Cornell Woolrich - Waltz into Darkness

WALTZINTO DARKNESS

byCornell Woolrich

Copyright1947 by William Irish

Copyrightrenewed 1974 by Chase Manhattan Bank as Executor

Allrights reserved.

Ifone should love you with real love

(Such things have been,

Thingsyour fair face knows nothing of

It seems, Faustine)...

--Swineburne

CHARACTERSTHAT APPEAR IN THE STORY

LouisDurand, the man in New Orleans

Tom,who works for him

AuntSarah, Tom's sister

JuliaRussell, the woman who comes from St. Louis to marry him

AllanJardine, his business partner

Simms,a bank manager

Commissionerof Police of New Orleans

BerthaRussell, sister of the woman who comes to marry Durand

WalterDowns, a private investigator of St. Louis

ColonelHarry Worth, late of the Confederate Army

Bonny,who was once Julia

CHARACTERTHAT DOES NOT APPEAR IN THE STORY

"Billy,"a name on a burned scrap of letter, an unseen figure watching awindow, a stealthy knocking at a door.

Thesoundless music starts. The dancing figures appear,

slowlydraw together. The waltz begins.

Thesun was bright, the sky was blue, the time was May; New Orleans washeaven, and heaven must have been only another New Orleans, itcouldn't have been any better.

Inhis bachelor quarters on St. Charles Street, Louis Durand was gettingdressed. Not for the first time that day, for the sun was alreadyhigh and he'd been up and about for hours; but for the great event ofthat day. This wasn't just a day, this was _the_ day of all days. Aday that comes just once to a man, and now had come to him. It hadcome late, but it had come. It was now. It was today.

Hewasn't young any more. Others didn't tell him this, he told himselfthis. He wasn't old, as men go. But for such a thing as this, hewasn't too young any more. Thirty-seven.

Onthe wall there was a calendar, the first four leaves peeled back tobare the fifth. At top, center, this was inscribed _May_. Then oneach side of this, in slanted, shadow-casting, heavily curlicuednumerals, the year-date was gratuitously given the beholder: 1880.Below, within their little boxed squares, the first nineteen numeralshad been stroked off with lead pencil. About the twentieth, this timein red crayon, a heavy circle, a bull's-eye, had been traced. Aroundand around, as though it could not be emphasized enough. And fromthere on, the numbers were blank; in the future.

Hehad put on the shirt with starched ruffles that Maman Alphonsine hadso lovingly laundered for him, every frill a work of art. It wasfastened at the cuffs with garnet studs backed with silver. In theflowing ascot tie that spread downward fanwise from his chin wasthrust the customary stickpin that no well-dressed man was everwithout, in this case a crescent of diamond splinters tipped by aruby chip at each end.

Aponderous gold fob hung from his waistcoat pocket on the right side.Linking this to the adjoining pocket on the left, bulky with amassive slab of watch, was a chain of thick gold links, conspicuousacross his middle, and meant to be so. For what was a man without awatch? And what was a watch without there being an indication of one?

Hisflowing, generous shirt, above this tightly encompassing waistcoat,gave him a pouter-pigeon aspect. But there was enough pride in hischest right now to have done that unaided, anyway.

Onthe bureau, before which he stood using his hairbrush, lay a packetof letters and a daguerreotype.

Heput down his brush, and, pausing for a moment in his preparations,took them up one by one and hurriedly glanced through each. The firstbore the letter-head: "The Friendly Correspondence Society ofSt. Louis, Mo.--an Association for Ladies and Gentlemen of HighCharacter," and began in a fine masculine hand:

DearSir:

In reply to your inquiry we are pleased to forward to you the

nameand address of one of our members, and if you will address

yourselfto her in person, we feel sure a mutually satisfactory

correspondencemay be engaged upon--

Thenext was in an even finer hand, this time feminine: "My dear Mr.Durand:--" And signed: "Y'rs most sincerely, Miss 3.Russell."

Thenext: "Dear Mr. Durand:... Sincerely, Miss Julia Russell."

Thenext: "Dear Louis Durand:... Your sincere friend, JuliaRussell."

Andthen: "Dear Louis:... Your sincere friend, Julia."

Andthen: "Dear Louis:... Your sincere Julia."

Andthen: "Louis, dear:... Your Julia."

Andfinally: "Louis, my beloved:... Your own impatient Julia."

Therewas a postscript to this one: "Will Wednesday never come? Icount the hours for the boat to sail !"

Heput them in order again, patted them tenderly, fondly, into symmetry.He put them into his inside coat pocket, the one that went over hisheart.

Hetook up, now, the small stiff-backed daguerreotype and looked at itlong and raptly. The subject was not young. She was not an old woman,certainly, but she was equally certainly no longer a girl. Herfeatures were sharply indented with the approaching emphases ofalteration. There was an incisiveness to the mouth that was not yet,but would be presently, sharpness. There was a keen appearance to theeyes that heralded the onset of sunken creases and constrictionsabout them. Not yet, but presently. The groundwork was being laid.There was a curvature to the nose that presently would become a hook.There was a prominence to the chin that presently would become ajutting-out.

Shewas not beautiful. She could be called attractive, for she wasattractive to him, and attractiveness lies in the eyes of thebeholder.

Herdark hair was gathered at the back of the head in a psycheknot, and asmattering of it, coaxed the other way, fell over her forehead in afringe, as the fashion had been for some considerable time now. Solong a time, in fact, that it was already unnoticeably ceasing to bethe fashion.

Theonly article of apparel allowed to be visible by the limitations ofthe pose was a black velvet ribbon clasped tightly about her throat,for immediately below that the portrait ended in smouldering brownclouds of photographic nebulae.

Sothis was the bargain he had made with love, taking what he could get,in sudden desperate haste, for fear of getting nothing at all, ofhaving waited too long, after waiting fifteen years, steadfastlyturning his back on it.

Thatearly love, that first love (that he had sworn would be the last) wasonly a shadowy memory now, a half-remembered name from the past.Marguerite; he could say it and it had no meaning now. As dry andflat as a flower pressed for years between the pages of a book.

Aname from someone else's past, not even his. For every seven years wechange completely, they say, and there is nothing left of what wewere. And so twice over he had become somebody else since then.

Twice-removedhe was now from the boy of twenty-two--called Louis Durand as he was,and that their only link--who had knocked upon the house door of hisbride-to-be the night before their wedding, stars in his eyes,flowers in his hand. To stand there first with his summonsunanswered. And then to see it swing slowly open and two men comeout, bearing something dead on a covered litter.

"Standback. Yellow jack."

Hesaw the ring on her finger, trailing the ground.

Hedidn't cry out. He made no sound. He reached down and placed hiscourtship flowers gently on the death-stretcher as it went by. Thenhe turned and went away.

Awayfrom love, for fifteen years.

Marguerite,a name. That was all he had left.

Hewas faithful to that name until he died. For he died too, though moreslowly than she had. The boy of twenty-two died into a young man oftwenty-nine. Then _he_ in turn was still faithful to the name hispredecessor had been faithful to, until he too died. The young man oftwenty-nine died into an older man of thirty-six.