Thirty Hours with a Corpse, and Other Tales of the Grand Guignol

That Scoundrel Miron

NO ONE ever understood how this woman, who was neither young nor pretty, got complete possession of the heart, the mind, the whole life of Miron. As soon as he met her he broke with his best friends, left off going to his familiar haunts, and instead of devoting himself as formerly to Art for Art’s sake, took to painting the rankest potboilers. When a man who had been a great friend in the old days ventured to say:

“You’re an idiot, Miron. You are spoiling your style, abusing your talent…” he only shrugged his shoulders and said: “Nonsense.” When the friend insisted, reminding him of the conscientious work, full of more than promise, he had done in the old days of his dreams of fame, he grew angry.

“My talent? My dreams? You make me laugh. When I had them I slept in a garret, I had one meal a day. I know people will now stop saying: ‘You’ll see, he’ll be rich some day!’ but in the meanwhile I can eat as much as I like and am free from sordid worries. I am happy, very happy.”

He walked rapidly away. But when he was sure that he was out of sight, he stopped at a café and sat for hours lost in thought with an empty glass in front of him. Miron lied: he was not happy. At first his love had absorbed him to the exclusion of everything else. To get the extra money that was necessary for his new kind of existence he had dashed off little sketches and drawings for the illustrated papers, and when he felt too disgusted with this prostitution of his talent, he had consoled himself by thinking that before long he would return to serious work. But as time flew by he had become morally weak, almost cowardly, and now there was a gnawing bitterness at the bottom of his heart and he was ashamed of himself, ashamed of the soulless love in which he had slowly but surely lost his better self. Debts accumulated, and at last there came a day when, worn out by the threats of those to whom he owed money and by scenes with his mistress, he lost his head and wrote a check he could not meet. He hoped to be able to get the money before the check was presented, but he was not able to do so, and, taking fright, he fled from Paris, from France.

To avoid rousing suspicion he went alone; his mistress was to follow next day. He was so certain she would come he went to bed and fell asleep happily, almost without remorse. He expected a letter from her in the morning telling the time of her arrival; next night there came instead a telegram with just four words: “I am not coming.”

At first he was too stunned to take it in; it did not seem possible she could have written that. But on reflection he told himself without bitterness that after all she was right; he was a thief. Thoughts of the lost love merged themselves in the remembrance of the days when his face was set toward fame, and a great weariness, mental and physical, made him feel like a child that has lost itself. You need courage to make an effort to save yourself. He had none left. He resolved to go back to Paris, to be arrested, to be punished. Nothing could be worse than what he had already suffered because of his voluntary artistic downfall. Indeed, it would only seem natural, right, that he should be publicly disgraced. He hesitated a little at the thought of the court, prison, the dishonor from which it was still possible to save himself. But why should he mind? A man might make an effort if he had to consider a wife, parents, friends, anyone he respected; or even if he were well known, his name stood for something good… But he?

He took up the newspaper, looked at it without interest, and became very pale. There was a big headline: DISAPPEARANCE OF THE ARTIST MIRON. It was a long article, and a new thought came to him as he read and re-read it. Every day a dishonest cashier disappears; every day a forger is arrested—did people take any real interest in them? This article made it clear that his flight had aroused unusual interest, that his loss caused regret; if so much space were devoted to him, it showed that the public had begun to recognize his talent and valued it. He was not unknown. He was “Somebody”; he had a name.

His infamy was the revelation of his glory. The idea of prison that had before weighed so lightly now horrified him. He was tortured by shame, fear, and pride. For days he shut himself up in his room, watching suspiciously anyone who stopped under his window, reading with passionate interest all that the papers continued to say about his disappearance and, above all, about his work. Before long he was relegated to the second page of the newspapers, then to the third; two succeeding days there was no mention of him; twice or thrice his name cropped up at intervals; then—silence. People ceased talking of him, the authorities left off looking for him. He felt sure he had escaped, that he could come and go as he liked. He was free.

It was only then that he realized how completely alone in the world he was.

Then came want; he was penniless. He must do something to earn a living. But what could he do? Drawing? Painting? And give them a chance to recognize his style and so lead to his arrest? How could he run the risk of reviving memories of himself only to blacken afresh a name he had now become proud of ! Never had he been so aware of his real talent as now when he dare not show a new picture. But he must do something to get the money to support life. He thought of giving lessons, but no one cared to have them; he tried to obtain work in an office, but he had not the necessary certificates. He did all sorts of odd jobs, even the humblest, those that demand nothing but physical strength. His clothes wore out, became covered with stains; he lost his looks, his hair and beard grew gray. Over and over again he determined to kill himself, but resolution failed him at the last moment. His mind would travel back to the old days, to the little studio where he had dreamed such great dreams, and a vague feeling of hope would change the current of his thoughts.

The vision of himself evoked by this remembrance of himself as he used to be only grew more vivid as the years passed, and by slow degrees he became possessed by a longing either to become that old self again or to create another personality on the same lines. This longing sustained him through the long, dreary months of hardship in which he tried to save some money, economizing in food, sometimes even sleeping in the open. Halfpenny by halfpenny the little hoard accumulated, and at last he found himself in possession of a small sum. The enthusiasm of youth had come back to him; he took to making sketches, on a white wall, on the corner of a table, anywhere; everything he saw presented itself as a picture, and when he had a hundred francs he took the train and returned to France. Fifteen years had gone by since he left Paris. Who would remember him? Who would recognize him with his white hair, his long beard, his bent shoulders!

At first he hardly dared go out, but when confidence came his steps were drawn irresistibly toward the windows of the shops of the picture-dealers. There he saw new names, others that were familiar to him, and he found himself—he who had never in bygone days spoken of his talent—comparing himself with these painters and saying: “I can do better than that.”

He bought a canvas, some colors and brushes, and began to work in his little attic. He painted feverishly, hesitating as does a convalescent who fears movement after a long illness. When he had finished the picture he spent a whole day looking at it, asking himself:

“Is it good? Is it bad?”

He no longer felt the ability to criticize his own work. At length he pulled himself together, signed the picture with the first name that came into his head—Loriot—put the canvas under his arm and set off for a dealer’s shop. When he got there he was almost too agitated to speak, and he stammered as he said:

“I am a painter… I have no money… I wondered if you would buy a picture…”

“By whom?”

“By—by me.”

“What’s your name?”

“Loriot.”

“I’m sorry, but we are not buying anything just at present.” He grew pale and his throat was dry as he held out the canvas:

“You might at least look at it.”

The dealer glanced at it, came forward, took it in his hands, and called his partner.

“Look at this. What do you think of it?”

“Not at all bad.”

“You mean remarkably good,” said the other.

“Do you mean to say it’s the work of that old fellow?”

“Yes.”

They stood together near the mantelshelf examining it closely, and Miron heard one say:

“Astonishing—amazing! Do you know what it reminds me of ? It’s like the work of that scoundrel Miron, only ten times better.”

Miron, standing motionless in a corner near the door, drew himself up sharply.

“What did you say?” he asked.

The dealer smiled. “We weren’t talking of you. I was telling my partner that your work recalls that of a painter called Miron.”

Miron repeated reflectively:

“Miron… Miron…”

“I have a little thing of his here… Did you know him?”

“Yes,” murmured Miron.

“You have his style, his quality, but your work is better than his—though as a dealer I ought not tell you so.”

“Oh, no. It’s not better,” stammered Miron, his eyes on the picture they had taken from the window to show him.

“Yes, it is. Miron painted instinctively. You are a finished artist. The proof of my opinion is that I am prepared not only to take this picture of yours, but as many more as you can paint. I will sell them all for you. In two months your work will be known, in two years you will be celebrated, and I guarantee Miron will be quickly forgotten.”

Miron became paler as he listened. The words of high praise that would have delighted him in the old days now tortured him. He suddenly realized that all he cared for, all he respected in himself was the man he had been before his fall, the Miron he could no longer be, the Miron he had just heard condemned to death. What did the success or the failure of “Loriot” mean to him? He was not Loriot; Loriot was a stranger who was invited to come forward as the successful rival of his real self, an Unknown who would efface his name and what it stood for in the art world. The dealer went on talking, but he did not listen, did not hear. He imagined a buyer coming in and asking for a Miron, and this man replying, with his abominable smile, as he showed Loriot’s canvas:

“Miron?… Here’s something much better. Look at this.”

He could not stand the thought. He grieved for his dead self as a man mourns the loss of a last love.

“Let us come to terms,” the dealer was saying. “How much do you want?”

Miron raised his sad eyes, but made no reply. He did not seem to grasp the meaning of the question.

“Of course you understand that I can’t offer much for the first picture. It will be some time before people understand the difference between Loriot and Miron. Most buyers need guidance. But it will end by Miron’s going to the wall.”

The painter was still silent. The other believed he was considering the price.

“What do you say to—”

Miron stretched out his hand.

“I’d rather wait. I’ll come back some other time…”

“All right. But leave the picture. I’ll put it in the window instead of the Miron.”

“No,” said Miron.

“You are making a great mistake. A man doesn’t hesitate when a chance like this comes his way. Why, if I had offered that scoundrel Miron what I am offering you, it is more than likely he’d be here now, would never have done what he did.”

“That’s true,” Miron murmured. He was trembling.

“You can’t possibly refuse my offer. It would be childish.”

“I do refuse it. Give me the picture.”

“But I—”

“Give me the picture,” repeated Miron. His voice was hoarse, and there was a curious gleam in the depths of his eyes.

“It’s a great pity,” declared the dealer. “I repeat I would have made a bigger name for you than Miron made.”

“That’s true,” replied Miron for the second time, and he left the shop.

It was growing dark. Some people who were hurrying along stumbled up against him. It was a damp, dreary evening, very like the night of his flight. He stood on the curbstone, his picture in his hand. He held it for a second at arm’s length, then threw it in the road in front of a passing carriage.

“You’ve dropped something,” said a man.

“I know… it’s nothing… thank you,” replied Miron.

At that moment the hoof of the horse struck the frame… then came the wheel. The noise it made as it passed over the picture was hardly audible, but it split the canvas and crushed it in the mud so that little remained of it but a gray mass like crumpled paper.

Miron went back to the shop window. There in a place of honor hung his picture; through the mist that blurred the lights he could see the glimmer of the little plaque on the frame that bore his name: Miron. He looked at it for a long time with eyes that shone with tenderness, thoughts of the past filling his mind. A tear rolled down his cheek as he turned and walked away in the slow rain that was making the pavement shine.