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XVII
That same night my revelation bore its first fruits. Easily, with the silent naturalism of the requisite, I passed from the group of suspects into that of the investigators. In fact, in a confidential tete-a-tete, Commissioner Aubry, Dr. Montes and I lingered over coffee and cherried sweets until dawn began to appear over the dunes.
 My colleague in healing wanted to talk of women; the commissioner pleased my spirit by talking of books. He was devoted to Count Kostia; admitted a fondness for Fabiola and disapproved of Ben-Hur; but his favorite was The Man Who Laughs. His blue eyes watched me with intense gravity.
"Don't you think," he asked, "that the most significant moment in literature is that in which Hugo speaks to us of the English lord addicted to roosters' kidneys, who has the two women dance in his club? To the one, the unmarried one, he gives a dowry; and he names the other's husband chaplain."
I was agreeably pleased by Aubry's literary fervor; uncomfortably perplexed by his question. Thanks to the generosity of fate, the response which allowed me to dodge a tight situation was at the same time a useful bit of advice. I recommended modern works to him; I urged him to read Thomas Mann's The Magic Mountain, a novel quite appropriate to our circumstances and of which there was not a single copy in the hotel.
He listened avidly and reverently. His blue eyes seemed to be nailed to my words. Perhaps he was nailing them into his memory. My lips were still pronouncing the words Thomas Mann when he said laboriously, like someone busying himself ³in the dark regions of forgetfulness² in search of a few verses, ³Hardquanonne says, 'Probity exists in hell'." Sentences such as that reveal the great listener; they highlight, among the various talents, the true genius.
The center of my life is my encounter with these frustrated friends: while they think abstractly, we understand one another; but offer an anecdote and incompatibility overwhelms us. With a warm, sympathetic impulse, whose authenticity we did not look into, we continued speaking of literature until Dr. Montes interrupted his sullen silence to ask, "What conclusions have you reached in your investigation?"
"The case is closed," the commissioner replied.
His eyes, sidelong and attentive, fixed first upon Montes, and then upon me; his mouth, moving like that of a ruminant, savored the cherry. Already prepared to reproach myself for a failure of hospitality, I wondered how far I had advanced in the man's confidence. I did not have unlimited faith in Aubry's conclusion. I wanted to hear it.
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