certain extent recovered her former equanimity, he thought he could risk trying again. But this time, in spite of all his caution and tact, the result was even more disastrous: he had scarcely brought up the subject, when she burst into tears, and became so dreadfully agitated that he vowed never to venture into this territory again. But in the meantime, he had to find a way to calm her down — which he did in a rather clumsy fashion. First he tried to pass off the whole story as a bad joke, then he contradicted himself by admitting to whims and fantasies which came, he was sure, from his digestive problems.
However, these confused explanations did no good at all; he could not manage to calm her. She caught him at his own game and begged him to see a doctor. She said she knew an excellent stomach specialist. Napoleon made some vague promises, while firmly resolving to avoid any such consultation. But this time he would not get out of it so easily!
One day when he came home a little earlier than usual, he surprised the Ostrich deep in conversation with an unknown visitor.
When she saw him, the Ostrich jumped to her feet, in a great state of confusion. The stranger, on the other hand — a short man, bent and cold as a cucumber, and tightly buttoned up to his chin in a brown overcoat — remained unruffled and merely stared at Napoleon with a kind of professional detachment. The Ostrich launched into voluble introductions: “… an old friend… a former comrade of the late Truchaut… just passing through… came in by chance… stayed to lunch… pleasure to see each other again… to meet… what’s more an excellent doctor, in fact a stomach specialist, DR. QUINTON!…”