Chapter XXVI: A Message From Jieng

Buttoning up his waistcoat, Pierre went to the window and pushed open the blinds. A wave of sunlight flooded his little room, lighting up the whitewashed walls and making the copper-mounted bed sparkle. Under its influence, the odor of drugs which had filled the room seemed to evaporate from the two arm-chairs and the bamboo table loaded with pots and bottles. Outside, the clock that ornamented the façade of the hospital struck the hour, five clear leisurely strokes, which fell slowly, one by one, in the vast sluggishness of the afternoon. Other blinds were thrown back noisily, and little by little life pursued its daily resurrection after the torrid hours of the siesta.

Leaning on his elbows at his window, Pierre let his glance wander over the familiar scene. Beyond the great veranda which ran the whole length of the building, and upon which the rooms of the patients opened, he could see the hospital park spreading out with its green turf and leafy trees, and between them the sanded walks, stretching like yellow ribbons striped alternately with shadow and sunlight. Far off, half seen through the gaps in the foliage, shone the whiteness of the hospital wall which kept at a distance the noise and the traffic of Saigon.

Pierre stretched himself and tried his muscles. He felt himself very weak, his nerves flabby and his body heavy; the slowness and uncertainty of each of his movements showing him how complete had been his physical breakdown, how deep and lasting the disarrangement of his vital mechanism to which five months of hospital treatment had only succeeded in bringing back a weak illusion of energy, a pretense of strength.... He smiled bitterly. Nothing would ever bring back to him the vigor of his body, the richness and the freshness of his blood--in a word, his youth!... And his mind itself, disrupted by suffering, suddenly appeared to him old, worn out and pitiful.

The noise of the door opening behind him interrupted his gloomy thoughts.

He turned about, raising his sallow face to the Sister of Charity who had just entered. She smiled softly, with that self-effacing smile which was habitual with her:

"Well, my child, I hope you are pleased. Today for the first time you are to be allowed to go out into the park."

He made no answer, keeping his expression of indifference and depression.

She shook her head, making the white wings of her head-dress flap to and fro:

"How do you feel?"

She looked into his eyes.

"Come," said she, "that's enough of those black thoughts. Come for a walk outside--the sun will do you good."

He bowed his head and remained motionless and lifeless.

"Listen, Sister Thérèse," he said, "I want...."

He hesitated, his eyes sought the eyes of the sister:

"What?" she asked, "still full of questions, eh? How did you get here? This is the twentieth time you have asked me that, but I know nothing about it, my child. If I knew, I would tell you, you know that! Why should I want to hide it from you? But no, I promise you.... They brought you here one evening; I was on duty, and I took you in and looked after you. You were delirious, and I thought,--I can tell you this now that you are practically cured--that you were going to slip away from me. And then you had an attack of gastritis complicated with brain-fever and you talked ... you talked...."

Pierre raised his head quickly.

"What did I say?"

"How do I know? If you think I take notice of all the nonsense my patients talk! I have lots of other things to think about. First of all I had to prevent you getting out of bed, and your one idea was to dress yourself and start off."

She spoke lightly, accompanying her phrases with gestures. Underneath her words could be felt the joy which she experienced in seeing this patient of hers, for whose life she had fought hour by hour, up and about again. She took his arm and shook it affectionately.

"Now, go, you stupid!" she said. "Underneath the wall over there you will find your friends. Talk with them: it will ease your mind. They will tell you the latest scandal of Saigon. You will see, they have lots of jokes--at least I suppose so from hearing their shouts of laughter--for they take very good care never to tell them to me, the scamps!"

And she pushed him out of the door and shut it behind his back with a little laugh.

* * * * *

Pierre found himself under the veranda. The sweetish smell of the bougainvilleas in flower, the stems of which crept in masses over the wooden balustrade, floated heavily in the air and mingled with the stale odor of drugs, whiffs of which escaped from the open door. Rolled up in rugs, their skeleton-like bodies loose in the hospital pyjamas of gray wool, the convalescents lay, trying to accustom their eyes to the blazing light which fell from a cloudless sky the color of deep turquoise. A gentle breeze drifted among the deck-chairs, enveloping the patients with its kindly warmth.

Pierre went down a staircase and came out into an avenue. He walked slowly with short steps as groping and uncertain as his thoughts. In the middle of a circle of turf a watering-pipe sent up a mist of spray which the setting sun edged with a miniature rainbow. A vast peace lay over the whole park,--a satisfying and contemplative silence broken only here and there by the sudden whistlings of birds. Pierre, following his course, came into an avenue of flame-trees: on the bare earth large purple blossoms fallen from the branches made spots of vivid red across the patches of shade which were riddled with little circles of sunlight ceaselessly trembling and dancing among them.

At the end of the avenue a chorus of cries greeted him:

"Aha, Lursac! Out for the first time?"

"This is better than the native huts!"

Pierre acknowledged the greetings with a weary movement of his hand.

There were four of them--four young men escaped like himself from the privations of the forest and re-united here by the chances of sickness. One down from Cambodia, two from the Chinese frontier and the fourth just brought in from Cochin-China.

This last said to him:

"Yes ... it is a good deal better. As for me, when they let me out after three months in bed...."

And he went off into a long account of his own convalescence.

Pierre lay back in an arm-chair by the table on which playing-cards were lying about in disorder by open newspapers.

The man who had spoken first--a big fellow with laughing eyes and sarcastic mouth--took one of the papers, unfolded it, looking for something.

"Here you are, old chap. There's something about you in this ... half a column at least. 'The famous Post 32 again!' Good heading, eh? As for the article, it is a regular wonder, nothing better was ever invented in any editorial office!"

Pierre stretched out his hand for it.

"No, listen.... I'll read it to you out loud. It is worth the trouble!..."

And in his mocking voice he declaimed:

"'THE FAMOUS POST 32 AGAIN

"'Without doubt our readers will remember the tragedy which took
place here some five months ago at the foot of the Pou-Kas, the
scene of which was Post 32, long celebrated in the annals of our
Indo-Chinese history. For those of our readers who have forgotten
this sad affair we will give a brief resumé of it. M. de Lursac,
a young administrator with splendid prospects ... (I salute you,
my boy; the Press admires you! It is the only original passage in
the article. I continue:) ... a young administrator with splendid
prospects was despatched at his own request to Post 32, the
responsibility for which he was to share with Lieutenant Redeski.
Administrator Lursac had been ordered to proceed, on taking up his
duties, with a police operation against the independent Moï tribes
of the district. Everybody still remembers the result of this
expedition. Starting out in company with the Rev. Father Ravennes,
of the Apostolic Mission to the Banhars, M. de Lursac was found a
month later wandering in the forest in a condition of collapse and
sickness which left the possibility of his recovery doubtful for
a long time. His escort of native riflemen scattered in continual
attacks, his elephants killed by poisoned arrows, his reverend
companion dead by the way of a wound received in an ambush, he
was alone in the midst of the vast Lao-ese forest. M. de Lursac
was attempting to find his way back to the Post when he fell,
conquered by weakness and exhaustion; but he had succeeded, thanks
to an extraordinary will power ... (I greet you once more!) ...
in reaching the outskirts of it, and it was at a distance of only
a few miles from the station which had been destroyed during his
absence that the converts of Father Ravennes discovered the young
administrator, dying, and in a state of destitution impossible
to describe. We understand that a successor to him has just been
appointed. Would it not be better before uselessly sacrificing
the lives and energies of our young men ... (All salute him,
gentlemen!) ... to first of all set to work seriously to clean out
the district and to put down with an iron hand this rebellious
horde that makes our rule over this part of the hinterland simply
illusory? It appears to us indeed, impossible that the authorities
who pretend to be so anxious about it, etc., etc.'

"Then follows a whole list of suggestions--all illusory, as the editor of this estimable journal would say--in which the Colonial Government gets a few of these truths which it is customary to hand it on occasion.... What have you got to say about it, young administrator of most splendid prospects?"

He stopped speaking. All eyes turned to Lursac. He considered. What could he tell them? The truth!... Ah! the truth!... He shrugged his shoulders, deciding to leave uncontradicted the fantastic version given by the Saigon papers.

But the other obstinately asked a definite question:

"How much truth is there in all this nonsense?"

Pierre felt that it was necessary to give some answer.

"Sentences here and there!" he said, evasively. "It was very simple.... The _linhs_ deserted almost at once; the mahouts in their turn got away with their animals and all the provisions, so that I found myself one fine day alone with Father Ravennes, who had been wounded the night before during an attack on a village. We wandered through the forest aimlessly, straying here and there and going in a circle and then ... and then...."

He shut his eyes. An unconquerable lassitude fell upon him, he lay back heavily in his chair.

"And then," continued the voice of one of the young men, "you woke up in hospital. Here or elsewhere it is always the same story. Some leave their skins behind and others bring them out with them. That's life, that is!... They give us an order, we carry it out. As for the rest, it all depends on the will of Buddha. As my girl says to me, 'We are in the hands of the Perfect One!'"

He crumpled up the paper, rolled it into a ball and flung it over the wall.

There was a long silence. In the street which ran just the other side of the wall, the rhythmic trot of a rickshaw coolie came up, passed by, and died into the distance, and then a song rose; it was the song of a beggar imploring charity in a tremulous tearful voice. The sun, slowly descending, shot slanting rays of light across the avenues of the park. The sky, changing slowly through gold and purple, became mauve: the piping birds sounded more softly and less often: an invisible bell behind the wall of trees and buildings sounded out in short repeated strokes.

The young men got up.

"Are you coming, Lursac?"

Pierre was recalling the past. Once more he saw Ravennes and the humble tomb of greenery above it; and in the depths of the vast Lao-ese forest the rosary that would swing its crucifix of tarnished silver whenever the wind blew from the north down the slope of the Pou-Kas. He thought of Wanda. Where was she, and what had become of her? Was she still a prisoner of the tribe? Prisoner?...

He saw again the wild rush of the men of Gondwana. He thought of the love of their chief for Wanda. Prisoner? Ah!... Ah!...

A hand shook him:

"Lursac! Here, Lursac! When are you going to finish dreaming with your eyes open? The first dinner bell has just rung. Are you coming?"

Suddenly the song of the beggar on the other side of the wall died away.

Pierre shook his head.

"I have plenty of time," he said, "it is still quarter of an hour to the second bell."

The young men, careless, left him. One of them began telling a scandalous story which was going the round in Saigon. Gradually his voice and the laughter of his fellows became indistinct as they moved away.

Once more fallen into a revery, Pierre felt a bitter pleasure in again going over his sufferings in detail. Suddenly his former despair fell upon him. Again he was tortured,--perhaps more terribly than he had ever been. His grief which had remained in abeyance during his illness came alive again. His heart contracted; he called out, hoarsely:

"Wanda!... Wanda!..."

Behind the tall white wall the dragging footstep of the beggar and her song came again--then something pale, flung from the street, fell on an arm-chair, rebounded and rolled on the ground. Pierre, surprised, remained motionless for a second. The song had again ceased and hurried steps could be heard making away. Bending down he picked up the object and examined it. It was a packet, carefully done up in a dirty rag. Opening it with an instinctive fear he looked at the contents and seized with a convulsive fit of trembling remained nailed to his seat, incapable of moving.... Then, he rushed to the entrance gate. The rifleman on guard, scared at his violence, watched him go out without making any effort to stop him. There was not a soul in the street. Pierre made the complete circuit of the hospital, running as hard as he could, coming back to the entrance gate. Then dashing into the next street he followed it exhausted, his heart beating so as to suffocate him, until he could run no longer. His clenched hand clung to the packet.

About him people hurried to and fro, elbowing him and pushing him aside without his noticing it. At the corner of the boulevard he was almost run over. The coachman, flinging himself back on his seat with the reins pulled up tight, dragged his ponies to one side and missed him by an inch, cursing him volubly. He heard him not and noticed nothing. His eyes looking straight before him saw a phantom which fled him ceaselessly and which he as ceaselessly pursued.

At last, opposite a shop window he pulled up. The glass of the window reflected his own image and he looked at it for a moment with stupefaction. Was that he?... This fleshless skeleton of a body ... with gestures feverish, ugly and grotesque? Was that the body of him, Pierre de Lursac?... That livid face, all flat hollows and projecting bones; this withered flesh; these wrinkles; these eyes shining with fever and yet dull; these loose burned up lips--all these things ... were they his eyes, his face, his mouth?... He gave a terrible grin and clenched his fists; the packet which he was still carrying crackled.... And once more he resumed his aimless way.

* * * * *

Under the arched trees along the avenues the shade was deeper. Rickshaws and carriages went about hurriedly to unknown destinations. The usual life cast up its flood of passers-by, its under-current of natives, its noises, its smells;--and he, among it all, was like a scrap of flotsam drifting at random.... Then night fell, and lights shone through the dark. They became fewer and disappeared altogether for a while, for he was following a road which led out of the city and ran across the open country.

He still kept going.... He came to a canal and followed it. The voices of sampan men came to him and the smell of Annamese cooking. At long distances between, a victoria, a malabar and a few rickshaws passed him or met him. The light of their lanterns striking out in the darkness threw a brief illumination upon him and shed a narrow, yellow light on the opposite side of the road which quickly fled away from him and disappeared....

Then, again, he found himself in the neighborhood of a crowd of human beings, the lights and the human scurryings of a native village. And suddenly he came to himself. With a flash the cloud of hallucination which had encompassed him fell away and vanished. He looked about him with haggard eyes. He was on the outskirts of Cho-lon. On his left he could see the dark furrow of the canal crowded with a mass of junks and sampans and spotted with enormous native lamps; on his right the houses of the Chinese town rose with their colored lanterns and flamboyant signs and gildings and their stalls.

He hesitated. Casting a heavy glance over the canal with its black and oily water, stagnant between its muddy banks, he then turned towards the town and saw in front of him a shop above which a panel of black lacquer bore in gold letters the name of the proprietor. He read mechanically between two columns of Chinese characters:

TSEN-TAC

CHINESE CURIOS AND SILKS

CANTON. SAIGON. SHANGHAI.

He said to himself:

"Tsen-Tac?... Tsen-Tac?..."

This name brought to life in some obscure corner of his mind a sleeping memory. Suddenly he remembered: at the bottom of the passageway in the inner shop: Opium,--the drug that gives forgetfulness and peace.

Making up his mind he walked to the door and pushed it open violently. The pot-bellied owner, with his little narrow eyes lost among the billowings of his vast face, greeted him with an obsequious smile. He was already framing a phrase of welcome when Pierre cut him short with a rough shrug of the shoulders.

"Shandoo," he said heavily.

And he rattled several piastres in the bottom of his pocket.

The "compere"[20] made his smile still broader. His fat face took on an air of secrecy. He flung a cautious look around the empty shop and then with his hand, sparkling with rings of pink and green jade, he pointed to a hanging in the furthest corner.

[Footnote 20: Name given to the Chinese.]

Pierre, raising it, slid into the passage. In front of him at the further end stood a door, lighted by a dim lantern of figured silk. He stopped for a second, pushing his hands into his pockets. With a hoarse sigh, he felt the packet which had come to him in such a strange manner a few hours earlier and he began to withdraw his hand slowly, bringing out with it towards the light the.... A shudder shook him from head to foot. He could not complete the movement; more haggard than before, if possible, he bent his head....

"I cannot ... not yet.... Later ... presently.... When I have smoked ten pipes ... twelve pipes.... When the opium has.... Then, yes.... I will see if it is really her ... her hand ... with the ring ... my signet ring...."

An uncontrollable sob shook him.

Once more he repeated:

"Her hand ... her hand...."

And he pushed open the door and entered the opium den.

* * * * *

[Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation left as printed.]