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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8f88361 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #66636 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/66636) diff --git a/old/66636-0.txt b/old/66636-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 292ce6f..0000000 --- a/old/66636-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6339 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Story of André Cornélis, by Paul Bourget - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Story of André Cornélis - -Author: Paul Bourget - -Translator: G. F. Monkshood - -Release Date: October 31, 2021 [eBook #66636] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF ANDRÉ CORNÉLIS *** - -THE STORY - -OF - -ANDRÉ CORNÉLIS - - - -By - - -PAUL BOURGET - - - - -Adapted by - - -G.F. MONKSHOOD - - - - -LONDON - -GREENING & CO., LTD. - -1909 - - - - -CONTENTS -CHAPTER I -CHAPTER II -CHAPTER III -CHAPTER IV -CHAPTER V -CHAPTER VI -CHAPTER VII -CHAPTER VIII -CHAPTER IX -CHAPTER X -CHAPTER XI -CHAPTER XII -CHAPTER XIII -CHAPTER XIV -CHAPTER XV -CHAPTER XVI -CHAPTER XVII -CHAPTER XVIII -CHAPTER XIX - - - - -THE STORY OF -ANDRÉ CORNÉLIS - - - - -I - - -When a child, I went to confession. How often have I wished that I were -still the lad who came at five o'clock into the chapel of our school, -the cold empty chapel, with its white-washed walls, its benches on which -our places were numbered, its harmonium, its Holy Family, its blue -ceiling dotted with stars. We were taken to this chapel in tens. When it -came to my turn to kneel in one of the two spaces on either side of the -central seat of the priest, my heart would beat violently, and a feeling -of oppression would come upon me, produced by the gloom and silence, and -the murmur of the confessor's voice as he questioned the boy on the -opposite side, to whom I was to succeed. These sensations, and the shame -inspired by sins which I was to confess, made me start with dread when -the sound of the sliding panel announced that the moment had come, and I -could distinguish the priest's profile, and note the keenness of his -glance. What a moment of pain to endure, and then what a sense of -relief! What a feeling of liberty, alleviation, pardon--nay, effacement -of wrong-doing; what conviction that a spotless page was now offered to -me, and it was mine to fill it with good deeds. I am too far removed now -from the faith of my early years to imagine that there was a phenomenon -in all this. Whence then came the sense of deliverance that renewed the -youth of my soul? It came from the fact that I had told my sins, that I -had thrown over the burden of conscience that oppresses us all. -Confession was the lancet-stroke that empties the abscess. Alas! I have -now no confessional at which to kneel, no prayer to murmur, no God in -whom to hope! Nevertheless, I must get rid of these intolerable -recollections. The tragedy of my life presses too heavily upon my -memory, and I have no friend to speak to, no echo to take up my plaint. -There are things which cannot be uttered, since they ought not to find a -hearer; and so I have resolved, in order to cheat my pain, to make my -confession here, to myself alone, on this white paper, as I might make -it to a priest. I will write down all the details of my terrible history -as each comes to my remembrance, and when this confession is finished, I -shall see whether I am to be rid of the anguish also. Ah! if it could -even be diminished! If it were but lessened, so that I might have my -share of youth and life! I have suffered so much, and yet I love life, -in spite of my sufferings. A full glass of the black drug, the laudanum -that I always keep at hand for nights when I cannot sleep, and the slow -torture of my remorse would cease at once. But I cannot, I will not. The -instinctive animal desire _to live on_ stirs me more strongly than all -the moral reasons which urge me to make an end. Live then, poor wretch, -since Nature bids you tremble at the thought of death. Nature? And -besides, I do not want to go down there--no, not yet--into that dark -world where it may be we should meet. No, no, not that terror, not that! -See now, I had promised myself that I would be self-possessed, and I am -already losing control over my thoughts; but I will resume it. The -following is my project: - -On these sheets of paper I will draw a true picture of my destiny, for I -can catch only glimpses of it in the blurred mirror of my thoughts. And -when the pages are covered with my scrawl I will burn them. But the -thing will have taken form, and existed before my eyes, like a living -being. I shall have thrown a light upon the chaos of horrible -recollections which bewilder me. I shall know what my strength really -is. Here, in this room where I came to the final resolution, it is only -too easy for me to remember. To work, then! I pass my word to myself -that I will set down the whole. - - - - -II - - -Let me remember? I have the sense of having trodden a sorrowing way -during many years, but what was my first step in the blood-spotted -pathway of pain? Where ought I to take up the tale of the slow -martyrdom, whose last stage of torture I have reached to-day? I know -not, for my feelings are like those lagoon-worn shores on which one -cannot tell where sea begins or ends; vague places, sand and water, -whose uncertain outline is constantly changing and being formed anew; -regions without bounds. Nevertheless these places are drawn upon the -map, and we may depict our feelings also by reflection, and after the -manner of analysis. The reality is ever shifting about. How intangible -it is, always escaping our eager grasp! The enigma of enigmas is to know -the exact moment at which a wound gapes in the heart, one of those -wounds which in mine have never closed. In order to simplify everything, -and to keep myself from sinking into that torpor of reverie which steals -over me like the influence of opium, I will divide my task into events, -marking first the precise fact which was the primal and determining -cause of all the rest--the tragic and mysterious death of my father. Let -me endeavour to recall the emotion by which I was overwhelmed at that -time, without mixing with it anything of what I have since understood -and felt. - -I was nine years old. It was in 1864, in the month of June, at the close -of a warm afternoon. I was at my studies in my room as usual, having -come in from the Lycée Bonaparte, and the outer shutters were closed. -We lived in the Rue Tronchet, in the seventh house on the left, coming -from the church. Three highly-polished steps led to the little room, -prettily furnished in blue, within whose walls I passed the last happy -days of my life. Everything comes back to me. I was seated at my table, -dressed in a black overall, and engaged in writing out the tenses of a -Latin verb. All of a sudden I heard a cry, followed by a clamour of -voices; then rapid steps trod the corridor outside my room. -Instinctively I rushed to the door and came against a servant, who was -pale, and had a roll of linen in his hand. I understood the use of this -afterwards. At the sight of me he exclaimed: - -"Ah! M. André, what an awful misfortune!" - -Then, regaining his presence of mind, he said: - -"Go back into your room--go back at once!" - -Before I could answer, he caught me up in his arms, placed me on the -upper step of my staircase, locked the door of the corridor, and walked -rapidly away. - -"No, no," I cried, flinging myself against the door, "tell me all; I -will, I must know." No answer. I shook the lock, I struck the panel with -my clenched fists, I dashed my shoulder against the door. Then, sitting -upon the lowest step, I listened, in an agony of fear, to the coming and -going of people outside, who knew of "the awful misfortune," but what -was it they knew? Child as I was, I understood the terrible -signification which the servant's exclamation bore under the actual -circumstances. Two days previously, my father had gone out after -breakfast, according to custom, to the place of business which he had -occupied for over four years, in the Rue de la Victoire. He had been -thoughtful during breakfast, indeed for some months past he had lost his -accustomed cheerfulness. When he rose to go, my mother, myself, and one -of the frequenters of our house, M. Jacques Termonde, a fellow student -of my father's at the École de Droit, were at table. My father left his -seat before breakfast was over, having looked at the clock, and inquired -whether it was right. - -"Are you in such a hurry, Cornélis?" asked Termonde. - -"Yes," answered my father, "I have an appointment with a client who is -ill--a foreigner--I have to call on him at his hotel to procure -important papers. He is an odd sort of man, and I shall not be sorry to -see something of him at closer quarters. I have taken certain steps on -his behalf and I am almost tempted to regret them." - -And, since then, no news! In the evening of that day, when dinner, which -had been put off for one quarter of an hour after another, was over, and -my father, always so methodical, so punctual, had not come in, mother -began to betray her uneasiness, and could not conceal from me that his -last words dwelt in her mind. It was a rare occurrence for him to speak -with misgiving of his undertakings! The night passed, then the next -morning and afternoon, and once more it was evening. My mother and I -were once more seated at the square table, where the cover laid for my -father in front of his empty chair, gave, as it were, form to our -nameless dread. My mother had written to M. Jacques Termonde, and he -came--after dinner. I was sent away immediately, but not without my -having had time to remark the extraordinary brightness of M. Termonde's -blue eyes, and usually shone coldly in his thin face. He had fair hair -and a light beard. So children take note of small details, which are -speedily effaced from their minds, but afterwards reappear, at the -contact of life, just as certain invisible marks come out upon paper -held to the fire. While begging to be allowed to remain I was -mechanically observing the hurried and agitated turning and returning -of a light cane--I had long coveted it--held behind his back in his -beautiful hands. If I had not admired the cane so much, and the fighting -Centaurs on its handle--a fine piece of work--this symptom of extreme -disturbance might have escaped me. But, how could M. Termonde fail to be -disturbed by the disappearance of his best friend? Nevertheless, his -voice, which made all his phrases melodious, was calm. - -"To-morrow," he said, "I will have every inquiry made, if Cornélis has -not returned; but he will come back, and all will be explained. Depend -on it, he went away somewhere on business he told you of, and left a -letter for you to be sent by a commissionaire who has not delivered it." - -"Ah!" said my mother, "you think that is possible?" - -How often, in my dark hours, have I recalled this dialogue, and the room -in which it took place--a little salon, much liked by my mother, with -hangings and furniture of some foreign stuff striped in red and white, -black and yellow, that my father had brought from Morocco; and how -plainly have I seen my mother in my mind's eyes, with her black hair, -brown eyes, and quivering lips. She was as white as the summer gown she -wore that evening. M. Termonde was dressed with his usual correctness, -and I remember well his elegant figure. It makes me smile when people -talk of presentiments. I went off perfectly satisfied with what he had -said. I had a childish admiration for this man, and hitherto he had -represented nothing to me but treats and indulgence. I attended the two -classes at the Lycée with a relieved heart. But, while I was sitting -upon the lower step of my little staircase, all my uneasiness revived. I -hammered at the door again, I called as loudly as I could; but no one -answered me, until the good woman who had been my nurse came into my -room. - -"My father!" I cried, "where is my father?" - -"Poor child, poor child," said nurse, and took me in her arms. - -She had been sent to tell me the truth, but her strength failed her. I -escaped from her, ran out into the corridor, and reached my father's -bedroom before any one could stop me. Ah! upon the bed lay a form -covered by a white sheet, upon the pillow a bloodless, motionless face, -with fixed, wide-open eyes, for the lids had not been closed; the chin -was supported by a bandage, a napkin was bound around the forehead; at -the bed's foot knelt a woman, still dressed in her white summer gown, -crushed, helpless with grief. These were my father and my mother. I -flung myself upon her, and she clasped me passionately, with the -piercing cry, "My Andre, my André!" In that cry there was much intense -grief, in that embrace there was such frenzied tenderness, her heart was -then so big, that it warms my own even now to think of it. The next -moment she rose and carried me out of the room, that I might see the -dreadful sight no more. She did this easily, her terrible excitement had -doubled her strength. "God punishes me!" she said over and over again. -She had always been given, by fits and starts, to mystical piety. Then -she covered my face, my neck, and my hair with kisses and tears. May all -that we suffered, the dead and I, be forgiven you, poor mother, for the -sincerity of those tears at that moment. In my darkest hours, and when -the phantom was there, beckoning to me, your grief pleaded with me more -strongly than his plaint. Because of the kisses of that moment I have -always been able to believe in you, for those kisses and tears were not -meant to conceal anything. Your whole heart revolted against the deed -that bereaved me of my father. I swear by the anguish which we shared in -that moment, that you had no part in the hideous plot. Ah, forgive me, -that I have felt the need even now of affirming this. If you only knew -how one sometimes hungers and thirsts for certainty--ay, even to the -point of agony. - - - - -III - - -When I asked my mother to tell me all about the awful event, she said -that my father had been seized with a fit in a hackney carriage, and -that as no papers were found upon him, he had not been recognised for -two days. Grownup people are too ready to think it is equally easy to -tell lies to all children. Now, I was a child who pondered long in my -thoughts over things that were said to me, and by means of putting a -number of small facts together, I came to the conviction that I did not -know the whole truth. If my father's death had occurred in the manner -stated to me, why should the man-servant have asked me, one day when he -took me out to walk, what had been said to me about it? And when I -answered him, why did he say no more, and, being a very talkative -person, why had he kept silence ever since? Why, too, did I feel the -same silence all around me, sitting on every lip, hidden in every look? -Why was the subject of conversation constantly changed whenever I drew -near? I guessed this by many trifling signs. Why was not a single -newspaper left lying about, whereas, during my father's lifetime, the -three journals to which we subscribed were always to be found on a table -in the salon? Above all, why did both the masters and my schoolfellows -look at me so curiously, when I went back to school early in October, -four months after our great misfortune? Alas! it was their curiosity -which revealed the full extent of the catastrophe to me. It was only a -fortnight after the reopening of the school, when I happened to be -playing one morning with two new boys; I remember their names, Rastonaix -and Servoin, now, and I can see the fat cheeks of Rastonaix and the -ferret face of Servoin. Although we were outdoor pupils, we were allowed -a quarter of an hour's recreation indoors, between the Latin and English -lessons. The two boys had engaged me on the previous days for a game of -ninepins, and when it was over, they came close to me, and looking at -each other to keep up their courage, they put to me the following -questions, point-blank: - -"Is it true that the murderer of your father has been arrested?" - -"And that he is to be guillotined?" - -This occurred sixteen years ago, but I cannot now recall the beating of -my heart at those words without horror. I must have turned pale, for the -two boys, who had struck me this blow with the carelessness of their -age--of our age--stood there disconcerted. A blind fury seized upon me, -urging me to command them to be silent, and to hit them if they spoke -again; but at the same time I felt a wild impulse of curiosity--what if -this were the explanation of the silence by which I felt myself -surrounded?--and also a pang of fear, the fear of the unknown. The blood -rushed into my face, and I stammered out: - -"I do not know." - -The drum-tap, summoning us back to the schoolroom, separated us. What a -day I passed, bewildered by my trouble, turning the two terrible -sentences over and over again. - -It would have been natural for me to question my mother; but the truth -is, I felt quite unable to repeat to her what my unconscious tormentors -had said. It was strange but true, that henceforth my mother, whom -nevertheless I loved with all my heart, exercised a paralysing influence -over me. She was so beautiful in her pallor, so beautiful and proud. No, -I should never have ventured to reveal to her that an irresistible doubt -of the story she had told me was implanted in my mind merely by the two -questions of my schoolfellows; but, as I could not keep silence entirely -and live, I resolved to have recourse to Julie, my former nurse. She was -a little woman, fifty years of age, an old maid too, with a flat -wrinkled face; but her eyes were full of kindness, and indeed so was her -whole face, although her lips were drawn in by the loss of her front -teeth, and this gave her a witch-like mouth. She had deeply mourned my -father in my company, for she had been in his service before his -marriage. Julie was retained specially on my account, and in addition to -her the household consisted of the cook, the man-servant, and the -chamber-maid. Julie put me to bed and tucked me in, heard me say my -prayers, and listened to my little troubles. "Oh! the wretches!" she -exclaimed, when I opened my heart to her and repeated the words that had -agitated me so terribly. "And yet it could not have been hidden from you -for ever." Then it was that she told me all the truth, there in my -little room, speaking very low and bending over me, while I lay sobbing -in my bed. She suffered in the telling of that truth as much as I in the -hearing of it, and the touch of her dry old hand, with fingers scarred -by the needle, fell softly on my curly head. - -That ghastly story, which bore down my youth with the weight of an -impenetrable mystery, I have found written in the newspapers of the day, -but not more clearly than it was narrated by my dear old Julie. Here it -is, plainly set forth, as I have turned and re-turned it over and over -again in my thoughts, day after day, with the vain hope of penetrating -it. - -My father, who was a distinguished advocate, had resigned his practice -in court some years previously, and set up as a financial agent, hoping -by that means to make a fortune more rapidly than by the law. His good -official connection, his scrupulous probity, his extensive knowledge of -the most important questions, and his great capacity for work, had -speedily secured him an exceptional position. He employed ten -secretaries, and the million and a half francs which my mother and I -inherited formed only the beginnings of the wealth to which he aspired, -partly for his own sake, much more for his son's, but, above all, for -his wife's--he was passionately attached to her. Notes and letters found -among his papers proved that at the time of his death he had been for a -month previously in correspondence with a certain person named, or -calling himself, William Henry Rochdale, who was commissioned by the -firm of Crawford, in San Francisco, to obtain a railway concession in -Cochin China, then recently conquered, from the French Government. It -was with Rochdale that my father had the appointment of which he spoke -before he left my mother, M. Termonde, and myself, after breakfast, on -the last fatal morning. The _Instruction_ had no difficulty in -establishing this fact. The appointed place of meeting was the Imperial -Hotel, a large building, with a long façade, in the Rue de Rivoli, not -far from the Ministère de la Marine. The entire block of houses was -destroyed by fire in the Commune; but during my childhood I frequently -begged Julie to take me to the spot, that I might gaze, with an aching -heart, upon the handsome courtyard adorned with green shrubs, the wide, -carpeted staircase, and the slab of black marble, encrusted with gold, -that marked the entrance to the place whither my father wended his way, -while my mother was talking with M. Termonde, and I was playing in the -room with them. My father had left us at a quarter-past twelve, and he -must have taken a quarter of an hour to walk to the Imperial Hotel, for -the concierge, having seen the corpse, recognised it, and remembered -that it was just about half-past twelve when my father inquired of him -what was the number of Mr. Rochdale's rooms. This gentleman had arrived -on the previous day, and had fixed, after some hesitation, upon an -apartment situated on the second floor, and composed of a salon and a -bedroom, with a small anteroom, which separated the apartment from the -landing outside. From that moment he had not gone out, and he dined the -same evening and breakfasted the next morning in his salon. The -concierge also remembered that Rochdale came down alone, at about two -o'clock on the second day; but he was too much accustomed to the -continual coming and going to notice whether the visitor who arrived at -half-past twelve had or had not gone away again. Rochdale handed the key -of his apartment to the concierge, with directions that anybody who -came, wanting to see him, should be asked to wait in his salon. After -this he walked away in a leisurely manner, with a business-like -portfolio under his arm, smoking a cigar, and he did not reappear. - -The day passed on, and towards night two housemaids entered the -apartment of the foreign gentleman to prepare his bed. They passed -through the salon without observing anything unusual. The traveller's -luggage, composed of a large and much-used trunk and a quite new -dressing-bag, were there. His dressing-things were arranged on the top -of a cabinet. The next day, towards noon, the same housemaids entered -the apartment, and finding that the traveller had slept out, they merely -replaced the day-covering upon the bed, and paid no attention to the -salon. Precisely the same thing occurred in the evening; but on the -following day, one of the women having come into the apartment early, -and again finding everything intact, began to wonder what this meant. -She searched about, and speedily discovered a body, lying at full length -underneath the sofa, with the head wrapped in towels. She uttered a -scream which brought other servants to the spot, and the corpse of my -father was removed from the hiding-place in which the assassin had -concealed it. It was not difficult to reconstruct the scene of the -murder. A wound in the back of the neck indicated that the unfortunate -man had been shot from behind, while seated at the table examining -papers, by a person standing close beside him. The report had not been -heard, on account of the proximity of the weapon, and also because of -the constant noise in the street, and the position of the salon at the -back of the anteroom. Besides, the precautions taken by the murderer -rendered it reasonable to believe that he had carefully chosen a weapon -which would produce but little sound. The ball had penetrated the spinal -marrow and death had been instantaneous. The assassin had placed new -unmarked towels in readiness, and in these he wrapped up the head and -neck of his victim, so that there were no traces of blood. He had dried -his hands on a similar towel, after rinsing them with water taken from -the carafe; this water he had poured back into the same bottle, which -was found concealed behind the drapery of the mantelpiece. Was the -robbery real or pretended? My father's watch was gone, and neither his -letter-case nor any paper by which his identity could be proved was -found upon his body. An accidental indication led, however, to his -immediate recognition. Inside the pocket of his waistcoat was a little -band of tape, bearing the address of the tailor's establishment. Inquiry -was made there, in the afternoon the sad discovery ensued, and after the -necessary legal formalities, the body was brought home. - -And the murderer? The only data on which the police could proceed were -soon exhausted. The trunk left by the mysterious stranger, whose name -was certainly not Rochdale, was opened. It was full of things bought -haphazard, like the trunk itself, from a bric-à-brac seller who was -found, but who gave a totally different description of the purchaser -from that which had been obtained from the concierge of the Imperial -Hotel. The latter declared that Rochdale was a dark, sunburnt man with a -long thick beard; the former described him as of fair complexion and -beardless. The cab on which the trunk had been placed immediately after -the purchase, was traced, and the deposition of the driver coincided -exactly with that of the bric-à-brac seller. The assassin had been -taken in the cab, first to a shop, where he bought a dressing-bag, next -to a linendraper's, where he bought the towels, thence to the Lyons -railway station, and there he had deposited the trunk and the -dressing-bag at the parcels office. Then the other cab which had taken -him, three weeks afterwards, to the Imperial Hotel, was traced, and the -description given by the second driver agreed with the deposition of the -concierge. From this it was concluded that in the interval formed by -these three weeks, the assassin had dyed his skin and his hair, for all -the depositions were in agreement with respect to the stature, figure, -bearing, and tone of voice of the individual. This hypothesis was -confirmed by one Jullien, a hairdresser, who came forward of his own -accord to make the following statement: - -On a day in the preceding month, a man who answered to the description -of Rochdale given by the first driver and the bric-à-brac seller, being -fair-haired, pale, tall, and broad-shouldered, came to his shop to order -a wig and a beard; these were to be so well constructed that no one -could recognise him, and were intended, he said, to be worn at a fancy -ball. The unknown person was accordingly supplied with a black wig and a -black beard, and he provided himself with all the necessary ingredients -for disguising himself as a native of South America, purchasing kohl for -blackening his eyebrows, and a composition of Sienna earth for colouring -his complexion. He applied these so skilfully, that when he returned to -the hairdresser's shop, Jullien did not recognise him. The unusualness -of a fancy ball given in the middle of summer, and the perfection to -which his customer carried the art of disguise, astonished the -hairdresser so much that his attention was immediately attracted by the -newspaper articles upon "The Mystery of the Imperial Hotel," as the -affair was called. At my father's house two letters were found; both -bore the signature of Rochdale, and were dated from London, but without -envelopes, and were written in a reversed hand, pronounced by experts to -be disguised. He would have had to forward a certain document on receipt -of these letters; probably that document was in the letter-case which -the assassin carried off after his crime. The firm of Crawford had a -real existence at San Francisco, but had never formed the project of -making a railroad in Cochin China. The authorities were confronted by -one of those criminal problems which set imagination at defiance. It was -probably not for the purpose of theft that the assassin had resorted to -such numerous and clever devices; he would hardly have led a man of -business into so skilfully laid a trap merely to rob him of a few -thousand francs and a watch. Was the murder committed for revenge? A -search into the record of my father revealed nothing whatever that could -render such a theory tenable. Every suspicion, every supposition, was -routed by the indisputable and inexplicable fact that Rochdale was a -reality whose existence could not be contested, that he had been at the -Imperial Hotel from seven o'clock in the evening of one day until two -o'clock in the afternoon of the next, and that he had then vanished, -like a phantom, leaving one only trace behind--_one only_. This man had -come there, other men had spoken to him; the manner in which he had -passed the night and the morning before the crime was known. He had done -his deed of murder, and then--nothing. "All Paris" was full of this -affair, and when I made a collection, long afterwards, of newspapers -which referred to it, I found that for six whole weeks it occupied a -place in the chronicle of every day. At length the fatal heading, "The -Mystery of the Imperial Hotel," disappeared from the columns of the -newspapers, as the remembrance of that ghastly enigma faded from the -minds of their readers, and solicitude about it ceased to occupy the -police. The tide of life, rolling that poor waif amid its waters, had -swept on. Yes; but I, the son? How should I ever forget the old woman's -story that had filled my childhood with tragic horror? How should I ever -cease to see the pale face of the murdered man, with its fixed, open -eyes? How should I not say: "I will avenge thee, thou poor ghost?" Poor -ghost! When I read _Hamlet_ for the first time, with that passionate -avidity which comes from an analogy between the moral situation depicted -in a work of art and some crisis of our own life, I remember that I -regarded the Prince of Denmark with horror. Ah! if the ghost of my -father had come to relate the drama of his death to me, with his -unbreathing lips, would I have hesitated one instant? No! I protested to -myself; and then? I learned all, and yet I hesitated, like him, though -less than he, to dare the terrible deed. Silence! Let me return to -facts. - - - - -IV - - -I remember little of succeeding events. All was so trivial, -insignificant, between that first vision of horror and the vision of woe -which came to me two years later, that, with one exception, I hardly -recall the intervening time. In 1864 my father died; in 1866 my mother -married M. Jacques Termonde. The exceptional period of the interval was -the only one during which my mother bestowed constant attention upon me. -Before the fatal date my father was the only person who had cared for -me; at a later period there was no one at all to do so. Our apartment in -the Rue Tronchet became unbearable to us; there we could not escape from -the remembrance of the terrible event, and we removed to a small hotel -in the Boulevard de Latour-Maubourg. The house had belonged to a -painter, and stood in a small garden which seemed larger than it was -because other gardens adjoined it, and overshadowed its boundary wall -with greenery. The centre of the house was a kind of hall, in the -English style, which the former occupant had used as a studio; my mother -made this her ordinary sitting-room. Now, at this distance of time, I -can understand my mother's character, and recognise that there was -something unreal and slightly theatrical about her, which, although it -was very harmless, led her to exaggerate the outward expression of all -her feelings. While she occupied herself in studying the attitudes by -which her emotions were to be fittingly expressed, the sentiments -themselves were fading away. For instance, she chose to condemn herself -to voluntary exile and seclusion after her bereavement, receiving only a -very few friends, of whom M. Jacques Termonde was one; but she very soon -began to adorn herself and everything around her with the fine and -subtle tastefulness that was innate in her. My mother was a very lovely -woman; her beauty was of a refined and pensive order, her figure was -tall and slender, her dark hair was very luxuriant and of remarkable -length. No doubt it was to the Greek blood in her veins that she owed -the classical lines of her profile, her full-lidded soft eyes, and the -willowy grace of her form. Her maternal grandfather was a Greek -merchant, of the name of Votronto, who had come from the Levant to -Marseilles when the Ionian Islands were annexed to France. Many times in -after years I have recalled the strange contrast between her rare and -refined beauty and my father's stolid sturdy form, and my own, and -wondered whether the origin of many irreparable mistakes might not be -traced to that contrast. But I did not reason in those days; I was under -the spell of the fair being who called me "My son." I used to look at -her with idolatry when she was seated at her piano in that elegant -sanctum of hers, which she had hung with draped foreign stuffs, and -decorated with tall green plants and various curious things, after a -fashion entirely her own. For her sake, and in spite of my natural -awkwardness and untidiness, I strove to keep myself very clean and neat -in the more and more elaborate costumes which she made me wear, and also -more and more did the terrible image of the murdered man fade away from -that home, which, nevertheless, was provided and adorned by the fortune -which he had earned for us and bequeathed to us. All the ways of modern -life are so opposed to the tragic in events, so far removed from the -savage realities of passion and bloodshed, that when such things intrude -upon the decorous life of a family, they are put out of sight with all -speed, and soon come to be looked upon as a bad dream, impossible to -doubt, but difficult to realise. - -Yes, our life had almost resumed its normal course when my mother's -second marriage was announced to me. This time I accurately remember not -only the period, but also the day and hour. I was spending my holidays -with my spinster aunt, my father's sister, who lived at Compiègne, in a -house situated at the far end of the town. She had three servants, one -of whom was my dear old Julie, who had left us because my mother could -not get on with her. My aunt Louise was a little woman of fifty, with -countrified looks and manners: she had hardly ever consented to stay two -whole days in Paris during my father's lifetime. Her almost invariable -attire was a black silk gown made at home, with just a line of white at -the neck and wrists, and she always wore a very long gold chain of -ancient date, which was passed under the bodice of her gown and came out -at the belt. To this chain her watch and a bunch of seals and charms -were attached. Her cap, plainly trimmed with ribbon, was black like her -dress, and the smooth bands of her hair, which was turning grey, framed -a thoughtful brow and eyes so kind that she was pleasant to behold, -although her nose was large and her mouth and chin were heavy. She had -brought up my father in this same little town of Compiègne, and had -given him, out of her fortune, all that she could spare from the simple -needs of her frugal life, when he wished to marry Mdlle. de Slane, in -order to induce my mother's family to listen to his suit. The contrast -between the portrait in my little album of my aunt and her face as I saw -it now, told plainly enough how much she had suffered during the past -two years. Her hair had become more white, the lines which run from the -nostrils to the corners of the mouth were deepened, her eyelids had a -withered look. And yet she had never been demonstrative in her grief. I -was an observant little boy, and the difference between my mother's -character and that of my aunt was precisely indicated to my mind by the -difference in their respective sorrow. At that time it was hard for me -to understand my aunt's reserve, while I could not suspect her of want -of feeling. Now it is to the other sort of nature that I am unjust. My -mother also had a tender heart, so tender that she did not feel able to -reveal her purpose to me, and it was my aunt Louise who undertook to do -so. She had not consented to be present at the marriage, and M. -Termonde, as I afterwards learned, preferred that I should not attend on -the occasion, in order, no doubt, to spare the feelings of her who was -to become his wife. In spite of all her self-control, Aunt Louise had -tears in her brown eyes when she led me to the far end of the garden, -where my father had played when he was a child like myself. The golden -tints of September had begun to touch the foliage of the trees. A vine -spread its tendrils over the arbour in which we seated ourselves, and -wasps were busy among the ripening grapes. My aunt took both my hands in -hers, and began: - -"André, I have to tell you a great piece of news." - -I looked at her apprehensively. The shock of the dreadful event in our -lives had left its mark upon my nervous system, and at the slightest -surprise my heart would beat until I nearly fainted. She saw my -agitation and said simply: - -"Your mother is about to marry." - -It was strange this sentence did not immediately produce the impression -which my look at her had led my aunt to expect. I had thought from the -tone of her voice, that she was going to tell me of my mother's illness -or death. My sensitive imagination readily conjured up such fears. I -asked calmly: - -"Whom?" - -"You do not guess?" - -"M. Termonde?" I cried. - -Even now I cannot define the reasons which sent this name to my lips so -suddenly, without a moment's thought. No doubt M. Termonde had been a -good deal at our house since my father's death; but had he not visited -us as often, if not more frequently, before my mother's widowhood? Had -he not managed every detail of our affairs for us with care and -fidelity, which even then I could recognise as very rare? Why should the -news of his marriage with my mother seem to me on the instant to be much -worse news than if she had married no matter whom? Exactly the opposite -effect ought to have been produced, surely? I had known this man for a -long time; he had been very kind to me formerly--they said he spoiled -me--and he was very kind to me still. My best toys were presents from -him, and my prettiest books; a wonderful wooden horse which moved by -clockwork, given to me when I was seven--how much my poor father was -amused when I told him this horse was "a double thoroughbred"--"Don -Quixote," with Doré's illustrations, this very year; in fact some new -gift constantly, and yet I was never easy and light-hearted in his -presence as I had formerly been. When had this restraint begun? I could -not have told that, but I thought he came too often between my mother -and me. I was jealous of him, I may as well confess it, with that -unconscious jealousy which children feel, and which made me lavish -kisses on my mother when he was by, in order to show him that she was my -mother, and nothing at all to him. Had he discovered my feelings? Had -they been his own also? However that might be, I now never failed to -discern antipathy similar to my own in his looks, notwithstanding his -flattering voice and his over-polite ways. To a child instinct is never -deceived about such impressions. This was quite enough to account for -the shiver that went over me when I uttered his name. But I saw my aunt -start at my cry. - -"M. Termonde," said she; "yes, it is he; but why did you think of him -immediately?" Then, looking me full in the face searchingly, she said in -a low tone, as though she were ashamed of putting such a question to a -child: "What do you know?" - -At these words, and without any other cause than the weakness of nerves -to which I had been subject ever since my father's death, I burst into -tears. The same thing happened to me sometimes when I was shut up in my -room alone, with the door bolted, suffering from a dread which I could -not conquer, like that of a coming danger. I would forecast the worst -accidents that could happen; for example, that my mother would be -murdered, like my father, and then myself, and I peered under all the -articles of furniture in the room. It had occurred to me, when out -walking with a servant, to imagine that the harmless man might be an -accomplice of the mysterious criminal, and have it in charge to take me -to him, or at all events to lose me in some unknown place. My too -highly-wrought imagination overmastered me. I fancied myself, however, -escaping from the deadly device, and in order to hide myself more -effectually, making for Compiègne. Should I have enough money? Then I -reflected that it might be possible to sell my watch to an old -watchmaker whom I used to see, when on my way to the Lycée. That was a -sad faculty of foresight which poisoned so many of the harmless hours of -my childhood! It was the same faculty that now made me break out into -choking sobs when my aunt asked me what I had in my mind against M. -Termonde. I related the worst of my grievances to her then, leaning my -head on her shoulder, and in this one all the others were summed up. It -dated from two months before. I had come back from school in a merry -mood, contrary to my habit. My teacher had dismissed me with praise of -my compositions and congratulations on my prizes. What good news this -was to take home, and how tenderly my mother would kiss me when she -heard it! I put away my books, washed my hands carefully, and flew to -the salon where my mother was. I entered the room without knocking at -the door, and in such haste that as I sprang towards her to throw myself -into her arms, she gave a little cry. She was standing beside the -mantelpiece, her face was very pale, and near her stood M. Termonde. He -seized me by the arm and held me back from her. - -"Oh, how you frightened me!" said my mother. - -"Is that the way to come into a salon?" said M. Termonde. - -His voice had turned rough like his gesture. He had grasped my arm so -tightly that where his fingers had fastened on it I found black marks -that night when I undressed myself. But it was neither his insolent -words nor the pain of his grasp which made me stand there stupidly, with -a swelling heart. No, it was hearing my mother say to him: - -"Don't scold André too much; he is so young. He will improve." - -Then she drew me towards her, and rolled my curls round her fingers; but -in her words, in their tone, in her glance, in her faint smile, I -detected a singular timidity, almost a supplication, directed to the man -before her, who frowned as he pulled his moustache with his restless -fingers, as if in impatience of my presence. By what right did he, a -stranger, speak in the tone of a master in our house? Why had he laid -his hand on me ever so lightly? Yes, by what right? Was I his son or his -ward? Why did not my mother defend me against him? Even if I were in -fault it was towards her only. A fit of rage seized upon me; I burned -with longing to spring upon M. Termonde like a beast, to tear his face -and bite him. I darted a look of fury at him and at my mother, and left -the room without speaking. I was of a sullen temper, and I think this -defect was due to my excessive sensitiveness. All my feelings were -exaggerated, so that the least thing angered me, and it was misery to me -to recover myself. Even my father had found it very difficult to get the -better of those fits of wounded feeling, during which I strove against -my own relentings with a cold and concentrated anger which both relieved -and tortured me. I was well aware of this moral infirmity, and as I was -not a bad child in reality, I was ashamed of it. Therefore, my -humiliation was complete when, as I went out of the room, M. Termonde -said: - -"Now for a week's sulk! His temper is really insufferable." - -His remark had one advantage, for I made it a point of honour to give -the lie to it, and did not sulk; but the scene had hurt me too deeply -for me to forget it, and now my resentment was fully revived, and grew -stronger and stronger while I was telling the story to my aunt. Alas! my -almost unconscious second-sight, that of a too sensitive child, was not -in error. That puerile but painful scene symbolised the whole history of -my youth, my invincible antipathy to the man who was about to take my -father's place, and the blind partiality in his favour of her who ought -to have defended me from the first and always. - -"He detests me!" I said through my tears; "what have I done to him?" - -"Calm yourself," said the kind woman. "You are just like your poor -father, making the worst of all your little troubles. And now you must -try to be nice to him on account of your mother, and not to give way to -this violent feeling, which frightens me. Do not make an enemy of him," -she added. - -It was quite natural that she should speak to me in this way, and yet -her earnestness appeared strange to me from that moment out. I do not -know why she also seemed surprised at my answer to her question. "What -do you know?" She wanted to quiet me, and she increased the -apprehension with which I regarded the usurper--so I called him ever -afterwards--by the slight faltering of her voice when she spoke of him. - -"You will have to write to them this evening," said she at length. - -Write to them! The words sickened me. They were united; never, nevermore -should I be able to think of the one without thinking of the other. - -"And you?" - -"I have already written." - -"When are they to be married?" - -"They were married yesterday," she answered, in so low a tone that I -hardly heard the words. - -"And where?" I asked, after a pause. - -"In the country, at the house of some friends." Then she added quickly: -"They preferred that you should not be there on account of the -interruption of your holidays. They have gone away for three weeks; then -they will go to see you in Paris before they start for Italy. You know I -am not well enough to travel. I will keep you here until then. Be a good -boy, and go now and write." - -I had many other questions to put to her, and many more tears to weep, -but I restrained myself, and a quarter of an hour later, I was seated at -my dear good aunt's writing-table in her salon. - -How I loved that room on the ground floor, with its glass door opening -on the garden. It was filled with remembrance for me. On the wall at the -side of the old-fashioned "secretary" hung the portraits, in frames of -all shapes and sizes, of those whom the good and pious soul had loved -and lost. This funereal little corner spoke strongly to my fancy. One of -the portraits was a coloured miniature, representing my -great-grandmother in the costume of the Directory, with a short waist, -and her hair dressed _à la_ Proudhon. There was also a miniature of my -great-uncle, her son. What an amiable, self-important visage was that of -the staunch admirer of Louis Philippe and M. Thiers! Then came my -paternal grandfather, with his strong parvenu physiognomy, and my father -at all ages. Underneath these works of art was a bookcase, in which I -found all my father's school prizes, piously preserved. What a feeling -of protection I derived from the portières in green velvet, with long -bands of needlework, my aunt's masterpieces, which hung in wide folds -over the doors! With what admiration I regarded the faded carpet, with -its impossible flowers, which I had so often tried to gather in my -babyhood! This was one of the legends of my earliest years, one of those -anecdotes which are told of a beloved son, which make him feel that the -smallest details of his existence have been observed, understood, and -loved. In later days I have been frozen by the ice of indifference. And -my aunt, she whose life had been lived among these old-fashioned things, -how I loved her, with that face in which I read nothing but supreme -tenderness for me, those eyes whose gaze did me good in some mysterious -part of my soul! I felt her so near to me, only through her likeness to -my father, that I rose from my task four or five times to kiss her, -during the time it took me to write my letter of congratulation to the -worst enemy I had, to my knowledge, in the world. - -And this was the second indelible date in my life. - - - - -V - - -Indelible! Yes, those two dates and only those have remained so, and -when I retrace the past in fancy, I am always stopped by them. The two -images--my father assassinated, my mother married again--weighed long -upon my heart. Other children have restless and supple minds which yield -easily to successive impressions; they surrender themselves entirely to -the actual moment, pass from a pleasure to a childish trouble, and -forget in the evening what they have felt during the day. But I? ah, no! -From my two recollections I was never released. An ever present -hallucination kept before my mind's eye the dead face on the pillow, and -my mother kneeling at the bed's foot, or the sound in my ears of my -aunt's voice announcing the other news. I could always see her sad face, -her brown eyes, and the black bows on her cap shaking in the wind of the -September afternoon. And still, even to-day, when I am endeavouring to -reproduce the history of my mind's life, or the real and solitary André -Cornélis, all other remembrances vanish before those two; not a phase -of my youth but is pervaded by them and contained in them, as the cloud -contains the lightning, and the fire it kindles, and the ruins of the -homesteads which it strikes. Of all the images that crowd upon my -memory, recalling what I was during my long years of childhood and -youth, those two disastrous days are always the chief; they form the -background of the picture of my life, the dark horizon of a more -melancholy landscape. - -What are the other images? A large space, with old trees in it, some -children playing late on an autumn day; while others, who are not -playing, but only look on, lean against the old brown tree-stems, or -wander about like forsaken creatures. This is the playground of the -Lycée at Versailles. The scholars who are playing are the "old" boys, -the others, the shy exiles, are the "new," and I am one of the latter. -It is just four short weeks since my aunt told me of my mother's -marriage, and already my life is entirely changed. On my return from the -holidays it was decided that I should enter the school as a boarder. My -mother and my stepfather were about to travel in Italy until the summer, -and the question of their taking me with them was not even mooted. My -mother proposed to allow me to remain as a day-pupil, under the care of -my aunt, who would come up to Paris; but my stepfather negatived the -proposition at once by quite reasonable arguments. Why should so great a -sacrifice of all her habits be imposed upon the old lady, and what was -there to dread in the rough life of a boarding-school, which is the best -means of forming a boy's character? - -"And he needs that schooling," added my stepfather, directing the same -cold glance towards me as on the day when he grasped my arm so roughly. -In short, it was settled that I was to go to school, but not in Paris. - -"The air is bad," said my stepfather. - -Why am I not in the least obliged to him for his seeming solicitude for -my health? It was not because I foresaw what he had foreseen -already--he, the man who wanted to separate me from my mother for -ever--that it would be easier for them to leave me at a school outside -the city than at one nearer home, when they returned? What need has he -of these calculations? Is it not enough that he should give utterance to -a wish for Madame Termonde to obey him? How I suffer when I hear her say -"thou" to him, just as she used to say it to my own father. And then I -think of the days when I came home from my classes at the Lycée -Bonaparte, and that dear father helped me with my lessons. My stepfather -brought me to this school yesterday in the afternoon, and it was he who -presented me to the head master, a tall thin personage with a bald head, -who tapped me on the cheek and said: - -"Ah, he comes from Bonaparte, the school of the 'Muscadins.'" - -That same evening I had the curiosity to refer to the dictionary for -this word "Muscadin," and I found the following definition: "A young man -who studies personal adornment." It is true that I do not resemble the -fellows in tunics among whom I am to live, for I am handsomely dressed, -according to my mother's taste, and my costume includes a large white -collar and smart English boots. The other boys have shapeless képis, -coarse blue stockings which fall over their broken shoes, and their -buttons are mostly torn off. They wear out the last year's outdoor -costume in the house. During the first play-time on my first day, -several of the boys eyed me curiously, and one of them asked me: "What -does your father do?" I made no answer. What I dread, with unbearable -misery, is that they may speak to me of it. Yesterday, while my -stepfather and I were coming down to Versailles in the railway carriage, -without exchanging a word, what would I have given to be able to tell -him of this dread, to entreat him not to throw me among a number of -boys, and leave me to their heedless rudeness and cruelty, to promise -him that I would work harder and better than before, if I might but -remain at home! But the look in his blue eyes is so sharp when they rest -on me, it is so hard for me to say the word "Papa" to him--that word -which I am always saying in my thoughts to the other; to him who lies, -in the sleep that knows no waking, in the cemetery at Compiègne! And so -I addressed no supplication to M. Termonde, and I allowed myself to be -shut up in the Versailles Lycée without a word of protest. I preferred -to wander about as I do among strangers, to uttering one complaint to -him. Mamma is to come to-morrow; she is going away the next day, and the -nearness of this interview prevents me from feeling the inevitable -separation too keenly. If she will only come without my stepfather! - -She came--and with him. She took her seat in the parlour, which is -decorated with vile portraits of scholars who have taken prizes at the -general examinations. My schoolfellows were also talking to their -mothers, but none could boast a mother so worthy to be loved as mine! -Never had she seemed to me so beautiful, with her slender and elegant -figure, her graceful neck, her deep eyes, her fine smile. But I could -not say a word to her, because my stepfather, "Jack," as she called him, -with her pretty affectation of an English accent, was there between us. -Ah! that antipathy which paralyses all the loving impulses of the heart, -how intensely have I felt it, then and since! I thought I could perceive -that my mother was surprised, almost saddened by my coldness when she -bade me farewell; but ought she not to have known that I would never -show my love for her in his presence? She is gone; she is on her -travels, and I remain here. - -Other images arise which recall our schoolroom in the evenings of that -first winter of my imprisonment. The metal stove burns red in the middle -of the gas-lit room. A bowl of water is placed upon the top lest the -heat should affect our heads. All along the walls stretches the line of -our desks, and behind each of us is a little cupboard in which we keep -our books and papers. Silence reigns, and is rendered more perceptible -by the scratching of pens, the turning over of leaves, and an occasional -suppressed cough. The master is in his place, behind a desk which is -raised above the others. His name is Rodolphe Sorbelle, and he is a -poet. The other day he let fall out of his pocket a sheet of paper -covered with writing and erasures, from which we managed to make out the -following lines: - - - Je voudrais être oiseau des champs, - Avoir un bec, - Chanter avec: - Je voudrais être oiseau des champs, - Avoir des ailes, - Voler sur elles. - Mais je ne puis en faire autant, - Car j'ai le bec - beaucoup trop sec, - Et je suis pion, - 'Cré nom de nom! - - -This prodigious poem gave us, cruel little wretches that we were, the -greatest delight. We sang the verses perpetually, in the dormitory, out -walking, in the playground, setting the last words to the classic music -of "Les Lampions." But the old watch-dog has sharp teeth, and defends -himself by "detentions," so none of us care to brave him to his face. -The lamp hung over his head shows up his greenish-grey hair, his red -forehead, and his threadbare coat, which once was blue. No doubt he is -rhyming, for he is writing, and every now and then he raises that -swollen brow, and his large blue eyes--which express such real kindness -when we do not torment him with our tricks--search the room and observe -in turn each of the thirty-five desks. I, too, take a prolonged survey -of the companions of my slavery; I already know their faces. There is -Rocquain, a little fellow, with a big red nose in a long white face; and -Parizelle, a tall, stout boy, with an underhung jaw. He is fair-skinned, -has green eyes and freckles, and for a wager ate a cockroach the other -day. There is Gervais, a brown, curly-haired lad, who makes his will -every week. He has communicated to me the latest of these documents, in -which there is the following clause: "I leave to Leyreloup some good -advice, contained in my letter to Cornélis." Leyreloup is his former -friend, who played him the trick of rolling him in a heap of dead leaves -last autumn, having been egged on to the deed by big Parizelle, whom the -vengeful Gervais ever since regards as a rascal, and the advice -contained in the posthumous letter is a warning to distrust the giant. -All this small school-world is absorbed in countless interests which -even at that time I held to be puerile, when compared with the thoughts -that are in me. And my schoolfellows themselves seem to understand that -there is something in my life which does not exist in theirs; they spare -me the torments that are generally inflicted upon a new boy, but I am -not the friend of any of them, except this same Gervais, who is my -walking companion when we go out. Gervais is an imaginative lad, and -when he is at home he devours a collection of the _Journal pour Tous_. -He has found in it a series of romances called "L'Homme aux Figures de -Cire," "Le Roi des Gabiers," "Le Chat du Bord," and Thursday after -Thursday, when we go out walking, he relates these stories to me. The -tragic strain of my own fate is the cause of my taking a grim pleasure -in these narratives, in which crime plays the chief part. Unfortunately -I have confided the secret of this questionable amusement to my good -aunt, and the head master has separated the improvised feuilletoniste -from his public. Gervais and I are forbidden to walk together. My aunt -believed that the excess of sensitiveness in me, which alarmed her, -would be corrected by this. Neither her solicitous tenderness, nor her -pious care and foresight--she comes to Versailles from Compiègne every -Sunday to take me out--nor my studies--for I redouble my efforts so that -my stepfather should not triumph in my bad marks--nor my religious -enthusiasm--for I have become the most fervent of us all at the -chapel--no, nothing, nothing appeases the hidden demon which possesses -and devours me. While the evening studies are going on, and in the -interval between two tasks, I read a letter from Italy. This is my food -for the week, conveyed in pages written by my mother. They give me -details of her travels, which I do not understand very clearly; but I do -understand that she is happy without me, outside of me--that the thought -of my father and his mysterious death no longer haunts her; above all, -that she loves her new husband, and I am jealous--miserably, basely -jealous. My imagination, which has its strange lapses, has also a -singular minuteness. I see my mother in a room in a foreign inn, and -spread out upon the table are the various fittings of her -travelling-bag, silver-mounted, with her cipher in relief, the Christian -name in full, and encircling it the letter T. Marie T----. Well, had she -not the right to make a new life for herself, honourably? Why should -this mixture of her past with her present hurt me so much? So much, that -just now, when stretched upon my narrow iron bed in the dormitory, I -could not close my eyes. - -How long those nights seemed to me, when I lay down oppressed by this -thought, and strove in vain to lose it in the sweet oblivion of sleep! I -prayed to God for sleep, with all the strength of my childlike piety. I -said mentally twelve times twelve _Paters_ and _Aves_--and I did not -sleep. I then tried to "form a chimera;" for thus I called a strange -faculty with which I knew myself to be endowed. When I was quite a -little boy, on an occasion when I was suffering from toothache, I had -shut my eyes, forcibly abstracted my mind, and compelled it to represent -a happy scene in which I was the chief actor. Thus I was enabled to -overrule my sensations to the point of becoming insensible to the -toothache. Now, whenever I suffer, I do the same, and the device is -almost always successful. I employ it in vain when my mother is in -question. Instead of the picture of felicity which I evoke, the other -picture presents itself to me, that of the intimate life of the being -whom in all the world I most love, with the man whom I most hate. For I -hate him, with an implacable hatred, and without being able to assign -any other motive than that he has taken the first place in the heart -which was all my own. Ah, me! I shall hear the slow hours struck, first -from the belfry of a church hard by, and then by the school-clock--a -grave and sonorous chime, then a treble ringing. I shall hear old -Sorbelle walk through the whole length of the dormitory, and then go -into the room which he occupies at the far end. How dull is the -spectacle of the two rows of our little beds, with their brass knobs -shining in the dim light; and how odious it is to be listening to the -snores of the sleepers! At measured intervals the watchman, an old -soldier with a big face and thick black moustaches, passes. He is -wrapped in a brown cloth cape, and carries a dark lantern. Can it be -that he is not afraid, all alone, at night, in those long passages, and -on the stone staircases, where the wind rushes about with a dismal -noise? How I should hate to be obliged to go down those stairs, -shuddering in that darkness with the fear of meeting a ghost! I try to -drive away this new idea, but in vain, and then I think. . . . Where is -he who killed my father? Is it with fear, is it with horror that I -shudder at this question? And I go on thinking. . . . Does he know that -I am here? Panic seizes upon me, with the idea that the assassin might -be capable of assuming the disguise of a school servant, for the purpose -of killing me also. I commend my soul to God, and in the midst of these -awful thoughts I fall asleep at length, very late, to be awakened with a -start at half-past five in the morning, with an aching head, shaken -nerves, and an ailing mind, sick of a disease which is beyond cure. - - - - -VI - - -Three years have passed away since the autumnal evening on which a -hackney-coach had set down my stepfather and myself in that corner of -one of the gloomy avenues of Old Versailles, which is made more gloomy -by the walls of the school. I was to have remained at this school for -ten months only--the period of my mother's stay in Italy. That evening -was in the autumn of 1866; we are now in the winter of 1870, and I have -been all this time imprisoned in the Lycée, "where the air is so good, -and I get on so well." These are the reasons assigned by my mother for -not taking me back to her home. My schoolfellows pass before me in the -twilight of remembrance of that distant time. Rocquain, more pasty-faced -than ever, with his comic-actor-like red nose, sings café-concert -songs, smokes cigarettes in secret places, and collects the photographs -of actresses. Gervais, still brown and surly, has a passion for races, -at which he is always playing, and is reconciled with Leyreloup, "the -hedgehog," as we call him, whom he has infected with his dangerous -mania. The two are constantly arranging insect or tortoise -steeple-chases. They have even contrived a betting system, and ten of us -have joined in it. The game is played by placing in front of a -dictionary several bits of paper with the name of a horse written upon -each of them. The dictionary is then opened and shut rapidly, and the -bit of paper which is blown farthest away by the little breeze thus -created, is the winner, and the boys who have backed it divide the -stakes. Parizelle is bigger than ever; at sixteen he is already growing -a beard, and has been entertained by some military acquaintances at a -certain café, which he points out to us when we take our weekly walks. -As for myself, I have a new friend, one Joseph Dediot, who has -introduced me to some of the verses of De Musset. We go wild over this -poet. Dediot's place in the schoolroom is by the side of Scelles, the -bookseller's son, whom we call Bel-Œil, because he squints. Bel-Œil is -as lazy as a lobster, and Dediot has made the oddest bargain with him. -Dediot does all his exercises, and in return for each, Bel-Œil hands -over to him a copy of twenty lines of Rolla. In exchange for I know not -how many versions, themes, and Latin verses, my friend has at last -secured the entire poem, and we spout its most characteristic lines -enthusiastically. - -We have become sceptics and misanthropes. We play at despairing Atheism -just as Parizelle and Rocquain play at debauchery, Gervais and others at -sport and fashion, politics and love. Old Sorbelle, having been -dismissed from the Lycée, has just published a pamphlet in which he -figures under the name of Lebros, and the Provost under that of M. -Bifteck. This little book occupies our attention throughout the whole -winter, and induces us to form a conspiracy which leads to nothing. Here -we are, then, playing at revolution! What a strange discipline is that -of those infamous schools, where young boys ruin their years of unhappy -youth by the puerile and premature imitation of passions from which they -will have to suffer in reality some day, just as children, who are -destined to die in war as men, play at soldiers, with their flaxen curls -and their ringing laughter! Alas! for me the game was over too soon. - -Nevertheless, this shabby, dull, mean school was my home, the only place -in which I felt myself really "at home," and I loved it. Yes, I loved -that hulks which was also partly barracks and partly hospital, because -there at all events I was not perpetually confronted with the evidence -of my double misfortune. After all, the influence of my age made itself -felt there, the nervous strain upon me was relaxed, and I escaped from -the fixed idea of the murderer of my father to be discovered, and my -stepfather to be detested. My half-holidays were such misery to me that -they would have made me dread the termination of my school-time, only -that I knew the same date would place me in possession of my fortune, -enabling me to devote myself entirely to the supreme aim and purpose of -my life. I had sworn to myself that the mysterious assassin whom justice -had failed to discover should be unearthed by me, and I derived -extraordinary moral strength from that resolution, which I kept strictly -to myself, without ever speaking of it. This, however, did not prevent -me from suffering from trifles, whenever those trifles were signs of my -doubly-orphaned state. How clearly present to me now are the torments of -those sortie days! When the servant who was to take me to my mother's -abode comes to fetch me on those Sunday mornings at eight, his careless -manner makes me feel that I am no longer the son of the house. This -wretch, this François Niquet, with his shaven chin and his insolent -eye, does not remove his hat when I come down into the parlour. -Sometimes, when the weather is bad, he presumes to grumble, and, -although the smell of tobacco makes me sick, he lights his pipe in the -railway carriage, and smokes without asking my leave. I would rather die -than make any observation upon this, because I had once complained of my -stepfather's valet, a vile fellow whom they made out to be in the right -as against me, and I then and there resolved that never again would I -expose myself to a similar affront. Besides, I had already suffered too -much, and thus to suffer teaches one to feel contempt. The train -proceeds, and I do not exchange a dozen words with the fellow. I know -that I am regarded as proud and unamiable; but the same bent of mind -which made me sullen when quite a child, now makes me take a pleasure in -displeasing those whom I dislike. Amid silence and the reek of coarse -tobacco, we reach the Montparnasse Station, where no carriage ever -awaits me, no matter how bad the weather may be. We take the Boulevard -Latour-Maubourg, and pass by the long avenues lined with buildings, -hospitals, and bric-à-brac shops, turn down by the Church of Saint -François Xavier, cross the Place des Invalides, and reach the door of -our hotel. I hate the concierge, also a creature of M. Termonde's, and -his broad flat face, in which I read hostility which is no doubt -absolute indifference. But everything transforms itself into a sign of -enmity, to my mind, from the faces of the servants, even to the aspect -of my own room. M. Termonde has taken my own dear old room from me; a -large handsome room, which used to be flooded with sunshine, with a -window opening on the garden, and a door communicating with my mother's -apartment. I now occupy a sort of large closet, with a northern aspect -and no view except that of a wood-stack. When I reach home on those -Sunday mornings, I have to go straight to this room and wait there until -my mother has risen and can receive me. No one has taken the trouble to -light a fire; so I ask for one, and while the servant is blowing at the -logs, I take a chair, and gaze at the portrait of my father, which is -now banished to my quarters after having figured for so long upon an -easel draped with black, in my mother's morning-room. The odour of damp -wood in process of kindling is mingled with the musty flavour of the -room, which has been shut up all the week. I have some bitter moments to -pass there. These mean miseries make me feel the moral forsakenness of -my position more keenly, more cruelly. And my mother lives, she breathes -at the distance of a few steps from me; yes, and she loves me! - -Now that I can cast a look back upon my unhappy youth, I am aware that -my own temper had much to do with the misunderstanding between my poor -mother and myself which has never ceased to exist. Yes, she loved me, -and at the same time she loved her husband. It was for me to explain to -her the sort of pain she caused me by uniting and mingling those two -affections in her heart. She would have understood me, she would have -spared me the series of small dumb troubles that ultimately made any -explanation between us impossible. When at length I saw her on those -"sortie" days, at about eleven, just before breakfast, she expected me -to meet her with effusive delight; how should she know that the presence -of her husband paralysed me, just as it had done when we parted before -her journey to Italy? There was an incomprehensible mystery to her in -that absolute incapacity for revealing my mind, that stony inertness -which overwhelmed me so soon as we were not alone, she and I--and we -were never alone. She used to come to see me at Versailles once a week, -on Wednesday, and it hardly ever happened that she came without my -stepfather. I never wrote a letter to her that she did not show to her -husband; indeed, he saw every letter which she received. How well I knew -this habit of hers, how she would say, "André has written to me," and -then hand to him the sheet of paper on which I could not trace one -sincere, heartfelt, trustful line, because of the idea that his eyes -were to rest upon it! How many notes have I torn up in which I tried to -tell her the story of the troubles amid which I lived! Yes, yes, I ought -to have spoken to her, nevertheless, to have explained myself a little, -confessed my sufferings, my wild jealousy, my brooding grief, my great -need of having a corner in her thoughts for myself alone, were it only -pity--but I dared not. It was in my nature to feel the pain that I must -cause her by speaking thus, too strongly, and I was unable to bear it. -All the various trouble of my heart then was bound up in a timid -silence, in embarrassment in her presence which affected herself. Like -many women she was unable to understand a disposition different from her -own, a manner of feeling opposed to hers. She was happy in her second -marriage, she loved, she was loved. In M. Termonde she had met a man to -whom she had given her whole self, but she had also given to me freely, -lavishly. I was her son, it seemed so natural to her that he whom she -loved should also love her child. And, in fact, had not M. Termonde been -to me a vigilant and irreproachable protector? Had he not carefully -provided for every detail of my education? No doubt he had insisted upon -my being sent to school as a boarder, but I had also been of his opinion -as to that. He had chosen masters for me in all branches of instruction; -I learned fencing, riding, dancing, music, foreign languages. He had -attended to, and he continued to attend to, the smallest details, from -the New Year's gift that I was to receive--it was always very -handsome--to the fixing of my allowance, my "week," as we called it, -which was paid on each Thursday, at the highest figure permitted by the -rules of the Lycée. Never had this man, who was so imperious by nature, -raised his voice in speaking to me. Never once since his marriage had he -varied from the most perfect politeness towards me; a woman who was in -love with him would naturally see in this a proof of exquisite tact and -devoted affection. Put my grievances against my stepfather into words? -No, I could not do it. And so I was silent, and how was my mother to -explain my sullenness, the absence of any demonstrativeness on my part -towards my stepfather otherwise than by my selfishness and want of -feeling? She did believe me, in fact, to be a selfish and unfeeling boy, -and I, owing to my unhealthy mood of mind, felt that when I was in her -presence I really became what she believed me. I shrank into myself like -a surly animal. But why did she not spare me those trials which -completed our alienation from each other? Why, when we met on those -wretched Sundays, did she not contrive that I should have the five -minutes alone with her that would have enabled me, not to talk to her--I -did not ask so much--but to embrace her, as I loved her, with all my -heart? I came into the room which she had transformed into a private -sitting-room--in every corner of it I had played at my free pleasure -when I, the spoiled child whose lightest wish was a command, was the -master--and there was M. Termonde in his morning costume, smoking -cigarettes and reading newspapers. It needed nothing but the rustic of -the sheet in his hand, the tone of his voice as he bade me good-day, the -touch of his fingers--he merely gave me their tips--and I recoiled upon -myself. So strong was my antipathy that I never remember to have eaten -with a good appetite at the same table with him. My wretchedness was at -its height during those Sunday breakfasts and dinners. Ah, I hated -everything about him; his blue eyes, almost too far apart, which were -sometimes fixed, and at others rolled slightly in their orbits, his high -prominent forehead, and prematurely grey hair, the refinement of his -features, and the elegance of his manners, such a contrast with my -natural dulness and lack of ease--yes, I hated all these, and even to -the finely-shaped foot which was set off by his perfect boots. I think -that even now, at this present hour, I should recognise a coat he had -worn, among a thousand, so living a thing has a garment of his seemed to -me, under the influence of that aversion. Only too well did I, with my -filial instinct, realise that he, with his slender graceful figure, his -feline movements, his flattering voice, his native and acquired -aristocratic ways, was the true husband of the lovely, highly-adorned, -almost ideal creature whom I, her son, resembled as little as my poor -father had resembled her. Ah, how bitter was that knowledge! - -Out of the depths of the silence which I preserved on those wretched -half-holidays, I followed with intense interest all the conversations -that took place before me, especially during breakfast and dinner, in -the dining-room--newly furnished, like all the rest of the house. The -hours of those meals were no longer the hours of my father's time. This -change, and the new furnishing of our dwelling, typified the newness of -my mother's life. M. Termonde, who was the son of a stockbroker, and had -been for some time in diplomacy, had kept up social relations of a kind -quite different from our former ones. My mother and he went frequently -into that mixed and cosmopolitan society which was then, and is now, -called "smart." What had become of the familiar faces at the dinners, -few and far between, which my father used to give at the Rue Tronchet? -Those dinner parties consisted of three or four persons, the ladies in -high gowns, and the gentlemen in morning dress. The talk was of politics -and business; a former Minister of King Louis Philippe's, who had gone -back to his practice at the bar, was the oracle of the little circle; -and the dinner hour was half-past six, instead of seven, on those days, -because the old statesman always retired to rest at ten o'clock. In the -wealthy but plain bourgeois life of our home, to go to a theatre was an -event, and a ball formed an epoch. Thus, at least, did things represent -themselves to my childish mind. Now the old ex-Minister came to the -house no more, nor Mdme. Largeyx, the engineer's widow, whom papa was -always quoting to mamma as a model, and whom my mother laughingly called -her "mother-in-law." Now, my mother and my stepfather went out almost -every evening. They had horses and several carriages, instead of the -coupé hired by the month with which the wife of the renowned lawyer had -been content. All the men who came in after dinner, all the women whom I -met at six o'clock in my mother's drawing-room, were young and full of -life and spirits, and their talk was solely of amusements; new plays, -fancy balls, races, and dress. My father, who was full of the ideas of -the Monarchy of July, like his old political friend, used to speak -severely of the imperial régime; but now, my mother was invited to the -great receptions at the Tuileries. How could I have ventured to talk to -her about the small miseries of my school life, which seemed to me so -mean when I contrasted them with her brilliant and opulent existence? -Formerly, when I was a day pupil at the Bonaparte, I used to relate to -her every trifle concerning the school and my fellow pupils; but now, I -should have been ashamed to bore her with Rocquain, Gervais, Leyreloup, -and the rest. It seemed to me that she could not possibly be interested -in the story of how Joseph Dediot had been traitorously deserted by his -faithless cousin Cécile; and yet, how tragic the case was, to my mind! -Notwithstanding that two locks of hair had been exchanged, a bouquet -offered and accepted, a kiss snatched and returned, the false girl had -married an apothecary at Avranches. Dediot had even written two poems, -inspired by his misfortune, and one of them, dedicated to me, began -thus: - - - Sèche ton cœur, André, ne sois jamais aimant. - - -How could I have talked of all these small things to a lady who dined -with the Duchesse d'Arcole, whose intimate friends were a Maréchale and -two Marquises, and whose entertainments were described in the society -journals? My mother was now the beautiful Madame Termonde, and so -completely had her new name replaced the old, that I was almost the only -person who remembered she was also the widow of M. Cornélis, he whose -tragical death had been related in the very same newspapers. Had she -herself forgotten it? - -"Forgetfulness! Is this then in all reality the world's law?" I asked -myself, with the indignant revolt of a young heart, which does not admit -the inevitable compromises of feeling. And I made answer to myself, No! -There was one person who remembered as well as I did, one person to whom -my father's death still remained a hideous nightmare, one person to whom -I could tell all my thoughts and all my grief--my dear, good, kind aunt. -In her case at least all the fond and tender things of the past remained -unchanged. When August came, and I went to Compiègne for a portion of -my holidays, I found everything in its place, both in the house and in -the heart of the dear old maid. - -For my sake, I knew it well, she had consented to keep up her former -relations with my mother, and she dined with her three or four times a -year. Dear Aunt Louise! She would listen with the utmost kindness to all -my childish complaints, and she always sent me home softened, almost -appeased; more indulgent towards my mother, and convinced that I was -wrong in my judgment of M. Termonde. - -Nevertheless, I did not tell Aunt Louise anything about my reprisals -upon the man whom I accused of having stolen my mother's heart from me. -I had perceived, very soon, certain signs of an antipathy towards myself -on the part of my stepfather, similar to that which I entertained -towards him. When I came rather suddenly into the salon, and he was -engaged in a conversation either with my mother or one of his friends, -my presence sufficed to cause a slight alteration in his voice; a change -which, most likely, no one else would have perceived, but which did not -escape me, for did not my own throat contract, and my lips quiver with -sheer abhorrence? - -I should not have been the sullen and resentful boy I then was, if I had -not planned how to utilise my strange power of disturbing the man whom I -execrated, in the interest of my enmity. My system was to force him to -feel the acute sensation which my presence inflicted on him, by keeping -silence, and steadily pursuing him with my gaze. Great as his -self-control was, I never fixed my eyes upon him from the far end of the -room, but, after a while, he would turn his eyes towards me. Then his -glance avoided mine, and he would go on talking; but still he was -looking at me, and presently our eyes would meet, and his would shift -away again. I knew, by a frown which gathered on his forehead, that he -was on the point of forbidding me to look at him in that way; but then -he would put strong restraint upon himself, and sometimes he would leave -the room. - -That abstention from any kind of struggle with me was a fixed resolution -on his part, I guessed, because I knew him to be very determined by -nature, and especially incapable of enduring that any one should brave -him. He was fond of relating how, in his youth, when he was attached to -the Embassy at Madrid, he had killed a bull at an amateur "ring," on -being "dared" to do it by a young Spaniard. It must have hurt his pride -severely to permit me the silent insolence of my eyes; he did allow me -to indulge it, however, and I did not acknowledge that petty triumph to -Aunt Louise. I must set down everything here, and the truth is I was -most unhappy; I knew myself to be so, and I did not lessen my trouble in -the least in dilating upon it; on the contrary, I rather exaggerated it -so as to win that tender sympathy which did my sore heart good. - -I once spoke to her of the vow I had taken, the solemn promise I had -made to myself that I would discover the murderer of my father, and take -vengeance upon him, and she laid her hand upon my mouth. She was a pious -woman, and she repeated the words of the gospel: "Vengeance is mine, -saith the Lord." Then she added: "We must leave the punishment of the -crime to Him; His will is hidden from us. Remember the divine precept -and promise, 'Forgive and you shall be forgiven.' Never say: 'An eye for -an eye, a tooth for a tooth.' Ah, no; drive this enmity out of your -heart, Cornélis; yes, even this." And there were tears in her eyes. - - - - -VII - - -My poor aunt! She thought me made of stronger stuff than I really was. -There was no need of her advice to prevent my being consumed by the -desire for vengeance which had been the fixed star of my early youth, -the blood-coloured beacon aflame in my night. Ah! the resolutions of -boyhood, the "oaths of Hannibal" taken to ourselves, the dream of -devoting all our strength to one single and unchanging aim--life sweeps -all that away, together with our generous illusions, ardent enthusiasm, -and noble hopes. What a difference there is between the boy of fifteen, -unhappy indeed, but so bold and proud in 1870, and the young man of -eight years later, in 1878! And to think, only to think, that but for -chance occurrences, impossible to foresee, I should still be, at this -hour, the young man whose portrait hangs upon the wall above the table -at which I am writing. Of a surety, the visitors to the Salon of that -year (1878) who looked at this portrait among so many others, had no -suspicion that it represented the son of a father who had come to so -tragic an end. And I, when I look at that commonplace image of an -ordinary Parisian, with eyes unlit by any fire or force of will, -complexion paled by senseless dissipation, hair cut in the fashion of -the day, strictly correct dress and attitude, I am astonished to think -that I could have lived as I actually did live at that period. Between -the misfortunes that saddened my childhood, and those of quite recent -date which have finally laid waste my life, the course of my existence -was colourless, monotonous, vulgar, just like that of anybody else. I -shall merely note the stages of it. - -In the second half of 1870 the Franco-Prussian war takes place. The -invasion finds me at Compiègne, where I am passing my holidays with my -aunt. My stepfather and my mother remain in Paris during the siege. I go -on with my studies under the tuition of an old priest belonging to the -little town, who prepared my father for his first communion. In the -autumn of 1871 I return to Versailles; in August, 1873, I take my -bachelor's degree, and then I do my one year's voluntary service in the -army at Angers under the easiest possible conditions. My colonel was the -father of my old schoolfellow, Rocquain. In 1874 I am set free from -tutelage by my stepfather's advice. This was the moment at which my task -was to have been begun, the time appointed with my own soul; yet, four -years afterwards, in 1878, not only was the vengeance that had been the -tragic romance, and, so to speak, the religion of my childhood, -unfulfilled, but I did not trouble myself about it. - -I was cruelly ashamed of my indifference when I thought about it; but I -am now satisfied that it was not so much the result of weakness of -character as of causes apart from myself which would have acted in the -same way upon any young man placed in my situation. From the first, and -when I faced my task of vengeance, an insurmountable obstacle arose -before me. It is equally easy and sublime to strike an attitude and -exclaim: "I swear that I will never rest until I have punished the -guilty one." In reality, one never acts except in detail, and what could -I do? I had to proceed in the same way as justice had proceeded, to -reopen the inquiry which had been pushed to its extremity without any -result. - -I began with the Judge of Instruction, who had had the carriage of the -matter, and who was now a Counsellor of the Court. He was a man of -fifty, very quiet and plain in his way, and he lived in the Ile de -Paris, on the first floor of an ancient house, from whose windows he -could see Nôtre Dame, primitive Paris, and the Seine, which is as -narrow as a canal at that place. - -M. Massol, so he was named, was quite willing to resume with me the -analysis of the data which had been furnished by the Instruction. No -doubt existed either as to the personality of the assassin, or the hour -at which the crime was committed. My father had been killed between two -and three o'clock in the day, without a struggle, by that tall, -broad-shouldered personage whose extraordinary disguise indicated, -according to the magistrate, "an amateur." Excess of complication is -always an imprudence, for it multiplies the chances of failure. Had the -assassin dyed his skin and worn a wig because my father knew him by -sight? To this M. Massol said "No; for M. Cornélis, who was very -observant, and who, besides, was on his guard--this is evident from his -last words when he left you--would have recognised him by his voice, his -glance, and his attitude. A man cannot change his height and his figure, -although he may change his face." M. Massol's theory of this disguise -was that the wearer had adopted it in order to gain time to get out of -France, should the corpse be discovered on the day of the murder. -Supposing that a description of a man with a very brown complexion and a -black beard had been telegraphed in every direction, the assassin, -having washed off his paint, laid aside his wig and beard, and put on -other clothes, might have crossed the frontier without arousing the -slightest suspicion. There was reason to believe that the pretended -Rochdale lived abroad. He had spoken in English at the hotel, and the -people there had taken him for an American; it was therefore presumable -either that he was a native of the United States, or that he habitually -resided there. The criminal was, then, a foreigner, American or English, -or perhaps a Frenchman settled in America. As for the motive of so -complicated a crime, it was difficult to admit that it could be robbery -alone. "And yet," observed the Judge of Instruction, "we do not know -what the note-case carried off by the assassin contained. But," he added, -"the hypothesis of robbery seems to me to be utterly routed by the fact -that, while Rochdale stripped the dead man of his watch, he left a ring, -which was much more valuable, on his finger. From this I conclude that -he took the watch merely as a precaution to throw the police off the -scent. My supposition is that the man killed M. Cornélis for revenge." - -Then the former Judge of Instruction gave me some singular examples of -the resentment cherished against medical experts employed in legal -cases, Procureurs of the Republic, and Presidents of Assize. His theory -was, that in the course of his practice at the bar my father might have -excited resentment of a fierce and implacable kind; for he had won many -suits of importance, and no doubt had made enemies of those against whom -he employed his great powers. Supposing one of those persons, being -ruined by the result, had attributed that ruin to my father, there would -be an explanation of all the apparatus of this deadly vengeance. M. -Massol begged me to observe that the assassin, whether he were a -foreigner or not, was known in Paris. Why, if this were not so, should -the man have so carefully avoided being seen in the street? He had been -traced out during his first stay in Paris, when he bought the wig and -the beard, and that time he put up at a small hotel in the Rue d'Aboukir -under the name of Rochdale, and invariably went out in a cab. "Observe -also," said the Judge, "that he kept his room on the day before the -murder, and on the morning of the actual day. He breakfasted in his -apartment, having breakfasted and dined there the day before. But, when -he was in London, and when he lived at the hotel to which your father -addressed his first letters, he came and went without any precautions." - -And this was all. The addresses of three hotels--such were the meagre -particulars that formed the whole of the information to which I listened -with passionate eagerness; the magistrate had no more to tell me. He had -small, twinkling, very light eyes, and his smooth face wore an -expression of extreme keenness. His language was measured, his general -demeanour was cold, obliging, and mild, he was always closely shaven, -and in him one recognised at once the well-balanced and methodical mind -which had given him great professional weight. He acknowledged that he -had been unable to discover anything, even after a close analysis of the -whole existing situation of my father, as well as his past. - -"Ah, I have thought a great deal about this affair," said he, adding -that before he resigned his post as Judge of Instruction he had -carefully reperused the notes of the case. He had again questioned the -concierge of the Imperial Hotel and other persons. Since he had become -Counsellor to the Court, he had indicated to his successor what he -believed to be a clue; a robbery committed by a carefully made up -Englishman had led him to believe the thief to be identical with the -pretended Rochdale. Then there was nothing more. These steps had, -however, been of use inasmuch as they barred the rule of limitation, and -he laid stress on that fact. I consulted him then as to how much time -still remained for me to seek out the truth on my own account. The last -Act of Instruction dated from 1873, so that I had until 1883 to discover -the criminal and deliver him up to public justice. What madness! Ten -years had already elapsed since the crime, and I, all alone, -insignificant, not possessed of the vast resources at the disposal of -the police, I presumed to imagine that I should triumph, where so -skilful a ferret as he had failed! Folly! Yes; it was so. Nevertheless, -I tried. - -I began a thorough and searching investigation of all the dead man's -papers. With that unbounded tenderness of hers for my stepfather, which -made me so miserable, my mother had placed all these papers in M. -Termonde's keeping. Alas! Why should she have understood those niceties -of feeling on my part, which rendered the fusion of her present with her -past so repugnant to me, any more clearly on this point than on any -other? M. Termonde had at least scrupulously respected the whole of -those papers, from plans of association and prospectuses to private -letters. Among the latter were several from M. Termonde himself, which -bore testimony to the friendship that had formerly subsisted between my -mother's first husband and her second. Had I not known this always? Why -should I suffer from the knowledge? And still there was nothing, no -indication whatever to put me on the track of a suspicion. - -I evoked the image of my father as he lived, just as I had seen him for -the last time; I heard him replying to M. Termonde's question in the -dining-room of the Rue Tronchet, and speaking of the man who awaited him -to kill him: "A singular man whom I shall not be sorry to observe more -closely." And then he had gone out and was walking towards his death -while I was playing in the little salon, and my mother was talking to -the friend who was one day to be her master and mine. What a happy -home-picture, while in that hotel room---- Ah! was I never to find the -key of the terrible enigma? Where was I to go? What was I to do? At what -door was I to knock? - -At the same time that a sense of the responsibility of my task -disheartened me, the novel facilities of my new way of life contributed -to relax the tension of my will. During my school days, the sufferings I -underwent from jealousy of my stepfather, the disappointment of my -repressed affections, the meanness and penury of my surroundings, many -grievous influences, had maintained the restless ardour of my feelings; -but this also had undergone a change. No doubt I still continued to love -my mother deeply and painfully, but I now no longer asked her for what I -knew she would not give me, my unshared place, a separate shrine in her -heart. I accepted her nature instead of rebelling against it. Neither -had I ceased to regard my stepfather with morose antipathy; but I no -longer hated him with the old vehemence. Mis conduct to me after I had -left school was irreproachable. Just as in my childhood, he had made it -a point of honour never to raise his voice in speaking to me, so he now -seemed to pique himself upon an entire absence of interference in my -life as a young man. When, having passed my baccalaureate, I announced -that I did not wish to adopt any profession, but without a reason--the -true one was my resolution to devote myself entirely to the fulfilment -of my task of justice--he had not a word to say against that strange -decision; nay, more, he brought my mother to consent to it. When my -fortune was handed over to me, I found that my mother, who had acted as -my guardian, and my stepfather, her co-trustee, had agreed not to touch -my funds during the whole period of my education; the interest had been -re-invested, and I came into possession, not of 750,000 francs, but of -more than a million. Painful as I felt the obligation of gratitude -towards the man whom I had for years regarded as my enemy, I was bound -to acknowledge that he had acted an honourable part towards me. I was -well aware that no real contradiction existed between these high-minded -actions and the harshness with which he had imprisoned me at school, -and, so to speak, relegated me to exile. Provided that I renounced all -attempts to form a third between him and his wife, he would have no -relations with me but those of perfect courtesy; but I must not be in my -mother's house. His will was to reign entirely alone over the heart and -life of the woman who bore his name. How could I have contended with -him? Why, too, should I have blamed him, since I knew so well that in -his place, jealous as I was, my own conduct would have been exactly -similar? I yielded, therefore, because I was powerless to contend with a -love which made my mother happy; because I was weary of keeping up the -daily constraint of my relations with her and him, and also because I -hoped that when once I was free I should be better fitted for my task as -a doer of justice. I myself asked to be permitted to leave the house, so -that at nineteen I possessed absolute independence, an apartment of my -own in the Avenue Montaigne, close to the round-point in the Champs -Élysées, a yearly income of 50,000 francs, the entrée to all the -salons frequented by my mother, and the entrée, too, to all the places -at which one may amuse one's self. How could I have resisted the -influences of such a position? - -Yes, I had dreamed of being an avenger, a justiciary, and I allowed -myself to be caught up almost instantly into the whirlwind of that life -of pleasure whose destructive power those who see it only from the -outside cannot measure. It is a futile and exacting existence which -fritters away your hours as it fritters away your mind, ravelling out -the stuff of time thread by thread with irreparable loss, and also the -more precious stuff of mental and moral strength. With respect to that -task of mine, my task as an avenger, I was incapable of immediate -action--what and whom was I to attack? And so I availed myself of all -the opportunities that presented themselves of disguising my inaction by -movement, and soon the days began to hurry on, and press one upon the -other, amid those innumerable, amusements of which the idle rich made a -code of duties to be performed. What with the morning ride in the Bois, -afternoon calls, dinner parties, parties to the theatre and after -midnight, play at the club, or the pursuit of pleasure elsewhere--how -was I to find leisure for the carrying out of a project? I had horses, -intrigues, an absurd duel in which I acquitted myself well, because, as -I believe, the tragic ideas that were always at the bottom of my life -favoured me. A woman of forty persuaded me that I was her first love, -and I became her lover; then I persuaded myself that I was in love with -a Russian great lady, who was living in Paris. The latter was--indeed -she still is--one of those incomparable actresses in society, who, in -order to surround themselves with a sort of court, composed of admirers -who are more or less rewarded, employ all the allurements of luxury, -wit, and beauty; but who have not a particle of either imagination or -heart, although they fascinate by a display of the most refined fancies -and the most vivid emotions. I led the life of a slave to the caprices -of this soulless coquette for nearly six months, and learned that women -of "the world" and women of "the half-world" are very much alike in -point of worth. The former are intolerable on account of their lies, -their assumption, and their vanity; the others are equally odious by -reason of their vulgarity, their stupidity, and their sordid love of -lucre. I forgot all my absurd relations with women of both orders in the -excitement of play, and yet I was well aware of the meanness of that -diversion, which only ceases to be insipid when if becomes odious, -because it is a clever calculation upon money to be gained without -working for it. There was in me something at once wildly dissipated and -yet disgusted, which drove me to excess, and at the same time inspired -me with bitter self-contempt. In the innermost recesses of my being the -memory of my father dwelt, and poisoned my thoughts at their source. An -impression of dark fatalism invaded my sick mind; it was so strange that -I should live as I was living, nevertheless, I did live thus, and the -visible "I" had but little likeness to the real. Upon me, then, poor -creature that I was, as upon the whole universe, a fate rested. "Let it -drive me," I said, and yielded myself up to it. I went to sleep, -pondering upon ideas of the most sombre philosophy, and I awoke to -resume an existence without worth or dignity, in which I was losing not -only my power of carrying out my design of reparation towards the -phantom which haunted my dreams, but all self-esteem, and all -conscience. Who could have helped me reascend this fatal stream? My -mother? She saw nothing but the fashionable exterior of my life, and she -congratulated herself that I had "ceased to be a savage." My stepfather? -But he had been, voluntarily or not, favourable to my disorderly life. -Had he not made me master of my fortune at the most dangerous age? Had -he not procured me admission, at the earliest moment, to the clubs to -which he belonged, and in every way facilitated my entrance into -society? My aunt? Ah, yes, my aunt was grieved by my mode of life; and -yet, was she not glad that at any rate I had forgotten the dark -resolution of hate that had always frightened her? And, besides, I -hardly ever saw her now. My visits to Compiègne were few, for I was at -the age when one always finds time for one's pleasures, but never has -any for one's nearest duties. If, indeed, there was a voice that was -constantly lifted up against the waste of my life in vulgar pleasures, -it was that of the dead, who slept in the day, unavenged; that voice -rose, rose, rose unceasingly, from the depths of all my musings, but I -had accustomed myself to pay it no heed, to make it no answer. Was it my -fault that everything, from the most important to the smallest -circumstance, conspired to paralyse my will? And so I existed, in a sort -of torpor which was not dispelled even by the hurly-burly of my mock -passions and my mock pleasures. - -The falling of a thunderbolt awoke me from this craven slumber of the -will. My aunt Louise was seized with paralysis, towards the end of that -sad year 1878, in the month of December. I had come in at night, or -rather in the morning, having won a large sum at play. Several letters -and also a telegram awaited me. I tore open the blue envelope, while I -hummed the air of a fashionable song, with a cigarette between my lips, -untroubled by an idea that I was about to be apprised of an event which -would become, after my father's death and my mother's second marriage, -the third great date in my life. The telegram was signed by Julie, my -former nurse, and it told me that my aunt had been taken ill quite -suddenly, also that I must come at once, although there was a hope of -her recovery. This bad news was the more terrible to me because I had -received a letter from my aunt just a week previously, and in it the -dear old lady complained, as usual, that I did not come to see her. My -answer to her letter was lying half-written upon my writing-table. I had -not finished it; God knows for what futile reason. It needs the advent -of that dread visitant, Death, to make us understand that we ought to -make good haste and love well those whom we do love, if we would not -have them pass away from us for ever, before we have loved them enough. -Bitter remorse, in that I had not proved to her sufficiently how dear -she was to me, increased my anxiety about my aunt's state. It was two -o'clock A.M., the first train for Compiègne did not start until six; in -the interval she might die. Those were very long hours of waiting, which -I killed by turning over in my mind all my shortcomings towards my -father's only sister, my sole kinswoman. The possibility of an -irrevocable parting made me regard myself as utterly ungrateful! My -mental pain grew keener when I was in the train speeding through the -cold dawn of a winter's day, along the road I knew so well. As I -recognised each familiar feature of the way, I became once more the -schoolboy whose heart was full of unuttered tenderness, and whose brain -was laden with the weight of a terrible mission. My thoughts outstripped -the engine, moving too slowly, to my impatient fancy, which summoned up -that beloved face, so frank and so simple, the mouth with its thickish -lips and its perfect kindliness, the eyes out of which goodness looked, -with their wrinkled, tear-worn lids, the flat bands of grizzled hair. In -what state should I find her? Perhaps, if on that night of repentance, -wretchedness, and mental disturbance, my nerves had not been strained to -the utmost--yes, perhaps I should not have experienced those wild -impulses when by the side of my aunt's death-bed, which rendered me -capable of disobeying the dying woman. But how can I regret my -disobedience, since it was the one thing that set me on the track of the -truth? No, I do not regret anything, I am better pleased to have done -what I have done. - - - - -VIII - - -My good old Julie was waiting for me at the station. Her eyes had failed -her of late, for she was seventy years old, nevertheless she recognised -me as I stepped out of the train, and began to talk to me in her usual -interminable fashion so soon as we were seated in the hired coupé, -which my aunt had sent to meet me whenever I came to Compiègne, from -the days of my earliest childhood. How well I knew the heavy old -vehicle, with its worn cushions of yellow leather, and the driver, who -had been in the service of the livery stable keeper as long as I could -remember. He was a little man with a merry roguish face, and eyes -twinkling with fun; but he tried to give a melancholy tone to his -salutation that morning. - -"It took her yesterday," said Julie, while the vehicle rumbled heavily -through the streets, "but you see it had to happen. Our poor demoiselle -had been changing for weeks past. She was so trustful, so gentle, so -just; she scolded, she ferreted about, she suspected--there, then, her -head was all astray. She talked of nothing but thieves and assassins; -she thought everybody wanted to do her some harm, the tradespeople, -Jean, Mariette, myself--yes, I too. She went into the cellar every day -to count the bottles of wine, and wrote the number down on a paper. The -next day she found the same number, and she would maintain the paper was -not the same, she disowned her own handwriting. I wanted to tell you -this the last time you came here, but I did not venture to say anything; -I was afraid it would worry you, and then I thought these were only -freaks, that she was a little crazy, and it would pass off. Well, then, -I came down yesterday to keep her company at her dinner, as she always -liked me to do, because, you know, she was fond of me in reality, -whether she was ill or well. I could not find her. Mariette, Jean, and I -searched everywhere, and at last Jean bethought him of letting the dog -loose; the animal brought us straight to the wood-stack, and there we -found her lying at full length upon the ground. No doubt she had gone to -the stack to count the logs. We lifted her up, our poor dear demoiselle! -Her mouth was crooked, and one side of her could not move. She began to -talk. Then we thought she was mad, for she said senseless words which we -could not understand; but the doctor assures us that she is perfectly -clear in her head, only that she utters one word when she means another. -She gets angry if we do not obey her on the instant. Last night when I -was sitting up with her she asked for some pins, I brought them and she -was angry. Would you believe that it was the time of night she wanted to -know? At length, by dint of questioning her, and by her yeses and noes, -which she expresses with her sound hand, I have come to make out her -meaning. If you only knew how troubled she was all night about you; I -saw it, and when I uttered your name her eyes brightened. She repeats -words, you would think she raves; she calls for you. Now look here, M. -André, it was the ideas she had about your poor father that brought on -her illness. All these last weeks she talked of nothing else. She would -say: 'If only they do not kill André also. As for me, I am old, but he -is so young, so good, so gentle.' And she cried--yes, she cried -incessantly. 'Who is it that you think wants to harm M. André?' I asked -her. Then she turned away from me with a look of distrust that cut me to -the heart, although I knew that her head was astray. The doctor says -that she believes herself persecuted, and that it is a mania; he also -says that she may recover, but will never have her speech again." - -I listened to Julie's talk in silence; I made no answer. I was not -surprised that my aunt Louise had begun to be attacked by a mental -malady, the trials of her life sufficiently explained this, and I could -also account for several singularities that I had observed in her -attitude towards me of late. She had surprised me much by asking me to -bring back a book of my father's which I had never thought of taking -away. "Return it to me," she said, insisting upon it so strongly, that I -instituted a search for the book, and at last unearthed it from the -bottom of a cupboard where it had been placed, as if on purpose, under a -heap of other books. Julie's prolix narrative only enlightened me as to -the sad cause of what I had taken for the oddity of a fidgety and lonely -old maid. On the other hand, I could not take the ideas of my aunt upon -my father's death so philosophically as Julie accepted them. What were -those ideas? Many a time, in the course of conversation with her, I had -vaguely felt that she was not opening her heart quite freely to me. Her -determined opposition to my plans of a personal inquiry might proceed -from her piety, which would naturally cause her to disapprove of any -thought or project of vengeance, but was there nothing else, nothing -besides that piety in question? Her strange solicitude for my personal -safety, which even led her to entreat me not to go out unarmed in the -evening, or get into an empty compartment in a train, with other -counsels of the same kind, was no doubt caused by morbid excitement; -still her constant and distressing dread might possibly rest upon a less -vague foundation than I imagined. I also recalled, with a certain -apprehension, that so soon as she ceased to be able completely to -control her mind these strange fears took stronger possession of her -than before. "What!" said I to myself, "am I becoming like her, that I -let such things occur to me? Are not these fixed ideas quite natural in -a person whose brain is racked by the mania of persecution, and who has -lost a beloved brother under circumstances equally mysterious and -tragical?" - -Thus reasoning with myself, almost in spite of myself, and listening to -Julie, I arrived at my aunt's house. A gloomy place it looked on that -bitter cold morning, sunk in the grimmest kind of silence, that of the -country in winter. The dog, a big black-and-white Newfoundland, whom I -had named Don Juan, whereat my aunt had been scandalised, jumped upon me -when I got out of the old coupé; but I pushed him away almost roughly, -so sore was my heart at the thought of what I was about to see in my -aunt's room, whither I proceeded at once. - -When I entered, the maid-servant, who was seated at the bed's foot, -stopped me with a gesture at the threshold; my aunt was sleeping. I -stole softly over the carpet to an easy-chair beside the fire, and -looked at the invalid from that distance. She lay, with her face turned -towards the wall, in the middle of the old bed with four carved posts, -which had belonged to my grandmother. The curtains, of thick red stuff -brocaded with black velvet, half hid her from my sight. I watched her -sleeping; now listening to her short breathing, and again looking about -the room, which was as familiar to me as the salon below stairs, where I -had written my letter of congratulation to my stepfather on his -marriage. Those red curtains were of an old-fashioned shade, which -harmornised with the antiquated shape of the furniture, the faded paper -of the screen before the window, the white ground of the carpet, the -discoloured reps with which the chairs were covered; in short, with all -the waifs from the wreck of our family life, that had been piously -preserved by the dear old maid. She was so exact and orderly; her -black-mittened hands were so skilful in pouncing upon any dust -overlooked by Jean, who combined the functions of gardener and -house-servant, that these old worn things, owing to the deep shining -brown of the bedstead, the chairs, and the brass-handled chest of -drawers, lent a homely aspect to the room such as the primitive painters -loved to give to their pictures of the Nativity. The contrast between my -apartment--the typical fashionable young man's rooms--and this peaceful -retreat was striking indeed. I had passed from the one to the other too -suddenly not to feel that contrast, and also the mute reproach that was -conveyed to me by the sick room, with its atmosphere tainted by a -medicinal odour instead of the fresh scent of lavender which I had -always recognised there. How bitterly I reproached myself in that half -hour, during which I listened to her breathing as she slept, and -meditated upon her lonely life. What resolutions I formed! I would come -here for long weeks together, when she should be better--for I would not -admit that she was in danger of death--and I eagerly awaited the moment -of her awakening, to beg her forgiveness, to tell her how much I loved -her. All of a sudden she heaved a deep sigh, and I saw her raise the -free arm and move it up and down several times with a gesture that had -something of despair in it. - -"She is awake," said Julie, who had taken the maid's place at the foot -of the bed. I approached my aunt and called her by her name. I then -clearly saw her poor face distorted by paralysis. She recognised me, and -as I bent down to kiss her, she stroked my cheek with her sound hand. -This caress, which was habitual with her, she repeated slowly several -times. I placed her, with Julie's assistance, on her back, so that she -could see me distinctly; she looked at me for a long time, and two heavy -tears fell from the eyes in which I read boundless tenderness, supreme -anguish, and inexpressible pity. I answered them by my own tears, which -she dried with the back of her hand; then she strove to speak to me, but -could only pronounce an incoherent sentence that struck me to the heart. -She saw, by the expression of my face, that I had not understood her, -and she made a desperate effort to find words in which to render the -thought evidently precise and lucid in her mind. Once more she uttered -an unintelligible phrase, and began again to make the feeble gesture of -despairing helplessness which had so shocked me at her waking. She -appeared, however, to take courage when I put the question to her: "What -do you want of me, dear aunt?" She made a sign that Julie was to leave -the room, and no sooner were we alone than her face changed. With my -help she was able to slip her hand under her pillow, and withdraw her -bunch of keys; then separating one key from the others she imitated the -opening of a lock. I immediately remembered her groundless fears of -being robbed, and asked her whether she wanted the box to which that key -belonged. It was a small key of a kind that is specially made for safety -locks. I saw that I had guessed aright; she was able to get out the word -"yes," and her eyes brightened. - -"But where is this box?" I asked. Once more she replied by a sentence of -which I could make nothing; and, seeing that she was relapsing into a -state of agitation, with the former heart-rending movement, I begged her -to allow me to question her and to answer by gestures only. After some -minutes, I succeeded in discovering that the box in question was locked -up in one of the two large cupboards below stairs, and that the key of -the cupboard was on the ring with the others. I went downstairs, leaving -her alone, as she had desired me by signs to do. I had no difficulty in -finding the casket to which the little key adapted itself; although it -was carefully placed behind a bonnet-box and a case of silver forks. The -casket was of sweet-scented wood, and the initials J.C. were inlaid -upon the lid in gold and platinum. J.C., Justin Cornélis--so, it had -belonged to my father. I tried the key in the lock, to make quite sure -that I was not mistaken. I then raised the lid, and glanced at the -contents almost mechanically, supposing that I was about to find a roll -of business papers, probably shares, a few trinket-cases, and rouleaux -of napoleons, a small treasure in fact, hidden away from motives of -fear. Instead of this, I beheld several small packets carefully wrapped -in paper, each being endorsed with the words, "Justin's Letters," and -the year in which they were written. My aunt had preserved these letters -with the same pious care that had kept her from allowing anything -whatever belonging to him in whom the deepest affection of her life had -centred, to be lost, parted with, or injured. But why had she never -spoken to me of this treasure, which was more precious to me than to any -one else in the world? I asked myself that question as I closed the box; -then I reflected that no doubt she desired to retain the letters to the -last hour of her life; and, satisfied with this explanation, I went -upstairs again. From the doorway my eyes met hers, and I could not -mistake their look of impatience and intense anxiety. I placed the -little coffer on her bed and she instantly opened it, took out a packet -of letters, then another, finally kept only one out, replaced those she -had removed at first, locked the box, and signed to me to place it on -the chest of drawers. While I was clearing away the things on the top of -the drawers, to make a clear space for the box, I caught sight, in the -glass opposite to me, of the sick woman. By a great effort she had -turned herself partly on her side, and she was trying to throw the -packet of letters which she had retained into the fireplace; it was on -the right of her bed, and only about a yard away from the foot. But she -could hardly raise herself at all, the movement of her hand was too -weak, and the little parcel fell on the floor. I hastened to her, to -replace her head on the pillows and her body in the middle of the bed, -and then with her powerless arm she again began to make that terrible -gesture of despair, clutching the sheet with her thin fingers, while -tears streamed from her poor eyes. - -Ah! how bitterly ashamed I am of what I am going to write in this place! -I will write it, however, for I have sworn to myself that I will be -true, even to the avowal of that fault, even to the avowal of a worse -still. I had no difficulty in understanding what was passing in my -aunt's mind; the little packet--it had fallen on the carpet close to the -fender--evidently contained letters which she wished to destroy, so that -I should not read them. She might have burned them, dreading as she did -their fatal influence upon me, long since; yet I understood why she had -shrunk from doing this, year after year, I, who knew with what idolatry -she worshipped the smallest objects that had belonged to my father. Had -I not seen her put away the blotting-book which he used when he came to -Compiègne, with the paper and envelopes that were in it at his last -visit? Yes, she had gone on waiting, still waiting, before she could -bring herself to part for ever with those dear and dangerous letters, -and then her sudden illness came, and with it the terrible thought that -these papers would come into my possession. I could also take into -account that the unreasonable distrust which she had yielded to of late -had prevented her from asking Jean or Julie for the little coffer. This -was the secret--I understood it on the instant--of the poor thing's -impatience for my arrival, the secret also of the trouble I had -witnessed. And now her strength had betrayed her. She had vainly -endeavoured to throw the letters into the fire, that fire which she -could hear crackling, without being able to raise her head so as to see -the flame. All these notions which presented themselves suddenly to my -thoughts took form afterwards; at the moment they melted into pity for -the suffering of the helpless creature before me. - -"Do not disturb yourself, dear aunt," said I, as I drew the coverlet up -to her shoulders, "I am going to burn those letters." - -She raised her eyes, full of eager supplication, I closed the lids with -my lips and stooped to pick up the little packet. On the paper in which -it was folded, I distinctly read this date: "1864--Justin's Letters." -1864! that was the last year of my father's life. I know it, I feel it, -that which I did was infamous; the last wishes of the dying are sacred. -I ought pot, no, I ought not to have deceived her who was on the point -of leaving me for ever. I heard her breathing quicken at that very -moment. Then came a whirlwind of thought too strong for me. If my aunt -Louise was so wildly, passionately eager that those letters should be -burned, it was because they could put me on the right track of -vengeance. Letters written in the last year of my father's life, and she -had never spoken of them to me! I did not reason, I did not hesitate, in -a lightning-flash I perceived the possibility of learning--what? I knew -not; but--of learning. Instead of throwing the packet of letters into -the fire, I flung it to one side, under a chair, returned to the bedside -and told her in a voice which I endeavoured to keep steady and calm, -that her directions had been obeyed, that the letters were burning. She -took my hand and kissed it. Oh, what a stab that gentle caress inflicted -upon me! I knelt down by her bedside, and hid my head in the sheets, so -that her eyes should not meet mine. Alas! it was not for long that I had -to dread her glance. At ten she fell asleep, but at noon her -restlessness recurred. At two the priest came, and administered the last -sacraments to her. She had a second stroke towards evening, never -recovered consciousness, and died in the night. - -Will you pardon me that falsehood which I told you in your last hours, O -my beloved dead? Your desire that I should never read those fatal -letters, which have begun to shed so terrible a light upon the past, -arose from your solicitude to spare me the suspicions that had tortured -yourself. On your death-bed your sole thought was for my happiness. Will -you forgive me for having frustrated that foresight of the dying? I must -speak to you, although I know not whether you can see me this day, or -hear me, or even feel the emotion which goes out to you, beloved one, -from my inmost soul. But, I am ashamed of having lied to you, when you -thought only of being good to me, so good, so good that no human -creature was ever better to another; and I am forced to tell you this. -You, at least, I have never doubted; there is only one touch of -bitterness in my thoughts of you; it is that I did not cherish you -sufficiently while you were here with me, that I betrayed you in the -matter of the last earthly desire of your pure soul. - -I see you now, and those eyes which revealed your stainless but sorely -wounded heart. You come to me, and you pardon me; your hand strokes my -check with that sad, sad caress which you gave me before you went away -into the darkness, where hands may no more be clasped or tears mingled. -If death had not come to you too quickly, if I had obeyed your last -desire, you would have carried the secret of your most painful doubts to -the grave. You do not blame me now for having wanted to know? You no -longer blame me for having suffered? A destiny exists, and weighs upon -us, which requires that light shall be cast upon the darkness of that -crime, that justice shall resume its rights, and the avenger come. By -what road? That power knows, and uses strange weapons for its task of -reparation. It was decreed, dear and pious sister of my murdered father, -that your faithful cherishing of his dear memory should at last arouse -my slumbering will. Reproach me not, O tender, unquiet spirit, with the -torments which I have inflicted upon myself, with the tragic purpose to -which I have sacrificed my youth. Rest, I say, rest! May peace descend -upon the grave in which you sleep beside my father, in the cemetery at -Compiègne, where I too shall find repose one day. And to think that -to-morrow might be that day! - - - - -IX - - -My aunt died at nine o'clock in the evening. I closed her eyes, and sat -by her side until eleven, when Julie came to me and persuaded me to go -downstairs and eat something. I had taken nothing but a cup of coffee at -noon. What a mournful meal was that in the dining-room, with its walls -adorned with old china plates, where I had so often sat opposite to my -dear aunt! A lamp stood on the table and threw a light upon the -table-cloth just in front of me, but did not dispel the shadows in the -room, which was warmed by a big earthenware stove, cracked by the heat. -I listened to the noise of this stove, and it brought back the evenings -in my childhood, when I used to roast chestnuts in the ashes of just -such a fire, after I had split them, lest they should burst. I looked at -Julie, who insisted on waiting upon me herself, and found her drying the -big tears that rolled down her wrinkled cheeks with the corner of her -blue apron. I have passed hours that were more cruel, but have never -known any more poignant; and I may do myself the justice to record that -grief absorbed every other feeling in me at first. During the whole of -that dismal night I never for an instant thought of opening the packet -of letters which I had obtained by so shameful a falsehood. I had -forgotten its existence, although I had taken care to pick it up and -take it to my own room. Where was now my curiosity to learn the secrets -of those letters? I knew that I had just lost for ever the only being -who had loved me entirely, and that knowledge crushed me. I wished to -keep the watch by the side of the dead for part of the night, and I -could not turn my gaze from that motionless face which had looked upon -me for so many years with absolute and unbounded tenderness, but now lay -before me with rigid features, closed lips, shut eyelids, and wearing an -expression of profound sorrow such as I have never seen upon any other -dead face. All the melancholy thoughts which had distilled their slow -poison into her heart while she lived, were revealed by that countenance -now restored to its truth. Ah! that expression of infinite sadness ought -to have driven me on the instant to seek for its mysterious cause in the -letters which had occupied her mind to the very brink of the grave, but -how could I have had strength to reason while gazing on that mournful -face? I could only feel that the lips which had never spoken any words -but those of tenderness to me would utter them no more, that the hands -which had caressed me so tenderly would clasp mine no more for ever. The -nun who was watching the dead repeated the appointed prayers, and I -found myself uttering the old forms in which I no longer believed. As I -recited the Paternoster and the Ave, I thought of all the prayers which -she, who lay at rest before me, had put up to God for my peace and -welfare. - -At three o'clock in the morning Julie came in to take my place, and I -retired to my room, which was on the same floor as my aunt's. A box-room -divided the two. I threw myself on my bed, worn out with fatigue, and -nature triumphed over my grief. I fell into that heavy sleep which -follows the expenditure of nerve power, and from which one awakes able -to bear life again and to carry the load that seemed unendurable. When I -awoke it was day, and the wintry sky was dull and dark like that of -yesterday, but it also wore a threatening aspect, from the great masses -of black cloud that covered it. I went to the window and looked out for -a long time at the gloomy landscape closed in by the edge of the forest. -I note these small details in order that I may more faithfully recall my -exact impression at the time. In turning away from the window and going -towards the fire which the maid had just lighted, my eye fell upon the -packet of letters stolen from my aunt. Yes, stolen--'tis the word. It -was in the place where I had put it last night, on the mantelshelf, with -my purse, rings, and cigar-case. I took up the little parcel with a -beating heart. I had only to stretch out my hand and those papers would -fall into the flames and my aunt's dying wish be accomplished. I sank -into an easy-chair and watched the yellow flame gaining on the logs, -while I weighed the packet in my hand. I thought there must be a good -many letters in it. I suffered from the physical uneasiness of -indecision. I am not trying to justify this second failure of my loyalty -to my dear aunt, I am trying to understand it. - -Those letters were not mine, I never ought to have appropriated them. I -ought now to destroy them unopened; all the more that the excitement of -the first moment, the sudden rush of ideas which had prevented me from -obeying the agonised supplication of my poor aunt, had subsided. I asked -myself once more what was the cause of her misery, while I gazed at the -inscription upon the cover, in my aunt's hand: "1864--Justin's -Letters." The very room which I occupied was an evil counsellor to me in -this strife between an indisputable duty and my ardent desire to know; -for it had formerly been my father's room, and the furniture had not -been changed since his time. The colour of the hangings was faded, that -was all. He had warmed himself by a fire which burned upon that -self-same hearth, and he had used the same low, wide chair in which I -now sat, thinking my sombre thoughts. He had slept in the bed from which -I had just risen, he had written at the table on which I rested my arms. -No, that room deprived me of free will to act, it made my father too -living. It was as though the phantom of the murdered man had come out of -his grave to entreat me to keep the oft-sworn vow of vengeance. Had -these letters offered me no more than one single chance, one against a -thousand, of obtaining one single indication of the secrets of my -father's private life, I could not have hesitated. With such -sacrilegious reasoning as this did I dispel the last scruples of pious -respect; but I had no need of arguments for yielding to the desire which -increased with every moment. - -I had there before me those letters, the last his hand had traced; those -letters which would lay bare to me the recesses of his life, and I was -not to read them! What an absurdity! Enough of such childish hesitation. -I tore off the cover which hid the papers; the yellow sheets with their -faded characters shook in my hands. I recognised the compact, square, -clear writing, with spaces between the words. The dates had been omitted -by my father in several instances, and then my aunt had repaired the -omission by writing in the day of the month herself. My poor aunt! this -pious carefulness was a fresh testimony to her constant tenderness; and -yet, in my wild excitement, I no longer thought of her who lay dead -within a few yards of me. - -Presently Julie came to consult me upon all the material details which -accompany death; but I told her I was too much overwhelmed, that she -must do as she thought fit, and leave me quite alone for the whole of -the morning. Then I plunged so deeply into the reading of the letters, -that I forgot the hour, the events taking place around me, forgot to -dress myself, to eat, even to go and look upon her whom I had lost while -yet I could behold her face. Traitor and ingrate that I was! I had -devoured only a few lines before I understood only too well why she had -been desirous to prevent me from drinking the poison which entered with -each sentence into my heart, as it had entered into hers. Terrible, -terrible letters! Now it was as though the phantom had spoken, and a -hidden drama of which I had never dreamed unfolded itself before me. - -I was quite a child when the thousand little scenes which this -correspondence recorded in detail took place. I was too young then to -solve the enigma of the situation; and, since, the only person who could -have initiated me into that dark history was she who had concealed the -existence of the too-eloquent papers from me all her life long, and on -her death-bed had been more anxious for their destruction than for her -eternal salvation--she, who had no doubt accused herself of having -deferred the burning of them from day to day as of a crime. When at last -she had brought herself to do this, it was too late. - -The first letter, written in January, 1864, began with thanks to my aunt -for her New Year's gift to me--a fortress with tin soldiers--with which -I was delighted, said the letter, because the cavalry were in two -pieces, the man detaching himself from his horse. Then, suddenly, the -commonplace sentences changed into utterances of mournful tenderness. An -anxious mind, a heart longing for affection, and discontent with the -existing state of things, might be discerned in the tone of regret with -which the brother dwelt upon his childhood, and the days when his own -and his sister's life were passed together. There was a repressed -repining in that first letter that immediately astonished and impressed -me, for I had always believed my father and mother to have been -perfectly happy with each other. Alas! that repining did but grow and -also take definite form as I read on. My father wrote to his sister -every Sunday, even when he had seen her in the course of the week. As it -frequently happens in cases of regular and constant correspondence, the -smallest events were recorded in minute detail, so that all our former -daily life was resuscitated in my thoughts as I perused the lines, but -accompanied by a commentary of melancholy which revealed irreparable -division between those whom I had believed to be so closely united. -Again I saw my father in his dressing-gown, as he greeted me in the -morning at seven o'clock, on coming out of his room to breakfast with me -before I started for school at eight. He would go over my lessons with -me briefly, and then we would seat ourselves at the table (without a -table-cloth) in the dining-room, and Julie would bring us two cups of -chocolate, deliciously sweetened to my childish taste. My mother rose -much later, and, after my school days, my father occupied a separate -room in order to avoid waking her so early. How I enjoyed that morning -meal, during which I prattled at my ease, talking of my lessons, my -exercises, and my school-mates! What a delightful recollection I -retained of those happy, careless, cordial hours! In his letters my -father also spoke of our early breakfasts, but in a way that showed how -often he was wounded by finding out from my talk that my mother took too -little care of me, according to his notions--that I filled too small a -place in her dreamy, wilfully frivolous life. There were passages which -the then future had since turned into prophecies. "Were I to be taken -from him, what would become of him?" was one of these. At ten I came -back from school; by that time my father would be occupied with his -business. I had lessons to prepare, and I did not see him again until -half-past eleven, at the second breakfast. Then mamma would appear in -one of those tasteful morning costumes which suited her slender and -supple figure so well. From afar, and beyond the cold years of my -boyhood, that family table came before me like a mirage of warm -homelife; how often had it become a sort of nostalgia to me when I sat -between my mother and M. Termonde on my horrid half-holidays. - -And now I found proof in my father's letters that a divorce of the heart -already existed between the two persons who, to my filial tenderness, -were but one. My father loved his wife passionately, and he felt that -his wife did not love him. This was the feeling continually expressed in -his letters--not in words so plain and positive, indeed; but how should -I, whose boyhood had been strangely analogous with this drama of a man's -life, have failed to perceive the secret signification of all he wrote? -My father was taciturn, like me--even more so than I--and he allowed -irreparable misunderstandings to grow up between my mother and himself. -Like me afterwards, he was passionate, awkward, hopelessly timid in the -presence of that proud, aristocratic woman, so different from him, the -self-made man of almost peasant origin, who had risen to professional -prosperity by the force of his genius. Like me--ah! not more than I--he -had known the torture of false positions, which cannot be explained -except by words that one will never have courage to utter. And, oh, the -pity of it, that destiny should thus repeat itself; the same tendencies -of the mind developing themselves in the son after they had developed -themselves in the father, so that the misery of both should be -identical! - -My father's letters breathed sighs that my mother had never -suspected--vain sighs for a complete blending of their two hearts; -tender sighs for the fond dream of fully-shared happiness; despairing -sighs for the ending of a moral separation, all the more complete -because its origin was not to be sought in their respective faults -(mutual love pardons everything), but in a complete, almost animal, -contrast between the two natures. Not one of his qualities was pleasing -to her; all his defects were displeasing to her. And he adored her. I -had seen enough of many kinds of ill-assorted unions since I had been -going about in society, to understand in full what a silent hell that -one must have been, and the two figures rose up before me in perfect -distinctness. I saw my mother with her gestures--a little affectation -was, so to speak, natural to her--the delicacy of her hands, her fair, -pale complexion, the graceful turn of her head, her studiously -low-pitched voice, the something un-material that pervaded her whole -person, her eyes, whose glance could be so cold, so disdainful; and, on -the other hand, I saw my father with his robust, working-man's frame, -his hearty laugh when he allowed himself to be merry, the professional, -utilitarian, in fact, plebeian, aspect of him, in his ideas and ways, -his gestures and his discourse. But the plebeian was so noble, so lofty -in his generosity, in his deep feeling. He did not know how to show that -feeling; therein lay his crime. On what wretched trifles, when we think -of it, does absolute felicity or irremediable misfortune depend! - -The name of M. Termonde occurred several times in the earlier letters, -and, when I came to the eleventh, I found it mentioned in a way which -brought tears to my eyes, set my hands shaking, and made my heart leap -as at the sound of a cry of sharp agony. In the pages which he had -written during the night--the writing showed how deeply he was -moved--the husband, hitherto so self-restrained, acknowledged to his -sister, his kind and faithful confidante, that he was jealous. He was -jealous, and of whom? Of that very man who was destined to fill his -place at our fireside, to give a new name to her who had been Madame -Cornélis; of the man with cat-like ways, with pale eyes, whom my -childish instinct had taught me to regard with so precocious and so -fixed a hate. He was jealous of Jacques Termonde. In his sudden -confession he related the growth of this jealousy, with the bitterness -of tone that relieves the heart of misery too long suppressed. In that -letter, the first of a series which death only was destined to -interrupt, he told how far back was the date of his jealousy, and how it -awoke to life with his detection of one look cast at my mother by -Termonde. He told how he had at once suspected a dawning passion on the -part of this man, then that Termonde had gone away on a long journey, -and that he, my father, had attributed his absence to the loyalty of a -sincere friend, to a noble effort to fight from the first against a -criminal feeling. Termonde came back; his visits to us were soon -resumed, and they became more frequent than before. There was every -reason for this; my father had been his chum at the École de Droit, and -would have chosen him to be his best man at his marriage had not -Termonde's diplomatic functions kept him out of France at the time. In -this letter and the following ones my father acknowledged that he had -been strongly attached to Termonde, so much so, indeed, that he had -considered his own jealousy as an unworthy feeling and a sort of -treachery. But it is all very well to reproach one's self for a passion, -it is there in our hearts all the same, tearing and devouring them. -After Termonde's return, my father's jealousy increased, with the -certainty that the man's love for the wife of his friend was also -growing; and yet, the unhappy husband did not think himself entitled to -forbid him the house. Was not his wife the most pure and upright of -women? Her very inclination to mysticism and exaggerated devotion, -although he sometimes found fault with her for it, was a pledge that she -would never yield to anything by which her conscience could be stained. -Besides, Termonde's assiduity was accompanied by such evident, such -absolute respect, that it afforded no ground for reproach. What was he -to do? Have an explanation with his wife--he who could not bring himself -to enter upon the slightest discussion with her? Require her to decline -to receive his own friend? But, if she yielded, he would have deprived -her of a real pleasure, and for that he should be unable to forgive -himself. If she did not yield? So, my poor father had preferred to toss -about in that Gehenna of weakness and indecision wherein dwell timid and -taciturn souls. All this misery he revealed to my aunt, dwelling upon -the morbid nature of his feelings, imploring advice and pity, deriding -and blaming the puerility of his jealousy, but jealous all the same, -unable to refrain from recurring again and again to the open wound in -his heart, and incapable of the energy and decision that would have -cured it. - -The letters became more and more gloomy, as it always happens when one -has not at once put an end to a false position; my father suffered from -the consequences of his weakness, and allowed them to develop without -taking action, because he could not now have checked them without -painful scenes. After having tolerated the increased frequency of his -friend's visits, it was torture to him to observe that his wife was -sensibly influenced by this encroaching intimacy. He perceived that she -took Termonde's advice on all the little matters of daily life--upon a -question of dress, the purchase of a present, the choice of a book. He -came upon the traces of the man in the change of my mother's tastes, in -music for instance. When we were alone in the evenings, he liked her to -go to the piano and play to him, for hours together, at haphazard; now' -she would play nothing but pieces selected by Termonde, who had acquired -an extensive knowledge of the German masters during his residence -abroad. My father, on the contrary, having been brought up in the -country with his sister, who was herself taught by a provincial -music-master, retained his old-fashioned taste for Italian music. - -My mother belonged, by her own family, to a totally different sphere of -society from that into which her marriage with my father had introduced -her. At first she did not feel any regret for her former circle, because -her extreme beauty secured her a triumphant success in the new one; but -it was quite another thing when her intimacy with Termonde, who moved in -the most worldly and elegant of Parisian "worlds," was perpetually -reminding her of all its pleasures and habits. My father saw that she -was bored and weary while doing the honours of her own salon with an -absent mind. He even found the political opinions of his friend echoed -by his wife, who laughed at him for what she called his Utopian -liberalism. Her mockery had no malice in it; but still it was mockery, -and behind it was Termonde, always Termonde. Nevertheless, he said -nothing, and the shyness, which he had always felt in my mother's -presence, increased with his jealousy. The more unhappy he was, the more -incapable of expressing his pain he became. There are minds so -constituted that suffering paralyses them into inaction. And then there -was the ever-present question, what was he to do? How was he to approach -an explanation, when he had no positive accusation to bring? He remained -perfectly convinced of the fidelity of his wife, and he again and again -affirmed this, entreating my aunt not to withdraw a particle of her -esteem from his dear Marie, and imploring her never to make an allusion -to the sufferings of which he was ashamed, before their innocent cause. -And then he dwelt upon his own faults; he accused himself of lack of -tenderness, of failing to win love, and would draw pictures of his -sorrowful home, in a few words, with heart-rending humility. - -Rough, commonplace minds know nothing of the scruples that rent and -tortured my father's soul. They say, "I am jealous," without troubling -themselves as to whether the words convey an insult or not. They forbid -the house to the person to whom they object, and shut their wives' -mouths with, "Am I master here?" taking heed of their own feelings -merely. Are they in the right? I know not; I only know that such rough -methods were impossible to my poor father. He had sufficient strength to -assume an icy mien towards Termonde, to address him as seldom as -possible, to give him his hand with the insulting politeness that makes -a gulf between two sincere friends; but Termonde affected -unconsciousness of all this. My father, who did not want to have a scene -with him, because the immediate consequence would have been another -scene with my mother, multiplied these small affronts, and then Termonde -simply changed the time of his visits, and came during my father's -business hours. How vividly my father depicted his stormy rage at the -idea that his wife and the man of whom he was jealous were talking -together, undisturbed, in the flower-decked salon, while he was toiling -to procure all the luxury that money could purchase for that wife who -could never, never love him, although he believed her faithful. But, oh, -that cold fidelity was not what he longed for--he who ended his letter -by these words--how often have I repeated them to myself: - -"_It is so sad to feel that one is in the way in one's own house, that -one possesses a woman by every right, that she gives one all that her -duty obliges her to give, all, except her heart, which is another's, -unknown to herself, perhaps, unless, indeed, that---- My sister, there -are terrible hours in which I say to myself that I am a fool, a coward, -that he is her lover, she is his mistress, that they laugh together at -me, at my blindness, my stupid trust. Do not scold me, dear Louise. This -idea is infamous, and I drive it away by taking refuge with you, to -whom, at least, I am all the world._" - -"Unless, indeed, that----" This letter was written on the first Sunday -in June, 1864; and on the following Thursday, four days later, he who -had written it, and had suffered all it revealed, went out to the -appointment at which he met with his mysterious death, that death by -which his wife was set free to marry his felon friend. What was the -idea, as dreadful, as infamous as the idea of which my father accused -himself in his terrible last letter, that flashed across me now? I -placed the packet of papers upon the mantelpiece, and pressed my two -hands to my head, as though to still the tempest of cruel fancies which -made it throb with fever. Ah, the hideous, nameless thing! My mind got a -glimpse of it only to reject it. But, had not my aunt also been assailed -by the same monstrous suspicion? A number of small facts rose up in my -memory, and convinced me that my father's faithful sister had been a -prey to the same idea which had just laid hold of me so strongly. How -many strange things I now understood, all in a moment! On that day when -she told me of my mother's second marriage, and I spontaneously uttered -the accursed name of Termonde, why had she asked me, in a trembling -voice: "What do you know?" What was it she feared that I had guessed? -What dreadful information did she expect to receive from my childish -observation of things? Afterwards, and when she implored me to abandon -the task of avenging our beloved dead, when she quoted to me the sacred -words, "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord," who were the guilty ones -whom she foresaw I must meet on my path? When she entreated me to bear -with my stepfather, even to conciliate him, not to make an enemy of him, -had her advice any object except the greater ease of my daily life, or -did she think danger might come to me from that quarter? When she became -more afraid for me, owing to the weakening of her brain by illness, and -again and again enjoined upon me to beware of going out alone in the -evening, was the vision of terror that came to her that of a hand which -would fain strike me in the dark--the same hand that had struck my -father? When she summoned up all her strength in her last moments, that -she might destroy this correspondence, what was the clue which she -supposed the letters would furnish? A terrific light shone upon me; what -my aunt had perceived beyond the plain purport of the letters, I too -perceived. Ah! I dared to entertain this idea, yet now I am ashamed to -write it down. But could I have escaped from the hard logic of the -situation? If my aunt had handed over those letters to the Judge of -Instruction in the matter, would he not have arrived at the same -conclusion that I drew from them? No, I could not. A man who has no -known enemies is assassinated; it is alleged that robbery is not the -motive of the murder; his wife has a lover, and shortly after the death -of her husband she marries that lover. "But it is they--it is they who -are guilty, they have killed the husband," the judge would say, and so -would the first-comer. Why did not my aunt place those letters of my -father's in the hands of justice? I understood the reason too well; she -would not have had me think of my mother what I was now in a fit of -distraction thinking--that she had deceived my father, that she had been -Termonde's mistress, that therein lay the secret of the murder. To -conceive of this as merely possible was to be guilty of moral parricide, -to commit the inexpiable sin against her who had borne me. I had always -loved my mother so tenderly, so mournfully; never, never had I judged -her. How many times--happening to be alone with her, and not knowing how -to tell her what was weighing on my heart--how many times I had dreamed -that the barrier between us would not for ever divide us. Some day I -might, perhaps, become her only support, then she should see how -precious she still was to me. My sufferings had not lessened my love for -her; wretched as I was because she refused me a certain sort of -affection, I did not condemn her for lavishing that affection upon -another. As a matter of fact, until those fatal letters had done their -work of disenchantment, of what was she guilty in my eyes? Of having -married again? Of having chosen, being left a widow at thirty, to -construct a new life for herself? What could be more legitimate? Of -having failed to understand the relations of the child who remained to -her with the man whom she had chosen? What was more natural? She was -more wife than mother, and besides, fanciful and fragile beings such as -she was recoil from daily contests; they shrink from facing realities -which would demand sustained courage and energy on their part. I had -admitted all these explanations of my mother's attitude towards me, at -first from instinct and afterwards on reflection. But now, the -inexhaustible spring of indulgence for those who really hold our -heart-strings was dried up in a moment, and a flood of odious, -abominable suspicion overwhelmed me instead. - -This sudden invasion of a horrible, torturing idea was not lasting. I -could not have borne it. Had it implanted itself in me then and there, -definite, overwhelming in evidence, impossible of rejection, I must have -taken a pistol and shot myself, to escape from agony such as I endured -in the few minutes which followed my reading of the letters. But the -tension was relaxed, I reflected, and my love for my mother began to -strive against the horrible suggestion. To the onslaught of these -execrable fancies I opposed the facts, in their certainty and -completeness. I recalled the smallest particulars of that last occasion -on which I saw my father and mother in each other's presence. It was at -the table from which he rose to go forth and meet his murderer. But was -not my mother cheerful and smiling that morning, as usual? Was not -Jacques Termonde with us at breakfast, and did he not stay on, after my -father had gone out, talking with my mother while I played with my toys -in the room? It was at that very time, between one and two o'clock, that -the mysterious Rochdale committed the crime. Termonde could not be, at -one and the same moment, in our salon and at the Imperial Hotel, any -more than my mother, impressionable and emotional as I knew her to be, -could have gone on talking quietly and happily, if she had known that -her husband was being murdered at that very hour. Why, I must have been -mad to allow such a notion to present its monstrous image before my eyes -for a single moment, and it was infamous of me to have gone so far -beyond the most insulting of my father's suspicions. Already, and -without any proof excerpt the expression of jealousy acknowledged by -himself to be unreasonable, I had reached a point to which the unhappy -but still loving man had not dared to go, even to the extreme outrage -against my mother, of believing that she had been Termonde's mistress. -What if, during the lifetime of her first husband, she had inspired him -whom she was one day to marry with too strong a sentiment, did this -prove that she had shared it? If she had shared it, would they have -proved her to be a fallen woman? Why should she not have entertained an -affection for Termonde, which, while it in no wise interfered with her -fidelity to her wifely duties, made my father not-unnaturally jealous? - -Thus did I justify her, not only from any participation in the crime, -but from any failure in her duty. And then again my ideas changed; I -remembered the cry that she had uttered in presence of my father's dead -body: "I am punished by God!" I was not sufficiently charitable to her -to admit that those words might be merely the utterance of a refined and -scrupulous mind which reproached itself even with its thoughts. I also -recalled the gleaming eyes and shaking hands of Termonde, when he was -talking with my mother about my father's mysterious disappearance. If -they were accomplices, this was a piece of acting performed before me, -an innocent witness, so that they might invoke my childish testimony on -occasion. These recollections once more drove me upon my fated way. The -idea of a guilty tie between her and him now took possession of me, and -then came swiftly the thought that they had profited by the murder, that -they alone had an engrossing interest in it. So violent was the assault -of suspicion that it overthrew all the barriers I had raised against it. -I accumulated all the objections founded upon a physical alibi and a -moral improbability, and thence I forced myself to say it was, strictly -speaking, impossible they could have anything to do with the murder; -impossible, impossible! I repeated this frantically; but even as it -passed my lips, the hallucination returned, and struck me down. There -are moments when the disordered mind is unable to quell visions which it -knows to be false, when the imaginary and the real mingle in a -nightmare-panic, and the judgment is powerless to distinguish between -them. Who is there that, having been jealous, does not know this -condition of mind? What did I not suffer from it during the day after I -had read those letters! I wandered about the house, incapable of -attending to any duty, struck stupid by emotions which all around me -attributed to grief for my aunt's death. Several times I tried to sit -for a while beside her bed; but the sight of her pale face, with its -pinched nostrils, and its deepening expression of sadness, was -unbearable to me. It renewed my miserable doubts. At four o'clock I -received a telegram. It was from my mother, and announced her arrival by -evening train. When the slip of blue paper was in my hand my -wretchedness was for a moment relieved. She was coming. She had thought -of my trouble; she was coming. That assurance dispelled my suspicions. -What if she were to read my criminal thoughts in my face? But those -absurd and infamous notions took possession of me once more. Perhaps she -thinks, so ran my thoughts, that the correspondence between my father -and my aunt had not been destroyed, and she is coming in order to get -hold of those letters before I see them, and to find out what my aunt -said to me when she was dying. If she and Termonde are guilty, they must -have lived in constant dread of the old maid's penetration. Ah! I had -been very unhappy in my childhood, but how gladly would I have gone back -to be the school-boy, meditating during the dull and interminable -evening hours of study, and not the young man who walked to and fro that -night in the station at Compiègne, awaiting the arrival of a mother, -suspected as mine was. Just God! Did not I expiate everything in -anticipation by that one hour? - - - - -X - - -The train from Paris approached, and stopped. The railway officials -called out the name of the station, as they opened the doors of the -carriage one after another, very slowly it seemed to me. I went from -carriage to carriage seeking my mother. Had she at the last moment -decided not to come! What a trial to me if it were so! What a night I -should have to pass in all the torment of suspicions which, I knew too -well, her mere presence would dispel. A voice called me. It was hers. -Then I saw her, dressed in black, and never in my life did I clasp her -in my arms as I did then, utterly forgetting that we were in a public -place, and why she had come, in the joy of feeling my horrible -imaginations vanish, melt away at the mere touch of the being whom I -loved so profoundly, the only one who was dear to me, notwithstanding -our differences, in the very depths of my heart, now that I had lost my -aunt Louise. After that first movement, which resembled the grasp in -which a drowning man seizes the swimmer who dives for him, I looked at -my mother without speaking, holding both her hands. She had thrown back -her veil, and in the flickering light of the station I saw that she was -very pale and had been weeping. I had only to meet her eyes, which were -still wet with tears, to know that I had been mad. I felt this, with the -first words she uttered, telling me so tenderly of her grief, and that -she had resolved to come at once, although my stepfather was ill. M. -Termonde had suffered of late from frequent attacks of illness. But -neither her grief nor her anxiety about her husband had prevented my -poor mother from providing herself, for this little excursion of a few -hours, with all her customary appliances of comfort and elegance. Her -maid stood behind her, accompanied by a porter, and both were laden with -three or four bags of different sizes, carefully buttoned up in their -waterproof covers; a dressing-case, writing-case, an elegant wallet to -hold the traveller's purse, handkerchief, book, and second veil; a -hot-water bottle for the feet, two cushions for her head, and a little -clock. - -"You see," said she, while I was pointing out the carriage to the maid, -so that she might get rid of her impedimenta, "I shall not have my right -mourning until to-morrow "--and now I perceived that her gown was dark -brown and only braided with black--"they could not have the things ready -in time, but will send them as early as possible." Then, as I placed her -in the carriage, she added: "There is still a trunk and a bonnet-box." -She half smiled in saying this, to make me smile too, for the mass of -luggage and the number of small parcels with which she encumbered -herself had been of old a subject of mild quarrel between us. In any -other state of mind I should have been pained to find the unfailing -evidence of her frivolity side by side with the mark of affection she -had given me by coming. Was not this one of the small causes of my great -misery? True, but her frivolity was delightful to me at that moment. -This then was the woman whom I had been picturing to myself as coming to -the house of death, with the sinister purpose of searching my dead -aunt's papers and stealing or destroying any accusing pages which she -might find among them! This was the woman whom I had misrepresented to -myself, that morning, as a criminal steeped in the guilt of a cowardly -murder! Yes! I had been mad! I had been like a runaway horse galloping -after its own shadow. But what a relief to make sure that it was -madness, what a blessed relief! It almost made me forget the dear dead -woman. I was very sad at heart in reality, and yet I was happy, while we -were rattling through the town in the old coupé, past the long lines of -lighted windows. I held my mother's hand; I longed to beg her pardon, to -kiss the hem of her dress, to tell her again and again that I loved and -revered her. She perceived my emotion very plainly; but she attributed -it to the affliction that had just befallen me, and she condoled with -me. She said, "My André," several times. How rare it was for me to have -her thus, all my own, and just in that mood of feeling for which my sick -heart pined! - -I had had the room on the ground floor, next to the salon, prepared for -my mother. I remembered that she had occupied it, when she came to -Compiègne with my father, a few days after her marriage, and I felt -sure that the impression which would be produced upon her by the sight -of the house in the first instance, and then by the sight of this room, -would help me to get rid of my dreadful suspicions. I was determined to -note minutely the slightest signs of agitation which she might betray at -the contact of a resuscitated past, rendered more striking by the aspect -of things that do not change so quickly as the heart of a woman. And -now, I blushed for that idea, worthy of a detective; for I felt it a -shameful thing to judge one's mother: one ought to make an Act of Faith -in her which would resist any evidence. I felt this, alas! all the more, -because the innocent woman was quite off her guard, as was perfectly -natural. She entered the room with a thoughtful look, seated herself -before the fire, and held her slender feet towards the flames, which -touched her pale cheeks with red; and, with her jet black hair, her -elegant figure, which still retained its youthful grace, she shed upon -the dim twilight of the old-fashioned room that refined and aristocratic -charm of which my father spoke in his letters. She looked slowly all -around her, recognising most of the things which my aunt's pious care -had preserved in their former place, and said, sorrowfully: "What -recollections!" But there was no bitterness in the emotion depicted on -her face. Ah! no; a woman who is brought, after twenty years, into the -room which she had occupied, as a bride, with the husband whose murder -she has contrived after having betrayed him, has not such eyes, such a -brow, such a mouth as hers. - -Every detail of all that passed that evening served to prove to me how -basely my puerile and disgraceful fancies had calumniated her who ought -to have been sacred in my sight. Julie had prepared a sort of supper, -and wished to attend at table herself. I observed the former mistress -and the old servant brought thus face to face, and, although I knew that -they had not got on well together in past days, I saw that they were -well pleased to meet again. Poor Julie especially, who was a simple -creature, incapable of deceit or dissimulation, was so glad that she -took me aside a few minutes before the meal, to tell me what a -consolation it was to her in her grief to see my mother so kind and -affectionate to me, and to wait on us both at the same table, as in the -bygone time. Had there been in my mother's past life any of those guilty -secrets which faithful servants are more quick than any others to -divine, the honest and true-hearted woman who had tended both my father -and myself would neither have been ignorant of it nor capable of -condoning it. I should have detected the trace of it in her wrinkled -face with the drawn-in lips, for its every wrinkle spoke eloquently to -me. Nor would my mother have been pleased and easy in the presence of -this witness of a sin of the past; her manner would have betrayed a -secret disturbance, were it only by the haughtiness with which, as it -were, one repels the silent censure of an inferior by anticipation. - -Julie's face made one among the many things which recalled her first -marriage to my mother's mind; and, either because the almost sudden -death of my aunt had deeply moved her, or because this sentimental -recurrence to the past was an indulgence of her taste for the romantic, -far from avoiding such recollections, she yielded to them fully, while I -silently blessed her for thus destroying the last vestiges of my mute -calumny. How fervent was my mental thanksgiving, when, later in the -night, she asked to see my dear dead aunt, so that she might take a last -farewell of her! We entered the room where the dying woman had striven -with the last earthly solicitude from which I had drawn such black -conclusions. Death had strengthened the resemblance that existed in her -lifetime between my aunt and my father. The motionless face forcibly -recalled that other face still living in my sad memory, and in whose -presence my mother had clasped me in so warm an embrace; and the -resemblance was made more striking by the chin-cloth which kept the -mouth closed. Once more we stood side by side before a funereal -spectacle; but I was no longer a child, and my mother was no longer a -young woman. - -How many years lay between those two deaths--and what years! The -comparison struck my mother too; she did not speak for a while--then she -whispered: "How like him she is!" She bent over the bed, pressed a kiss -on the ice-cold brow, and kneeling at the foot of the bed, she prayed. -This trying ordeal, of which I had hardly ventured to dream, she herself -had sought in so natural, so simple a way. . . . Since then I have had -many other tokens of the absolute blamelessness of my mother, I have -heard words uttered by him who had contrived and arranged the whole -crime, which fully exonerated the noble woman; but there was no need of -them. The sight of her kneeling beside the dead sister of my dear father -had sufficed to exorcise the phantom. - -After her prayer, she expressed a wish to remain in the room; but I -objected, fearing that the trial would be too severe for her strength, -and induced her to go downstairs with me. She was too much affected to -sleep, and she begged of me to stay with her for a while. I complied -with joy, so afraid was I that when out of her sight I might be -revisited by the hallucinations that had been so completely banished by -her demeanour. I felt myself once more so entirely her child for this -night, that I was in delight with her least actions, her slightest -gestures, just as I used to be in my real childhood. I admired the skill -with which she instantly transformed the chimney corner of the salon -into a quiet little retreat, just the place for a comfortable long talk. -She made me arrange the screen so as to shut in the sofa, and place a -little table within its shelter; on this she set out her travelling -cloak, her smelling-bottle, and my cigarettes. She put on a white -dressing-gown, wrapped round her head and shoulders a black-lace -mantilla, and when she was settled snugly on the sofa she tucked round -her a soft covering of pink wool decked with ribbons. She leaned her -cheek on one of the two little red silk cushions that she used in the -railway carriage, and inhaled some wood violets which Julie had placed -in a little vase. The scent of the flowers mingled with the perfume of -her garments and her hair, and I liked to see her thus, to revive my -earliest impressions of her by the aid of her refined luxuriousness. -Above all I liked her to talk as she now talked, showing her mind to me, -and letting so many recollections escape from it. She had begun by -questioning me about my aunt's illness, and then she went on to speak of -my father. This was very rare with her; it was also rare for her and me -to be so familiar and so united. It was a strange sensation to hear her -tell the story of her marriage in that salon, filled with the relics of -the dead, and with the ever present remembrance of the letters which I -had read that day in my mind. - -She told me--but this I already knew--how her marriage was brought -about. She met my father at a ball given by a great lawyer, who was -intimate with her family; their name was De Slane. She described her own -dress at this ball, and then sketched my father for me, in his black -coat, with an ill-tied white cravat and ill-fitting gloves. "A young -girl is always so foolish," she said. "He had himself introduced to us, -and he proposed for me twice over. I refused him each time, just because -I had those ill-fitting gloves in my mind. The third time he asked to -see me in private. Mamma wished very much for the marriage, -notwithstanding certain differences in station and education. Your -father was such a good man, so clever and hard-working, and then he -adored my mother with frank simplicity, just as if she were an idol. -Well, she consented to the interview. I received your father with the -firm intention of saying 'No' to him, and he spoke to me so nicely, with -so much eloquence and such perfect tact, I saw so plainly how much he -loved me, that I said 'Yes.' . . . ." - -What a commentary upon the whole of my father's correspondence was this -entry into marriage, what a symbol of the years that were to follow! -Yes, even until their last breakfast together before the murder, they -had lived thus; she allowing herself to be loved, with the indulgent -pride of a woman who knows herself to be the superior in refinement and -distinction, and he--the hard-working man of business, only a little -above the people--loving that refined and charming woman with an -idolatrous sense of her superiority, and a single-hearted -unconsciousness of his own. A fatal poison of the heart is silence; I -had already learned this too well, and I felt it on that of my father, -whose sombre and reserved nature I had inherited. And my mother -continued--how heart-rending it was to hear her--dwelling on my father's -qualities, on his uprightness, his perseverance, and also certain points -in his character which had always puzzled her. "Since he died so sadly," -she resumed, "I have often asked myself whether I made him as happy as -he might have been. I was very young then, and we had no tastes in -common. I have always liked society--that was born with me--and he did -not care about it, he did not feel at ease in it. I was very pious, and -he was of the school of Voltaire. He believed other men to be as good as -himself, and thought we could do without religion. . . . We have seen -since his time what that brings us to. He was not jealous, he never once -made a remark to me upon the few men friends I had, but there was a -restless tendency in him. When he was obliged to leave Paris for a short -time, if I chanced to send my daily letter to the post too late, there -would surely come a telegram urgently requesting news of my health. If, -in the evening, I came home a little later than usual, I would find him -in great anxiety, full of the notion that an accident had happened. And -then, he was subject to causeless fits of depression, prolonged spells -of silence. I did not venture to question him. You take after him in -this, my poor André." - -She continued to speak of his mysterious death: - -"I wept so much for it," she said, "and I have since thought so much of -it. Your father had not an enemy; his life was too upright for that. My -conviction is that the assassin reckoned on his taking a large sum of -money with him; bear in mind that we do not know what your father had in -his note-case. Ah, my André, you little know what I went through. That -was the time when I learned who were my true friends." She spoke of M. -Termonde, and the proofs of friendship he had given her. I was not angry -with her, because she did not understand that she could not say his name -at that moment without inflicting a wound upon me. Once set going upon -the road of reminiscence, what should check her? Why should she scruple -to speak to me of her second marriage and the consolation it had brought -her? Of course it was terribly sad for me to listen to these -confidences, which formed the cruel counterpart of those contained in my -father's letters to my aunt. But, sorrowful as it was to sound the -depths of the gulf which had separated those two beloved beings, what -was this in comparison with the tragic idea that had assailed me? -Throughout the long winter's evening I listened to my mother as she -talked to me, with the sweet, blessed certainty that never again could -my monstrous suspicions recur to my mind. My father's letters were fully -explained; he had been profoundly jealous of his wife, and he had never -dared to avow that jealousy. It arose from a moral influence of which -the person over whom it was exercised was probably ignorant. No, the -gentle creature who related all this past history to me with such frank -clear eyes, so sweet a voice, such ingenuousness in the acknowledgment -of her mistakes, such evident, all-pervading sincerity, must either have -been entirely innocent of the suffering she inflicted, or else she must -now be a monster of hypocrisy. At all events, I never thought that of -you, O my mother! weak but good woman as you were, capable indeed of -passing by pain unnoticed, but quite incapable of wilfully inflicting -it, and since that evening my faith in you has never been assailed. No -impious doubt crossed my mind from thenceforth, during the night which -followed this interview, or the day after, which was that of the -funeral, or when my mother had left me. - -It was, however, quite another thing with regard to my stepfather. When -suspicion is awakened upon a point of such tragic interest as the murder -of a father, that suspicion cannot be lulled to sleep again, without -having touched, handled, grasped a certainty. I had grasped this -certainty, at the moment when I clasped my mother in my arms, and heard -her speak; but, did my mother's innocence prove that of my stepfather -also? No sooner was I alone, and free to study the fatal letters, in -minute detail this time, than the new aspect of the problem presented -itself to my mind. Except in those moments when he was driven into -injustice by excess of pain, my father had always distinguished between -the responsibility of his wife and that of his friend, in the relation -that excited his jealousy. In his thoughts he had always acquitted my -mother; but, on the other hand, he had never treated Termonde's passion -for her as doubtful. There, then, was the positive, undeniable fact, of -which I had been ignorant until I read the letters--this man had an -immense interest in the "suppression" of my father. Before I read the -letters I was free to believe that his feelings towards my mother were -not awakened until she was free to marry him. Notwithstanding my -jealousy, I had never denied that it was most natural for a young, -beautiful, and grief-stricken woman to inspire a passionate desire to -console her, easily transformed into love, in even the most intimate -friend of her dead husband. Things now appeared to me in a different -light. In the solitude of the house at Compiègne, where I lingered on -instead of returning to Paris, professedly in order to regulate some -affairs, but in reality because I was like the wounded animals who creep -away to endure their pain, I read those letters over and over again. One -relic in particular, among all those in the house, aroused the desire -for vengeance and for justice that had been so strong in my childhood. -This was a calendar, one of those from which one tears off a leaf daily, -that lay beside the blotting-book formerly belonging to my father and -already mentioned, on a small bureau in his old room, now mine. The -calendar was for the year 1864, and my aunt had kept it, untouched, at -the date of the day that had brought her the terrible news of the -murder. Saturday, the 11th of June, was the day marked by the leaf which -lay uppermost upon the bulk of the others, and those others marked the -days of that year, days which my father never saw. The 11th of June, -1864! It was then, on Thursday, the 9th, that he had been killed. I was -nine years old at that time, I was now twenty-four, and his death was -still unavenged. Why? Because chance had not furnished me with any -indication; because I had not been able to form any hypothesis resting -upon a fact that was observed, verified, certain. Now that I had laid -hold of one of those indications, however doubtful, one of those -hypotheses, however improbable, I had no right to draw back, I was bound -to push my suspicions to their extreme. "If I were to go to M. Massol," -I reflected, "to place this correspondence in his hands and to consult -him, would he regard that revelation of our life, of the feelings of the -victim and of those of my mother's second husband, as a document to be -neglected?" No--a thousand times no--so strongly was I convinced of -this, that I would not have dared to take the letters to him. I should -have been afraid to set the bloodhounds of justice on this track. He and -I had pondered and studied so long that crucial question--who could -possibly have had an interest in the crime? If he had thought of my -stepfather, he had never spoken of him. What indication did he possess -which could have authorised him for a moment to raise so great a -disturbance in my mind? None; but I could now furnish him with such an -indication, and my instinct told me that it was very grave, and of -formidable significance. How could I have prevented myself from -fastening upon it, turning it over and over in my mind, and abandoning -myself completely to its absorbing suggestions? - -A strange contrast existed between the tempest within my breast and the -profound quiet of the house of the dead. My life glided on in apparent -monotony; but in reality it was one of torment and perplexity. I rose -late and took my breakfast alone, always waited on by Julie. I had, -however, as companions in the silent room, Don Juan, the watch-dog, and -two half-bred Angora cats, given by me to my aunt long ago, and named -respectively, Boule-de-Poil and Pierrot. I fed these creatures, each in -its turn, reminding myself of Robinson Crusoe, the beloved hero of my -childhood, and the scenes in which the solitary man is described as -sitting at his table surrounded by his private menagerie. The cats -hissed when Don Juan came near them, and if I neglected them they put -out their claws and tore the table-cloth, poking their prying little -noses up at me. The old clock ticked solemnly, as it had done for more -years than I knew of, and there I sat, amid these homely surroundings, -discussing with myself the arguments for and against my stepfather's -guilt. I put the matter to myself thus: "The great objection to be made -to an inquiry is the established alibi; the alibi attaches to the -physical data of the crime, and in every analysis of this kind the -series of moral data exists alongside of the series of physical data. If -these do not coincide, there is room for doubt, and the chief care of a -clever assassin is to create that doubt. If the appearance of material -impossibility were to prevent investigation, how many 'instructions' -would be abandoned?" When these thoughts pressed upon me too heavily, I -rose and walked towards the wood. Around me spread the vast silence of -the afternoon in winter. The dry leaves crackled under my feet, while my -mind still toiled over the argument for and against. Granted that M. -Termonde is guilty. He was, he is still passionate to the point of -violence; that is the first fact. He was madly in love with my mother; -that is a second fact. My father was painfully jealous of him; that was -a third fact. Here begins the uncertainty! Was M. Termonde aware of that -jealousy? Had he and my father had some of those silent scenes, after -which a man of the world is aware that the house of his friend, to whose -wife he is making love, is about to be closed to him? This supposition -would, I thought, be admitted without any difficulty. It was less easy -to understand the transition from that point to the fierce longing to be -rid of an obstacle which is felt to be for ever invincible; but yet the -thing is possible. At this stage of my analysis, I came in contact with -what I called the physical data of the crime. The false Rochdale -existed; this again was a fact. He had been seen by certain persons, who -had also heard him speak. He was waiting in a room at the Imperial -Hotel, while M. Termonde was at our table talking with us. For M. -Termonde to be guilty of the crime, it would be necessary to establish a -complicity between the two men; one of them, the false Rochdale, must -needs have been an instrument, a bravo hired to kill, for the advantage -of the other. - -The exceptional character of this fresh hypothesis was too evident for -me to yield to it immediately; indeed, the first time the idea occurred -to me, I ridiculed myself mercilessly. I remembered my childish terror -and the many proofs I had had of my readiness and ingenuity in -confounding the imaginary with the real. How like my former self I still -was, how incapable of chasing away the phantoms which suddenly appeared -before me! In vain did I urge this upon myself, because it was no more -than an improbability that the false Rochdale should be bribed by M. -Termonde to murder my father; it was not an absolute impossibility. The -least reflection shows that in the matter of crime everything happens. I -then set to work to recall all the extraordinary stories of the Cour -d'Assises which I could remember. My imagination turned blood-colour, -like the horizon where the sun was setting. I reentered the house, I -dined, as I had breakfasted, all alone, and then I passed the evening in -the salon, silting where my mother had sat. So afraid was I of thought -that I asked Julie to rejoin me after her supper. The old woman settled -herself on a low Breton chair, in a corner of the hearth, and went on -with her knitting. Her needles flashed as they moved in and out amid the -brown wool of which she was fabricating a stocking, and her spectacles -gleamed in the firelight. Sometimes she worked on the whole evening -without uttering a word, with Boule-de-Poil, her favourite, purring at -her feet, and Pierrot, who was of a jealous disposition, rubbing his -head against her, and standing on his hind paws. At other times she -talked, answering my questions about my aunt. She repeated what I -already knew so well; the solicitude of the dear old woman for me, her -dread of possible danger to me, her terrible anxiety on her death-bed. -She dwelt upon my aunt's inconsolable regret for my mother's second -marriage, and her unconquerable dislike to M. Termonde. - -"Each time that she made up her mind to go to your mother's house," said -Julie, "for your sake, André, she was ill from agitation beforehand, -and sunk in melancholy for a full week after she came back." These -particulars were not new to me, I had known them long before, but in my -present mood they threw me back upon my cruel suspicions. I resumed the -analysis of my thoughts concerning M. Termonde from another point of -view. Granted that he is guilty, I argued, is there a single fact since -the event which is not made clear by his culpability? My aunt's horror -is, moreover, an indication that I am not a madman, for she entertained -suspicions similar to my own. But she also suspected my mother, -otherwise she would have stedfastly opposed a marriage which she must -have regarded as a frightful sacrilege. Yes; but she may have been -mistaken about my mother, and right with respect to my stepfather. Is -not M. Termonde's antipathy to me also a sign? Has there not always been -something more in this than the not-uncommon antagonism between -stepfather and stepson? Is not that "something more" bitter detestation -of one who recalls his victim at every turn, sickening aversion to the -presence of the son of the murdered man? Again, I considered the -capricious humours of the man, his alternate craving for excitement and -for solitude, and the fits of silence and brooding to which my mother -told me he was subject. Hitherto I had explained these freaks by -attributing them to the liver complaint which had hollowed out his -cheeks, darkened his eyelids, and from time to time stretched hint on -his bed in such paroxysms of pain that the strong man cried aloud. But -these oddities, this malady itself, might not they be the effect of that -obscure but undeniable phenomenon which assumes such strange and various -shapes--remorse? Did I not know by experience the close relation between -the moral and the physical in man, the ravages which a fixed idea makes -in one's health, the killing and irresistible power of thought. I, who -could not go through strong emotion of any kind without being attacked -by neuralgia? Once more, suspicion took hold of me. How wretched is he -whom such dreadful doubts assail! Tossed upon a troubled sea, the sick -and weary mind knows no repose. - - - - -XI - - -There was one remedy to be applied to this unbearable malady--that -remedy which had already been successful in the case of my suspicions of -my mother. I must proceed to place the realities in opposition to the -suggestions of imagination. I must seek the presence of the man whom I -suspected, look him straight in the face, and see him as he was, not as -my fancy, growing more feverish day by day, represented him. Then I -should discern whether I had or had not been the sport of a delusion; -and the sooner I resorted to this test the better, for my sufferings -were terribly increased by solitude. My head became confused; at last I -ceased even to doubt. That which ought to have been only a faint -indication, assumed to my mind the importance of an overwhelming proof. -In the interest of my inquiry itself it was full time to resist this, if -I were ever to pursue that inquiry farther, or else I should fall into -the nervous state which I knew so well, which rendered any kind of -action in cold blood impossible to me. I made up my mind to leave -Compiègne, see my stepfather, and form my judgment of whether there -was, or was not, anything in my suspicions, upon the first effect -produced on him by my sudden and unexpected appearance before him. I -founded this hope on an argument which I had already used in the case of -my mother, namely, that if M. Termonde had really been concerned in the -assassination of my father, he had dreaded my aunt's penetration beyond -all things. Their relations had been formal, with an undercurrent of -enmity on her part which had assuredly not escaped a man so astute as -he. If he were guilty, would he not have feared that my aunt would have -confided her thoughts to me on her death-bed? The attitude that he -should assume towards me, at and after our first interview, would be a -proof, complete in proportion to its suddenness, and he must have no -time for preparation. - -I returned to Paris, therefore, without having informed even my valet of -my intention, and proceeded almost immediately to my mother's hotel. I -arrived there at two o'clock in the afternoon--an hour at which I was -pretty sure of finding M. Termonde at home, and smoking his cigar in the -hall after the second breakfast. A little later he and my mother would -go their separate ways until dinner-time, which was seven o'clock. I had -come on foot in order to steady my nerves by exercise, and all the way -along I had been pouring contempt upon myself, for, as I drew near to -the reality, the phantoms which I had summoned up in my solitude seemed -like the dreams of a sick child. - -I remembered how the humiliating and the ridiculous were mingled in the -arrival of my mother at Compiègne. I went to meet her, as Orestes might -have gone to meet Clytemnestra, and I found a woman wholly occupied with -her mourning, her travelling bag, and her little cushions. Would the -same ironical contrast present itself in this first interview with my -stepfather? Very likely, and I should be convinced once more of my -readiness to be intoxicated with my own ideas. It was always painful to -me to be convicted of that weakness, and also of my abiding inability to -form clear, precise, and definite views. I mentally compared myself with -the bulls which I had seen in the bull-ring at San Sebastian--stupid -animals; they foamed and stamped at a red rag instead of rushing -straight upon the alert toreador, who mocked their rage. In this -disheartened mood I rang the bell. The door was opened, and the narrow -court, the glass porch, the red carpet of the staircase, were before me. -The concierge, who saluted me, was not he by whom I had fancied myself -slighted in my childhood; but the old valet-de-chambre who opened the -door to me was the same. His close-shaven face wore its former impassive -expression, the look that used to convey to me such an impression of -insult and insolence when I came home from school. What childish -absurdity! To my question the man replied that my mother was in, also M. -Termonde, and Madame Bernard, a friend of theirs. The latter name -brought me back at once to the reality of the situation. Madame Bernard -was a rather pretty woman, very slight and dark, with a tip-tilted nose, -hair worn low upon her forehead, very white teeth which were continually -shown by a constant smile, a short upper lip, and all the manners and -ways of a woman of society well up in its latest gossip. - -I fell at once from my fancied height as an imaginary Grand Justiciary -into the shallows of Parisian frivolity. I was about to hear chatter -upon the last play, the latest suit for separation, the latest love -affairs, and the newest bonnet. It was for this that I had eaten my -heart out all these days! The servant preceded me to the hall I knew so -well, with its Oriental divan, its green plants, its strange furniture, -its slightly faded carpet, its Meissonier on a draped easel, in the -place formerly occupied by my father's portrait, its crowd of ornamental -trifles, and the wide-spreading Japanese parasol open in the middle of -the ceiling. The walls were hung with large pieces of Chinese stuff -embroidered in black and white silk. My mother was half-reclining in an -American rocking-chair, and shading her face from the fire with a -hand-screen; Madame Bernard, who sat opposite to her, was holding her -muff with one hand and gesticulating with the other; M. Termonde, in -walking-dress, was standing with his back to the chimney, smoking a -cigar, and warming the sole of one of his boots. On my appearance, my -mother uttered a little cry of glad surprise, and rose to welcome me. -Madame Bernard instantly assumed the air with which a well-bred woman -prepares to condole with a person of her acquaintance upon a -bereavement. All these little details I perceived in a moment, and also -the shrug of M. Termonde's shoulders, the quick flutter of his eyelids, -the rapidly dismissed expression of disagreeable surprise which my -sudden appearance called forth. But what then? Was it not the same with -myself? I could have sworn that at the same moment he experienced -sensations exactly similar to those which were catching me at the chest -and by the throat. What did this prove but that a current of antipathy -existed between him and me? Was it a reason for the man's being a -murderer? He was simply my stepfather, and a stepfather who did not like -his stepson. . . . - -Matters had stood thus for years, and yet, after the week of miserable -suspicion I had lived through, the quick look and shrug struck me -strangely, even while I took his hand after I had kissed my mother, and -saluted Madame Bernard. His hand? No, only his finger tips as usual, and -they trembled a little as I touched them. How often had my own hand -shrunk with unconquerable repugnance from that contact! I listened while -he repeated the same phrases of sympathy with my sorrow which he had -already written to me while I was at Compiègne. I listened while Madame -Bernard uttered other phrases to the same effect; and then the -conversation resumed its course, and, during the half-hour that ensued, -I looked on, speaking hardly at all, but mentally comparing the -physiognomy of my stepfather with that of the visitor, and that of my -mother. The contemplation of those three faces produced a curious -impression upon me; it was that of their difference, not only of age, -but of intensity, of depth. There was no mystery in my mother's face, it -was as easy to read as a page in clear handwriting! The mind of Madame -Bernard, a worldly, trumpery mind, but harmless enough, was readily to -be discerned in her features, which were at once refined and -commonplace. How little there was of reflection, of decision, of -exercise of will, in short of individuality, behind the poetic grace of -the one and the pretty affectations of the other! What a face, on the -contrary, was that of my stepfather, with its strong individuality and -its vivid expression! In this man of the world, as he stood there -talking with two women of the world, in his blue, furtive eyes, too wide -apart, and always seeming to shun observation, in his prematurely gray -hair, his mouth set round with deep wrinkles, in his dark, blotched -complexion, there seemed to be a creature of another race. What passions -had worn those furrows? what vigils had hollowed those eyeballs? Was -this the face of a happy man, with whom everything had succeeded, who, -having been born to wealth and of an excellent family, had married the -woman he loved; who had known neither the wearing cares of ambition, the -toil of money-getting, nor the stings of wounded self-love? It is true, -he suffered from some complaint; but why was it that, although I had -hitherto been satisfied with this answer, it now appeared to me childish -and even foolish? Why did all these marks of trouble and exhaustion -suddenly strike me as effects of a secret cause, and why was I -astonished that I had not sooner sought for it? Why was it that in his -presence, contrary to my expectations, contrary to what had happened -about my mother, I was wrong to think thus, and harbour suspicion from -which I had hoped to emerge with a free mind? Why, when our eyes met for -just one second, was I afraid that he might read my thoughts in my -glance, and why did I shift them with a pang of shame and terror? Ah! -coward that I was, triple coward! Either I was wrong to think thus, and -at any price I must know that I was wrong; or, I was right and I must -know that too. The sole resource henceforth remaining to me for the -preservation of my self-respect was ardent and ceaseless search after -certainty. - -That such a search was beset with difficulty I was well aware. Mow was I -to get at facts? The very position of the problem which I had before me -forbade all hope of discovering anything whatsoever by a formal inquiry. -What, in fact, was the matter in question? It was to make myself certain -whether M. Termonde was or was not the accomplice of the man who had led -my father into the trap in which he had lost his life. But I did not -know that man himself; I had no data to go upon except the particulars -of his disguise and the vague speculations of a Judge of Instruction. If -I could only have consulted that Judge, and availed myself of his -experience? How often since have I taken out the packet containing the -denunciatory letters, with the intention of showing them to him and -imploring advice, support, suggestions, from him. But I have always -stopped short before the door of his house; the thought of my mother -barred its entrance against me. What if he, the Judge of Instruction in -the case, were to suspect her as my aunt had done? Then I would go back -to my own abode, and shut myself up for hours, lying on the divan in my -smoking-room and drugging my senses with tobacco. During that time I -read and re-read the fatal letters, although I knew them by heart, in -order to verify my first impression with the hope of dispelling it. It -was, on the contrary, deepened. The only gain I obtained from my -repeated perusals was the knowledge that this certainty, of which I had -made a point of honour to myself, could only be psychological. In short, -all my fancies started from the moral data of the crime, apart from -physical data which I could not obtain. I was therefore obliged to rely -entirely, absolutely, upon those moral data, and I began again to reason -as I had done at Compiègne. "Supposing," said I to myself, "that M. -Termonde is guilty, what state of mind must he be in? This state of mind -being once ascertained, how can I act so as to wrest some sign of his -guilt from him?" As to his state of mind I had no doubt. Ill and -depressed as I knew him to be, his mind troubled to the point of -torment, if that suffering, that gloom, that misery were accompanied by -the recollection of a murder committed in the past, the man was the -victim of secret remorse. The point was then to invent a plan which -should give, as it were, a form to his remorse, to raise the spectre of -the deed he had done roughly and suddenly before him. If guilty, it was -impossible but that he would tremble; if innocent, he would not even be -aware of the experiment. But how was this sudden summoning-up of his -crime before the man whom I suspected to be accomplished? On the stage -and in novels one confronts an assassin with the spectacle of his crime, -and keeps watch upon his face for the one second during which he loses -his self-possession; but in reality there is no instrument except -unwieldy, unmanageable speech wherewith to probe a human conscience. I -could not, however, go straight to M. Termonde and say to his face: "You -had my father killed!" Innocent or guilty, he would have had me turned -from the door as a madman! - -After several hours of reflection, I came to the conclusion that only -one plan was reasonable, and available: this was to have a private talk -with my stepfather at a moment when he would least expect it, an -interview in which all should be hints, shades, double meanings, in -which each word should be like the laying of a finger upon the sorest -spots in his breast, if indeed his reflections were those of a murderer. -Every sentence of mine must be so contrived as to force him to ask -himself: "Why does he say this to me if he knows nothing? He does know -something. How much does he know?" So well acquainted was I with every -physical trait of his, the slightest variations of his countenance, his -simplest gestures, that no sign of disturbance on his part, however -slight, could escape me. If I did not succeed in discovering the seat of -the malady by this process, I should be convinced of the baselessness of -those suspicions which were constantly springing up afresh in my mind -since the death of my aunt. I would then admit the simple and probable -explanation--nothing in my father's letters discredited it--that M. -Termonde had loved my mother without hope in the lifetime of her first -husband, and had then profited by her widowhood, of which he had not -even ventured to think. If, on the contrary, I observed during our -interview, that he was alive to my suspicions, that he divined them, and -anxiously followed my words; if I surprised that swift gleam in his eye -which reveals the instinctive terror of an animal, attacked at the -moment of its fancied security, if the experiment succeeded, -then--then--I dared not think of what then? The mere possibility was too -overwhelming. But should I have the strength to carry on such a -conversation? At the mere thought of it, my heart-beats were quickened, -and my nerves thrilled. What! this was the first opportunity that had -been offered to me of action, of devoting myself to the task of -vengeance, so coveted, so fully accepted during all my early years, and -I could hesitate? Happily, or unhappily, I had near me a counsellor -stronger than my doubts, my father's portrait, which was hung in my -smoking-room. When I awoke in the night and plunged into these thoughts, -I would light my candle and go to look at the picture. How like we were -to each other, my father and I, although I was more slightly built! How -exactly the same we were! How near to me I felt him, and how dearly I -loved him! With what emotion I studied those features, the lofty -forehead, the brown eyes, the rather large mouth, the rather long chin, -the mouth especially, half-hidden by a black moustache cut like my own; -it had no need to open, and cry out: "André, André, remember me!" Ah, -no, my dear dead father, I could not leave you thus, without having done -my utmost to avenge you, and it was only an interview to be faced, only -an interview! - -My nervousness gave way to determination at once feverish and -fixed--yes, it was both--and it was in a mood of perfect self-mastery, -that, after a long period of mental conflict, I repaired to the hotel on -the boulevard, with the plan of my discourse clearly laid out. I felt -almost sure of finding my stepfather alone; for my mother was to -breakfast on that day with Madame Bernard. M. Termonde was at home, and, -as I expected, alone in his study. When I entered the room, he was -sitting in a low chair, close to the fire, looking chilly, and smoking. -Like myself in my dark hours, he drugged himself with tobacco. The room -was a large one, and both luxurious and ordinary. A handsome bookcase -lined one of the walls. Its contents were various, ranging from grave -works on history and political economy to the lightest novels of the -day. A large, flat writing-table, on which every kind of -writing-material was carefully arranged, occupied the middle of the -room, and was adorned with photographs in leather cases. These were -portraits of my mother and M. Termonde's father and mother. At least one -prominent trait of its owner's character, his scrupulous attention to -order and correctness of detail, was revealed by the aspect of my -stepfather's study; but this quality, which is common to so many persons -of his position in the world, may belong to the most commonplace -character as well as to the most refined hypocrite. It was not only in -the external order and bearing of his life that my stepfather was -impenetrable, none could tell whether profound thoughts were or were not -hidden behind his politeness and elegance of manner. I had often -reflected on this, at a period when as yet I had no stronger motive for -examining into the recesses of the man's character than curiosity, and -the impression came to me with extreme intensity at the moment when I -entered his presence with a firm resolve to read in the book of his past -life. - -We shook hands, I took a seat opposite to his on the other side of the -hearth, lighted a cigar, and said, as if to explain my unaccustomed -presence: - -"Mamma is not here?" - -"Did she not tell you, the other day, that she was to breakfast with -Madame Bernard? There's an expedition to Lozano's studio,"--Lozano was a -Spanish painter much in vogue just then--"to see a portrait he is -painting of Madame Bernard. Is there anything you want to have told to -your mother?" he added, simply. - -These few words were sufficient to show me that he had remarked the -singularity of my visit. Ought I to regret or to rejoice at this? He -was, then, already aware that I had some particular motive for coming; -but this very fact would give all their intended weight to my words. I -began by turning the conversation on an indifferent matter, talking of -the painter Lozano and a good picture of his which I knew, "A -Gipsy-dance in a Tavern-yard at Grenada." I described the bold -attitudes, the pale complexions, the Moorish faces of the gitanas, and -the red carnations stuck into the heavy braids of their black hair, and -I questioned him about Spain. He answered me, but evidently out of mere -politeness. While continuing to smoke his cigar, he raked the fire with -the tongs, and taking up one small piece of charred wood after another -between their points. By the quivering of his fingers, the only sign of -his nervous sensitiveness which he was unable entirely to keep down, I -could observe that my presence was then, as it always was, disagreeable -to him. Nevertheless he talked on with his habitual courtesy, in his low -voice, almost without tone or accent, as though he had trained himself -to talk thus. His eyes were fixed on the flame, and his face, which I -saw in profile, wore the expression of infinite weariness that I knew -well, an indescribable sadness, with long deep lines, and the mouth was -contracted as though by some bitter thought ever present. Suddenly, I -looked straight at that detested profile, concentrating all the -attention I had in me upon it, and, passing from one subject to another -without transition, I said: - -"I paid a very interesting visit this morning." - -"In that you are agreeably distinguished from me," was his reply, made -in a tone of utter indifference, "for I wasted my morning in putting my -correspondence in order." - -"Yes," I continued, "very interesting. I passed two hours with M. -Massol." - -I had reckoned a good deal on the effect of this name, which must have -instantly recalled the inquiry into the mystery of the Imperial Hotel to -his memory. The muscles of his face did not move. He laid down the -tongs, leaned back in his chair, and said in an absent manner: - -"The former Judge of Instruction? What is he doing now?" - -Was it possible that he really did not know where the man, whom, if he -were guilty, he ought to have dreaded most of all men, was then living? -How was I to know whether this indifference was feigned? The trap I had -set appeared to me all at once a childish notion. Admitting that my -stepfather's pulses were even now throbbing with fever, and that he was -saying to himself with dread: "What is he coming to? What does he mean?" -why, this was a reason why he should conceal his emotion all the more -carefully. No matter. I had begun; I was bound to go on, and to hit -hard--or cease to hit at all. - -"M. Massol is Counsellor to the Court," I replied, and I added--although -this was not true--"I see him often. We were talking this morning of -criminals who have escaped punishment. Only fancy his being convinced -that Troppmann had an accomplice. He founds his belief on the details of -the crime, which presupposes two men, he says. If this be true it must -be admitted that 'Messieurs The Assassins' have a kind of honour of -their own, however odd that may appear, since the child-killing monster -let his own head be cut off without denouncing the other. Nevertheless, -the accomplice must have had some bad times before him, after the -discovery of the bodies and the arrest of his comrade. I, for my part, -would not trust to that honour, and if the humour took me to commit a -crime, I should do it by myself. Would you?" I asked jestingly. - -These two little words meant nothing, were merely an insignificant jest, -if the man to whom I put my odd question was innocent. But, if he were -guilty, those two little words were enough to freeze the marrow in his -bones. He surrounded himself with smoke while listening to me, his -eyelids half veiled his eyes; I could no longer see his left hand, which -hung over the far side of his chair, and he had put the right into the -pocket of his morning-coat. There was a short pause before he answered -me--very short--but the interval, perhaps a minute, that divided his -reply from my question was a burning one for me. But what of this? It -was not his way to speak in a hurry; and besides, my question had -nothing interesting in it if he were not guilty, and if he were, would -he not have to calculate the bearing of the phrase which he was about to -utter with the quickness of thought? He closed his eyes completely--his -constant habit--and said, in the unconcerned tone of a man who is -talking generalities: - -"It is a fact that scraps of conscience do remain intact in very -depraved individuals. One sees instances of this especially in countries -where habits and morals are more genuine and true to nature than ours. -There's Spain, for instance, the country that interests you so much; -when I lived in Spain, it was still infested by brigands. One had to -make treaties with them in order to cross the Sierras in safety; there -was no case known in which they broke the contract. The history of -celebrated criminal cases swarms with scoundrels who have been excellent -friends, devoted sons, and constant lovers. But I am of your opinion, -and I think it is best not to count too much upon them." - -He smiled as he uttered the last words, and now he looked full at me -with those light blue eyes which were so mysterious and impassible. No, -I was not of a stature to cope with him, to read his heart by force. It -needed capacity of another kind than mine to play in the case of this -personage the part of the magnate of police who magnetises a criminal. -And yet, why did my suspicions gather force as I felt the masked, -dissimulating, guarded nature of the man in all its strength? Are there -not natures so constituted that they shut themselves up without cause, -just as others reveal themselves; are there not souls that love darkness -as others love daylight? Courage, then, let me strike again. - -"M. Massol and I," I resumed, "have been talking about what kind of life -Troppmann's accomplice must be leading, and also Rochdale's, for neither -of us has relinquished the intention of finding him. Before M. Massol's -retirement he took the precaution to bar the limitation by a formal -notice, and we have several years before us in which to search for the -man. Do these criminals sleep in peace? Are they punished by remorse, or -by the apprehension of danger, even in their momentary security? It -would be strange if they were both at this moment good, quiet citizens, -smoking their cigars like you and me, loved and loving. Do you believe -in remorse?" - -"Yes, I do believe in remorse," he answered. Was it the contrast between -the affected levity of my speech, and the seriousness with which he had -spoken, that caused his voice to sound grave and deep to my ears? No, -no; I was deceiving myself, for without a thrill he had heard the news -that the limitation had been barred, that the case might be re-opened -any day--terrible news for him if he were mixed up with the murder--and -he added, calmly, referring to the philosophic side of my question only: - -"And does M. Massol believe in remorse?" "M. Massol," said I, "is a -cynic. He has seen too much wickedness, known too many terrible stories. -He says that remorse is ay question of stomach and religious education, -and that a man with a sound digestion, who had never heard anything -about hell in his childhood, might rob and kill from morning to night -without feeling any other remorse than fear of the police. He also -maintains, being a sceptic, that we do not know what part that question -of the other life plays in solitude; and I think he is right, for I -often begin to think of death, at night, and I am afraid;--yes, I, who -don't believe in anything very much, am afraid. And you," I continued, -"do you believe in another world?" - -"Yes." This time I was sure that there was an alteration in his voice. - -"And in the justice of God?" - -"In His justice and His mercy," he answered, in a strange tone. - -"Singular justice," I said vehemently, "which is able to do everything, -and yet delays to punish! My poor aunt used always to say to me when I -talked to her about avenging my father: 'I leave it to God to punish,' -but, for my part, if I had got hold of the murderer, and he was there -before me--if I were sure--no, I would not wait for the hour of that -tardy justice of God." - -I had risen while uttering these words, carried away by involuntary -excitement which I knew to be unwise. M. Termonde had bent over the fire -again, and once more taken up the tongs. He made no answer to my -outburst. Had he really felt some slight disturbance, as I believed for -an instant, at hearing me speak of that inevitable and dreadful morrow -of the grave which fills myself with such fear now that there is blood -upon my hands? I could not tell. His profile was, as usual, calm and -sad. The restlessness of his hands--recalling to my mind the gesture -with which he turned and returned his cane while my mother was telling -him of the disappearance of my father--yes, the restlessness of his -hands was extreme; but he had been working at the fire with the same -feverish eagerness just before. Silence had fallen between us suddenly; -but how often had the same thing happened? Did it ever fail to happen -when he and I were in each other's company? And then, what could he have -to say against the outburst of my grief and wrath, orphan that I was? -Guilty, or innocent, it was for him to be silent, and he held his peace. -My heart sank; but, at the same time, a senseless rage seized upon me. -At that moment I would have given my remaining life for the power of -forcing their secret from those shut lips, by any mode of torture. - -My stepfather looked at the clock--he, too, had risen now--and said: -"Shall I put you down anywhere? I have ordered the carriage for three -o'clock, as I have to be at the club at half-past. There's a ballot -coming off to-morrow." Instead of the down-stricken criminal I had -dreamed of, there stood before me a man of society thinking about the -affairs of his club. He came with me so far as the hall, and took leave -of me with a smile. - -Why, then, a quarter of an hour afterwards, when we passed each other on -the quay, I, going homewards on foot, he in his coupé--yes--why was his -face so transformed, so dark and tragic? He did not see me. He was -sitting back in the corner, and his clay-coloured face was thrown out by -the green leather behind his head. His eyes were looking--where, and at -what? The vision of distress that passed before me was so different from -the smiling countenance of a while ago that it shook me from head to -foot with an extraordinary emotion. - - - - -XII - - -This impression of dread kept hold of me during the whole of that -evening, and for several days afterwards. There is infinite distance -between our fancies, however precise they may be, and the least bit of -reality. My father's letters had stirred my being to its utmost depths, -had summoned up tragic pictures before my eyes; but the simple fact of -my having seen the agonised look in my stepfather's face, after my -interview with him, gave me a shock of an entirely different kind. Even -after I had read the letters repeatedly, I had cherished a secret hope -that I was mistaken, that some slight proof would arise and dispel -suspicions which I denounced as senseless, perhaps because I had a -foreknowledge of the dreadful duty that would devolve upon me when the -hour of certainty had come. Then I should be obliged to act on a -resolution, and I dared not look the necessity in the face. No, I had -not so regarded it, previous to my meeting with my enemy, when I saw him -cowering in anguish upon the cushions of his carriage. Now I would force -myself to contemplate it. What should my course be, if he were guilty? -I put this question to myself plainly t and I perceived all the horror -of the situation. On whatever side I turned I was confronted with -intolerable misery. That things should remain as they were I could not -endure. I saw my mother approach M. Termonde, as she often did, and -touch his forehead caressingly with her hand or her lips. That she -should do this to the murderer of my father! My very bones burned at the -mere thought of it, and I felt as though an arrow pierced my breast. So -be it! I would act; I would find strength to go to my mother and say: -"This man is an assassin," and prove it to her--and lo! I was already -shrinking from the pain that my words must inflict on her. It seemed to -me that while I was speaking I should see her eyes open wide, and, -through the distended pupils, discern the rending asunder of her being, -even to her heart, and that she would go mad or fall down dead on the -spot, before my eyes. No, I would speak to her myself. If I held the -convincing proof in my hands I would appeal to justice. But then a new -scene arose before me. I pictured my mother at the moment of her -husband's arrest. She would be there, in the room, close to him. "Of -what crime is he accused?" she would ask, and she would have to hear the -inevitable answer. And I should be the voluntary cause of this, I, who, -since my childhood, and to spare her a pang, had stifled all my -complaints at the time when my heart was laden with so many sighs, so -many tears, so much sorrow, that it would have been a supreme relief to -have poured them out to her. I had not done so then, because I knew that -she was happy in her life, and that it was her happiness only that -blinded her to my pain. I preferred that she should be blind and happy. -And now? Ah! how could I strike her such a cruel blow, dear and fragile -being that she was? The first glimpse of the double prospect of misery -which my future offered if my suspicions proved just, was too terrible -for endurance, and I summoned all my strength of will to shut out a -vision which must bring about such consequences. Contrary to my habit, I -persuaded myself into a happy solution. My stepfather looked sad when he -passed me in his coupé; true, but what did this prove? Had he not many -causes of care and trouble, beginning with his health, which was failing -from day to day? One fact only would have furnished me with absolute, -indisputable proof; if he had been shaken by a nervous convulsion while -we were talking, if I had seen him (as Hamlet, my brother in anguish, -saw his uncle) start up with distorted face, before the suddenly-evoked -spectre of his crime. Not a muscle of his face had moved, not an eyelash -had quivered;--why, then, should I set down this untroubled calm to -amazing hypocrisy, and take the discomposure of his countenance half an -hour later for a revelation of the truth? This was just reasoning, or at -least it appears so to me, now that I am writing down my recollections -in cold blood. They did not prevail against the sort of fatal instinct -which forced me to follow this trail. Yes, it was absurd, it was mad, -gratuitously to imagine that M. Termonde had employed another person to -murder my father; yet I could not prevent myself from constantly -admitting that this most unlikely suggestion of my fancy was possible, -and sometimes that it was certain. When a man has given place in his -mind to ideas of this kind he is no longer his own master; either he is -a coward, or the thing must be fought out. It was due to my father, my -mother, and myself that I should _know_. I walked about my rooms for -hours, thinking these thoughts, and more than once I took up a pistol, -saying to myself: "Just a touch, a slight movement like this and I am -cured for ever of mortal pain." But the handling of the weapon, the -touch of the smooth barrel, reminded me of the mysterious scene of my -father's death. It called up before me the sitting-room in the Imperial -Hotel, the disguised man waiting, my father coming in, taking a seat at -the table, turning over the papers laid before him, while a pistol, like -this one in my hand, was levelled at him, close to the back of his neck; -and then the fatal crack of the weapon, the head dropping down upon the -table, the murderer wrapping the bleeding neck in towels and washing his -hands, coolly, leisurely, as though he had just completed some ordinary -task. The picture roused in me a raging thirst for vengeance. I -approached the portrait of the dead man, which looked at me with its -motionless eyes. What! I had my suspicions of the instigator of this -murder, and I would leave them unverified because I was afraid of what I -should have to do afterwards! No, no; at any price, I must in the first -place know! - -Three days passed. I was suffering tortures of irresolution, mingled -with incoherent projects no sooner formed than they were rejected as -impracticable. To know?--this was easily said, but I, who was so eager, -nervous, and excitable, so little able to restrain my quickly-varying -emotions, would never be able to extort his secret from so resolute a -man, one so completely master of himself as my stepfather. My -consciousness of his strength and my weakness made me dread his presence -as much as I desired it. I was like a novice in arms who was about to -fight a duel with a very skilful adversary; he desires to defend himself -and to be victorious, but he is doubtful of his own coolness. What was I -to do now, when I had struck a first blow and it had not been decisive? -If our interview had really told upon his conscience, how was I to -proceed to the redoubling of the first effect, to the final reduction of -that proud spirit? My reflections had arrived and stopped at this point, -I was forming and re-forming plans only to abandon them, when a note -reached me from my mother, complaining; that I had not gone to her house -since the day on which I had missed seeing her, and telling me that my -stepfather had been very ill indeed two days previously with his -customary liver complaint. Two days previously, that was on the day -after my conversation with him. Here again it might be said that fate -was making sport of me, redoubling the ambiguity of the signs, the chief -cause of my despair. Was the imminence of this attack explanatory of the -agonised expression of my stepfather's face when he passed me in his -carriage? Was it a cause, or merely the effect of the terror by which he -had been assailed, if he was guilty, under his mask of indifference, -while I flung my menacing words in his face? Oh, how intolerable was -this uncertainty, and my mother increased it, when I went to her, by her -first words. - -"This," she said, "is the second attack he has had in two months; they -have never come so near together until now. What alarms me most is the -strength of the doses of morphine he takes to lull the pain. He has -never been a sound sleeper, and for some years he has not slept one -single night without having recourse to narcotics; but he used to be -moderate--whereas, now----" - -She shook her head dejectedly, poor woman, and I, instead of -compassionating her sorrow, was conjecturing whether this, too, was not -a sign, whether the man's sleeplessness did not arise from terrible, -invincible remorse, or whether it also could be merely the result of -illness. - -"Would you like to see him?" asked my mother, almost timidly, and as I -hesitated she added, under the impression that I was afraid of fatiguing -him, whereas I was much surprised by the proposal, "he asked to see you -himself; he wants to hear the news from you about yesterday's ballot at -the club." Was this the real motive of a desire to see me, which I could -not but regard as singular, or did he want to prove that our interview -had left him wholly unmoved? Was I to interpret the message which he had -sent me by my mother as an additional sign of the extreme importance -that he attached to the details of "society" life, or was he, -apprehending my suspicions, forestalling them? Or, yet again, was he, -too, tortured by the desire to know, by the urgent need of satisfying -his curiosity by the sight of my face, whereon he might decipher my -thoughts? - -I entered the room--it was the same that had been mine when I was a -child, but I had not been inside its door for years--in a state of mind -similar to that in which I had gone to my former interview with him. I -had, however, no hope now that M. Termonde would be brought to his knees -by my direct allusion to the hideous crime of which I imagined him to be -guilty. My stepfather occupied the room as a sleeping-apartment when he -was ill, ordinarily he only dressed there. The walls, hung with dark -green damask, ill-lighted by one lamp, with a pink shade, placed upon a -pedestal at some distance from the bed, to avoid fatigue to the sick -man's eyes, had for their only ornament a likeness of my mother by -Bonnat, one of his first female portraits. The picture was hung between -the two windows, facing the bed, so that M. Termonde, when he slept in -that room, might turn his last look at night and his first look in the -morning upon the face whose long-descended beauty the painter had very -finely rendered. No less finely had he conveyed the something -half-theatrical which characterised that face, the slightly affected set -of the mouth, the far-off look in the eyes, the elaborate arrangement of -the hair. First, I looked at this portrait; it confronted me on entering -the room; then my glance fell on my stepfather in the bed. His head, -with its white hair, and his thin yellow face were supported by the -large pillows, round his neck was tied a handkerchief of pale blue silk -which I recognised, for I had seen it on my mother's neck, and I also -recognised the red woollen coverlet that she had knitted for him; it was -exactly the same as one she had made for me; a pretty bit of woman's -work on which I had seen her occupied for hours, ornamented with ribbons -and lined with silk. Ever and always the smallest details were destined -to renew that impression of a shared interest in my mother's life from -which I suffered so much, and more cruelly than ever now, by reason of -my suspicion. I felt that my looks must betray the tumult of such -feelings, and, while I seated myself by the side of the bed, and asked -my stepfather how he was, in a voice that sounded to me like that of -another person, I avoided meeting his eyes. My mother had gone out -immediately after announcing me, to attend to some small matters -relative to the well-being of her dear invalid. My stepfather questioned -me upon the ballot at the club which he had assigned as a pretext for -his wish to see me. I sat with my elbow on the marble top of the table -and my forehead resting in my hand; although I did not catch his eye I -felt that he was studying my face, and I persisted in looking fixedly -into the half-open drawer where a small pocket-pistol, of English make, -lay side by side with his watch, and a brown silk purse, also made for -him by my mother. What were the dark misgivings revealed by the presence -of this weapon placed within reach of his hand and probably habitually -placed there? Did he interpret my thoughts from my steady observation? -Or had he, too, let his glance fall by chance upon the pistol, and was -he pursuing the ideas that it suggested in order to keep up the talk it -was always so difficult to maintain between us? The fact is that he -said, as though replying to the question in my mind: "You are looking at -that pistol, it is a pretty thing, is it not?" He took it up, turned it -about in his hand, and then replaced it in the drawer, which he closed. -"I have a strange fancy, quite a mania; I could not sleep unless I had a -loaded pistol, there, quite close to me. After all it is a habit which -does no harm to any one, and might have its advantages. If your poor -father had carried a weapon like that upon him when he went to the -Imperial Hotel, things would not have gone so easily with the assassin." - -This time I could not refrain from raising my eyes and seeking his. How, -if he were guilty, did he dare to recall this remembrance? Why, if he -were not, did his glance sink before mine? Was it merely in following -out an association of ideas that he referred thus to the death of my -father; was it for the purpose of displaying his entire unconcern -respecting the subject-matter of our last interview; or was he using a -probe to discover the depth of my suspicion? After this allusion to the -mysterious murder which had made me fatherless, he went on to say: - -"And, by-the-bye, have you seen M. Massol again?" - -"No," said I, "not since the other day." - -"He is a very intelligent man. At the time of that terrible affair, I -had a great deal of talk with him, in my capacity as the intimate friend -of both your father and mother. If I had known that you were in the -habit of seeing him latterly, I should have asked you to convey my kind -regards." - -"He has not forgotten you," I answered. In this I lied; for M. Massol -had never spoken of my stepfather to me; but that frenzy which had made -me attack him almost madly in the conversation of the other evening had -seized upon me again. Should I never find the vulnerable spot in that -dark soul for which I was always looking? This time his eyes did not -falter, and whatever there was of the enigmatical in what I had said, -did not lead him to question me farther. On the contrary, he put his -finger on his lips. Used as he was to all the sounds of the house, he -had heard a step approaching, and knew it was my mother's. Did I deceive -myself, or was there an entreaty that I would respect the unsuspecting -security of an innocent woman in the gesture by which he enjoined -silence? Was I to translate the look that accompanied the sign into: "Do -not awaken suspicion in your mother's mind, she would suffer too much;" -and was his motive merely the solicitude of a man who desires to save -his wife from the revival of a sad remembrance? She came in; with the -same glance she saw us both, lighted by the same ray from the lamp, and -she gave us a smile, meant for both of us in common, and fraught with -the same tenderness for each. It had been the dream of her life that we -should be together thus, and both of us with her, and, as she had told -me at Compiègne, she imputed the obstacles which had hindered the -realisation of her dream to my moody disposition. She came towards us, -smiling, and carrying a silver tray with a glass of Vichy water upon it; -this she held out to my stepfather, who drank the water eagerly, and, -returning the glass to her, kissed her hand. - -"Let us leave him to rest," she said, "his head is burning." Indeed, in -merely touching the tips of his fingers, which he placed in mine, I -could feel that he was highly feverish; but how was I to interpret this -symptom, which was ambiguous like all the others, and might, like them, -signify either moral or physical distress? I had sworn to myself that I -would know; but how?--how? - -I had been surprised by my stepfather's having expressed a wish to see -me during his illness; but I was far more surprised when, a fortnight -later, my servant announced M. Termonde in person, at my abode. I was in -my study, and occupied in arranging some papers of my father's which I -had brought up from Compiègne. I had passed these two weeks at my poor -aunt's house, making a pretext of a final settlement of affairs, but in -reality because I needed to reflect at leisure upon the course to be -taken with respect to M. Termonde, and my reflections had increased my -doubts. At my request, my mother had written to me three times, giving -me news of the patient, so that I was aware he was now better and able -to go out. On my return, the day before, I had selected a time at which -I was almost sure not to see any one for my visit to my mother's house. -And now, here was my stepfather, who had not been inside my door ten -times since I had been installed in an apartment of my own, paying me a -visit without the loss of an hour. My mother, he said, had sent him with -a message to me. She had lent me two numbers of a review, and she now -wanted them back as she was sending the yearly volume to be bound; so, -as he was passing the door, he had stepped in to ask me for them. I -examined him closely while he was giving this simple explanation of his -visit, without being able to decide whether the pretext did or did not -conceal his real motive. His complexion was more sallow than usual, the -look in his eyes was more glittering, he handled his hat nervously. - -"The reviews are not there," I answered; "we shall probably find them in -the smoking-room." - -It was not true that the two numbers were not there; I knew their exact -place on the table in my study; but my father's portrait hung in the -smoking-room, and the notion of bringing M. Termonde face to face with -the picture, to see how he would bear the confrontation, had occurred to -me. At first he did not observe the portrait at all; but I went to the -side of the room on which the easel supporting it stood, and his eyes, -following all my movements, encountered it. His eyelids opened and -closed rapidly, and a sort of dark thrill passed over his face; then he -turned his eyes carelessly upon another little picture hanging upon the -wall. I did not give him time to recover from the shock; but, in -pursuance of the almost brutal method from which I had hitherto gained -so little, I persisted: - -"Do you not think," said I, "that my father's portrait is strikingly -like me? A friend of mine was saying the other day that if I had my hair -arranged in the same way, my head would be exactly like----" - -He looked first at me, and then at the picture, in the most leisurely -way, like an expert in painting examining a work of art, without any -other motive than that of establishing its authenticity. If this man had -procured the death of him whose portrait he studied thus, his power over -himself was indeed wonderful. But--was not the experiment a crucial one -for him? To betray his trouble would be to avow all? How ardently I -longed to place my hand upon his heart at that moment and to count its -beats. - -"You do resemble him," he said at length, "but not to that degree. The -lower part of the chin especially, the nose and the mouth, are alike, -but you have not the same look in the eyes, and the brows, forehead, and -cheeks are not of the same shape." - -"Do you think," said I, "that the resemblance is strong enough for me to -startle the murderer if he were to meet me suddenly here, and thus?"--I -advanced upon him, looking into the depths of his eyes as though I were -imitating a dramatic scene. "Yes," I continued, "would the likeness of -feature enable me to produce the effect of a spectre, on saying to the -man, 'Do you recognise the son of him whom you killed?'" - -"Now we are returning to our former discussion," he replied, without any -farther alteration of his countenance; "that would depend upon the man's -remorse, if he had any, and on his nervous system." - -Again we were silent. His pale and sickly but motionless face -exasperated me by its complete absence of expression. In those -minutes--and how many such scenes have we not acted together since my -suspicion was first conceived--I felt myself as bold and resolute as I -was the reverse when alone with my own thoughts. His impassive manner -drove me wild again; I did not limit myself to this second experiment, -but immediately devised a third, which ought to make him suffer as much -as the two others, if he were guilty. I was like a man who strikes his -enemy with a broken-handled knife, holding it by the blade in his shut -hand; the blow draws his own blood also. But no, no; I was not exactly -that man; I could not doubt or deny the harm that I was doing to myself -by these cruel experiments, while he, my adversary, hid his wound so -well that I saw it not. No matter, the mad desire to know overcame my -pain. - -"How strange those resemblances are," I said, "my father's handwriting -and mine are exactly the same. Look here." - -I opened an iron safe built into the wall, in which I kept papers which -I especially valued, and took out first the letters from my father to my -aunt which I had selected and placed on top of the packet. These were -the latest in date, and I held them out to him, just as I had arranged -them in their envelopes. The letters were addressed to "Mademoiselle -Louise Cornélis, Compiègne;" they bore the post-mark and the quite -legible stamp of the days on which they were posted in the April and May -of 1864. It was the former process over again. If M. Termonde were -guilty, he would be conscious that the sudden change of my attitude -towards himself, the boldness of my allusions, the vigour of my attacks -were all explained by these letters, and also that I had found the -documents among my dead aunt's papers. It was impossible that he should -not seek with intense anxiety to ascertain what was contained in those -letters that had aroused such suspicions in me? When he had the -envelopes in his hands I saw him bend his brows, and I had a momentary -hope that I had shattered the mask that hid his true face, that face in -which the inner workings of the soul are reflected. The bent brow was, -however, merely a contraction of the muscles of the eye, caused by -regarding an object closely, and it cleared immediately. He handed me -back the letters without any question as to their contents. - -"This time," said he, simply, "there really is an astonishing -resemblance." Then, returning to the ostensible object of his -visit--"And the reviews?" he asked. - -I could have shed tears of rage. Once more I was conscious that I was a -nervous youth engaged in a struggle with a resolutely self-possessed -man. I locked up the letters in the safe, and I now rummaged the small -bookcase in the smoking-room, then the large one in my study, and -finally pretended to be greatly astonished at finding the two reviews -under a heap of newspapers on my table. What a silly farce! Was my -stepfather taken in by it? When I had handed him the two numbers, he -rose from the chair that he had sat in during my pretended search in the -chimney-corner of the smoking-room, with his back to my father's -portrait. But, again, what did this attitude prove? Why should he care -to contemplate an image which could not be anything but painful to him, -even if he were innocent? - -"I am going to take advantage of the sunshine to have a turn in the -Bois," said he. "I have my coupé; will you come with me?" - -Was he sincere in proposing this tête-à-tête drive which was so -contrary to our habits? What was his motive: the wish to show me that he -had not even understood my attack, or the yearning of the sick man who -dreads to be alone? I accepted the offer at all hazards, in order to -continue my observation of him, and a quarter of an hour afterwards we -were speeding towards the Arc de Triomphe in that same carriage in which -I had seen him pass by me, beaten, broken, almost killed, after our -first interview. This time, he looked like another man. Warmly wrapped -in an overcoat lined with seal fur, smoking a cigar, waving his hand to -this person or that through the open window, he talked on and on, -telling me anecdotes of all sorts, which I had either heard or not heard -previously, about people whose carriages crossed ours. He seemed to be -talking before me and not with me, so little heed did he take of whether -he was telling what I might know, or apprising me of what I did not -know. I concluded from this--for, in certain states of mind, every mood -is significant--that he was talking thus in order to ward off some fresh -attempt on my part. But I had not the courage to recommence my efforts -to open the wound in his heart and set it bleeding afresh so soon. I -merely listened to him, and once again I remarked the strange contrast -between his private thoughts and the rigid doctrines which he generally -professed. One would have said that in his eyes the high society, whose -principles he habitually defended, was a brigand's cave. It was the hour -at which women of fashion go out for their shopping and their calls, and -he related all the scandals of their conduct, false or true. According -to him, one of these great ladies was the mistress of her husband's -brother, another was notoriously under the protection of an old -diplomatist who had enriched himself by a disgraceful marriage, a third -had married an imbecile widower, and, in order that she might inherit -the whole of his fortune, had incited the man's son to so vicious a life -that it had killed him at nineteen. He dwelt on all these stories and -calumnies with a horrid pleasure, as though he rejoiced in the vileness -of humanity. Did this mean the facile misanthropy of a profligate, -accustomed to such conversations at the club, or in sporting circles, -during which each man lays bare his brutal egotism, and voluntarily -exaggerates the depth of his own disenchantment that he may boast more -largely of his experience? Was this the cynicism of a villain, guilty of -the most hideous of crimes, and glad to demonstrate that others were -less worthy than he? To hear him laugh and talk thus threw me into a -singular state of dejection. We had passed the last houses in the Avenue -de Bois, and were driving along an alley on the right in which there -were but few carriages. On the bare hedgerows a beautiful light shone, -coming from that lofty, pale blue sky which is seen only over Paris. He -continued to sneer and chuckle, and I reflected that perhaps he was -right, that the seamy side of the world was what he depicted it. Why -not? Was not I there, in the same carriage with this man, and I -suspected him of having had my father murdered! All the bitterness of -life filled my heart with a rush. Did my stepfather perceive, by my -silence and my face, that his gay talk was torturing me? Was he weary of -his own effort? He suddenly left off talking, and as we had reached a -forsaken corner of the Bois, we got out of the carriage to walk a -little. How strongly present to my mind is that by-path, a gray line -between the poor spare grass and the bare trees, the cold winter sky, -the wide road at a little distance with the carriage advancing slowly, -drawn by the bay horse, shaking its head and its bit, and driven by a -wooden-faced coachman--then, the man. He walked by my side, a tall -figure in a long overcoat. The collar of dark brown fur brought out the -premature whiteness of his hair. He held a cane in his gloved hand, and -struck away the pebbles with it impatiently. Why does his image return -to me at this hour with an unendurable exactness? It is because, as I -observed him walking along the wintry road, with his head bent forward, -I was struck as I had never been before with the sense of his absolute -unremitting wretchedness. Was this due to the influence of our -conversation of that afternoon, to the dejection which his sneering, -sniggering talk had produced in me, or to the death of nature all around -us? For the first time since I knew him, a pang of pity mingled with my -hatred of him, while he walked by my side, trying to warm himself in the -pale sunshine, a shrunken, weary, lamentable creature. Suddenly he -turned his face, which was contracted with pain, to me, and said: - -"I do not feel well. Let us go home." When we were in the carriage, he -said, putting his sudden seizure upon the pretext of his health: - -"I have not long to live, and I suffer so much that I should have made -an end of it all years ago, had it not been for your mother." Then he -went on talking of her with the blindness that I had already remarked in -him. Never, in my most hostile hours, had I doubted that his worship of -his wife was perfectly sincere, and once again I listened to him, as we -drove rapidly into Paris in the gathering twilight, and all that he said -proved how much he loved her. Alas! his passion rated her more highly -than my tenderness. He praised the exquisite tact with which my mother -discerned the things of the heart, to me, who knew so well her want of -feeling! He lauded the keenness of her intelligence to me, whom she had -so little understood! And he added, he who had so largely contributed to -our separation: - -"Love her dearly, you will soon be the only one to love her." - -If he were the criminal I believed him to be, he was certainly aware -that in thus placing my mother between himself and me, he was putting in -my way the only barrier which I could never, never break down, and I on -my side understood clearly, and with bitterness of soul, that the -obstacles so placed would be stronger than even the most fatal -certainty. What, then, was the good of seeking any further? Why not -renounce my useless quest at once? But it was already too late. - - - - -XIII - - -Have I been a coward? When I think of what I have accomplished with the -same hand that holds my pen, I am forced to answer: "No." How then shall -I explain that these first scenes, that in which I had tried to torture -my stepfather by talking to him of crimes committed by confederates, and -the danger of complicity; that in which I said to him as I sat by his -bedside and looked him full in the face: "No, M. Massol has not -forgotten you;" that in my room, when I placed the accusing letters in -his hands;--yes, how shall I explain that these three scenes were -succeeded by so many days of inaction? The proof that lies to one's -hand, that stares one in the face like a living thing, was furnished to -me by chance. It was not I who dragged it out of the darkness where it -lurked into the light. But was this my fault? From the moment when my -stepfather had the courage to resist my first attack, the most sudden -and unexpected of the three, what was there for me to do beyond watching -for the slightest indications, and probing the deepest recesses of his -character? I recurred to my first course of reasoning: since material -proofs were not to be had, let me at least collect all the moral reasons -that existed for believing more or believing less in the probability of -the complicated crime of which I accused the man in my thoughts. To do -this I had to depart from my usual custom, and live much at my mother's -house. Our association was necessarily an intolerable torment to M. -Termonde and to myself. How did he endure me, feeling himself suspected -in this way? How did I bear his presence, suspecting him as I did? Ah, -well, it was like a serpent's tooth at my heart when I saw him by my -mother's side, in all the security of love and luxury, loving his wife, -beloved by her, respected by all, and when I said to myself: - -"And yet, this man is an assassin, a base, cowardly assassin." - -Then I saw him, in my mind's eye, as he ought to have been, approaching -the scaffold in the dawn, livid, with cropped hair, and bound hands, -with the agony of expiation in his eyes, and in front of him the -guillotine, black against the pale sky. Instead of this, it was: "Are -you in any pain, dearest? At what hour do you want the carriage, -Jacques? Mind you wrap yourself up well. Whom shall we ask to dinner on -Wednesday?" It was on Wednesday they received their friends that winter -and until the spring. Thus spoke the soft voice of my mother, and the -evidence of their perfect union tortured me; but the thirst to know was -stronger and fiercer than that pain. My suspicions rose to fever heat, -and produced in me an irresistible craving to keep him always under my -eyes, to inflict the torment of my constant presence upon him. He -yielded to this with a facility which always surprised me. Had he -sensations analogous to mine? Now, when the whole mystery is unveiled, -and I know the part he took in the horrible plot, I understand the -torturing kind of attraction which I had for him. He was wholly -possessed by the fixed idea of his accomplished crime, and I formed a -living portion of that fixed idea, just as he formed a living portion of -my dark and continuous reflections. Henceforth he could think only of -me, just as I could think of none but him. Our mutual hate drew us -together like a mutual love. When we were apart the tempest of wild -fancies broke out with too great fury. At least, this was so in my case; -and although his presence was painful to me, it stilled at the same time -the kind of internal hurricane which hurled me from one extremity of the -possible to the other, when he was out of my sight. No sooner was I -alone than the wildest projects suggested themselves to me. I had a -vision of myself, seizing him by the throat, with the cry of "Assassin! -assassin!" and forcing him to confession by violence. I fancied myself -inducing M. Massol to resume the abandoned _Instruction_ on my account, -and pictured his coming to my mother's house with the new data supplied -by me. I fancied myself bribing two or three rascals, carrying off my -stepfather and shutting him up in some lonely house in the suburbs of -Paris, until he should have confessed the crime. My reason staggered -under these vagaries into which the excess of my desire, still further -stimulated by the sense of my powerlessness, drove me. And he too must -have lived through hours like these; when I was not there, he must have -formed and renounced a hundred plans. He asked of himself, "What does he -know?" he answered, according to the hours, "He knows all--he knows -nothing. What will he do?" and concluded, by turns, either that I would -do all, or that I would do nothing. But, when we were together, face to -face, the reality asserted itself, and put fancy to flight. We remained -together, studying each other, like two animals about to attack each -other presently; but each of us was perfectly aware of how it was with -the other. He could not fully manifest his distrust, nor I my -suspicions, we merely made it evident to one another that we had not -advanced one step since our first conversation on my return from -Compiègne. And, on my part, the evidence of this, while it discouraged -me, somewhat tranquillised; it eased my conscience of the reproach of -inaction. I did nothing, true; but what could I do? - -Until the month of May of that year, 1879, I lived this strange life, -seeing my stepfather almost every day; a prey, when he was not there, to -the torments of my fancy, and when he was there suffering agonies from -his presence. My field of action was restricted to the closest study of -his character, and I devoted myself to the anatomy of his moral being -with ardent curiosity, which was sometimes gratified and sometimes -defeated, in proportion as I caught certain significant points, or -failed to catch them. I observed the least of these, purposely, for they -were more involuntary, less likely to deceive, and more useful in aiding -my search into the innermost recesses of his nature. We rode in the -Bois, in the morning, several times a week, and, contrary to our usual -custom, together. He came for me, or met me, without having made any -appointment: we were drawn towards each other by the force of our common -obsession. While we were riding side by side, talking of indifferent -matters, I observed him handling his horse so roughly that several times -he narrowly escaped being thrown, although he was a good horseman. He -preferred restive horses, and displayed a cold ferocity in his treatment -of the animals. What he did with his horses, unjust, despotic, and -implacable as he was, I thought within myself he had done with life, -bending all things and all persons about him to his will. He was -excessively vindictive, to the point indeed of asserting that he did not -attach any meaning to the word "forgiveness," and he had made for -himself a place apart in the world, being little liked, much feared, and -yet received by the most exclusive section of society. Under the perfect -elegance and correct style of his exterior, he hid the daring courage -which had been proved during the war, when he had fought with great -gallantry under the walls of Paris. From his bearing on horseback, I -arrived at far other conclusions; his innate violence convinced me that -he was capable of anything to gratify his passions. In the courage which -he displayed in 1870, I thought I could discern a kind of bargain made -with himself, a rehabilitation of himself in his own eyes, if indeed he -had committed the crime. Again, I wondered whether it was merely an -outcome of his innate ferocity, only a vent for the pent-up despair in -which he lived, for all his outside show of happiness. But whence this -despair? Was it only the moral effect of his bad health? Then, as I rode -by his side, I set myself to examine the physiology of the man, -searching for a correspondence between the construction of his frame, -and the signs and tokens given in specialist books upon the subject, as -those which indicate criminals; the upper part of his body was too heavy -for his legs, his arms were too strongly developed, the expression of -the lower jaw was hard, and his thumb too long. The latter peculiarity -assumed additional importance to my mind from the fact that my -stepfather had a habit of closing his hand with the thumb inwards as -though to hide it. I was well aware that I must not set any real store -by observations of this kind; I rejected them as puerile, but I returned -to them again, in order to supplement them by others which gave value -and importance to the former. - -I reflected deeply upon the hereditary probabilities of M. Termonde's -character, during our rides in the Bois. His maternal grandfather had -shot himself with a pistol; his own brother had drowned himself, after -having dissipated hip fortune, taken service in the army, and deserted -under disgraceful circumstances. There were tragic elements in the -family history. How often as we rode together, boot almost touching -boot, have I turned those mad, sad, bad fancies in my head, and worse -ones still! - -We would return, and sometimes I would go in to breakfast with my -mother, or call at her hotel after my solitary meal taken in my little -dining-room in the Avenue Montaigne. M. Termonde and I were very rarely -alone together during my visits to the hotel on the Boulevard -Latour-Marbourg. What did it matter to me now? If he was the criminal -whom I was bent on running down, he was forewarned; I had no longer any -chance of wresting his secret from him by surprise. I much preferred to -study him while he was talking, and in the course of his conversation -with one person or another, in my presence, I learned how perfect was -his self-control. In my childhood and my early youth, I had hated that -power of mastering himself completely, which he possessed to a supreme -degree, while I was so foolish, so helpless a victim to my nervous -sensibility, so incapable of the cold-bloodedness that hides violent -emotion with the mask of calmness. Now, it gave me a sort of pleasure to -contemplate the depth of his hypocrisy. He had such an inveterate habit -of dissimulation, such a mania for it, indeed, that he kept silence -respecting the smallest events of his life, even to his wife. He never -spoke of the visits he made, the people he met, the plans he formed, or -the books he read. He had evidently trained himself to forecast the most -remote consequences of every sentence that he uttered. This unremitting -watch kept upon himself in a life apparently so easy, prosperous, and -happy, could not fail to impress even the least observant people with an -idea that the man was an enigmatical personage. On putting together the -various pieces of his strange character and connecting his dissimulation -with the passionate frenzy which I had observed in him, he appeared to -me in the light of an infinitely dangerous being. He asked a great many -questions, and he spoke very deliberately, very temperately, unless he -were in a certain singular mood like that in which he had intoxicated -himself with his own words, on the occasion of our drive in his coupé. -Then he would talk on and on, with a nervous, sneering laugh, and give -utterance to theories so cynical, and to ideas and conceits so peculiar -that the whole thing made me shudder. He had, for instance, an -extraordinary knowledge of all questions relating to medical -jurisprudence. A case, which made a great sensation, was tried during -that winter, and in the course of an animated discussion in which -several persons took part, my stepfather chanced to mention the date of -the arrest of the notorious criminal Conty de la Pommerais. I verified -the statement; it was correct. How strangely full of things connected -with crime his mind must have been, and how strongly this bore upon -certain data, for which I was indebted to my interviews with M. Massol! -For, was it not an instance of the all-absorbing, single thought which -the old judge declared he had discerned in the great majority of -murderers, that which leads them to return to the scene of murder, to -approach the body of their victim when it is exposed in a public place, -to read every line of the newspapers, in which details of their crimes -are to be found, to follow the record of deeds similar to their own with -eager attention? At other times, my stepfather fell into a deep silence -from which it was impossible to rouse him, and he smoked cigar after -cigar while the silent mood was upon him, notwithstanding the reiterated -prohibition of the doctors. Tobacco by day, morphine by night--what -suffering was it he tried to baffle by such an abuse of narcotics? Was -it the pain of his malady, or torture of another kind, such as I -imagined when I gave myself up to my tragic conjectures? Again, he had -intervals of lassitude so great that even my presence could not rouse -him--the lassitude of a man who has reached the limit of what he can -suffer, and who can feel no more, because he has felt too much. I found -him in this condition two or three times, alone in the twilight, so -utterly sunk in weariness that he took no notice of me when I seated -myself opposite to him and gazed at him, also in silence. I was tempted -to cry out to him: "Confess, confess, confess at once!" And I should not -have been surprised had he surrendered, allowed his secret to escape -him, and answered: "It is true." On these occasions I felt the inanity -of the small facts I had so carefully collected. What if he were not -guilty? I kept silence, a prey to the fever of doubt which had been -devouring me for weeks, and at last he emerged from his taciturnity to -talk to me of my mother. Why? Was he thinking of her so intently just -then because he was very ill and believed that he was on the eve of an -eternal parting? Or was he merely striving to defend himself against me -with that buckler before which I always must retreat? Was this a -supplication to me to spare her a supreme grief? Yes; the latter was the -true explanation. With his inborn courage and his natural violence, he -would not have endured the outrage of my steady immovable gaze, the -menacing allusions I frequently made, the continuous threat of my -presence, but for his desire to spare my mother a scene between us, at -any cost, although he might be ever so sure that no solidly certain -proof could spring up accidentally in the course of it. But--rather than -be accused of this thing in her presence--he preferred to suffer as he -was suffering. For he loved her. However intolerable that sentiment -might appear to me, it was indispensable that I should admit it, even in -the hypothesis of the crime, in that case above all indeed. And then I -knew that notwithstanding our mutual enmity we felt ourselves obliged to -act in common so as not to endanger the happiness of the being who was -so dear to both of us. Nevertheless, the difference between us was -great. He might have a feeling of sullen jealousy because of my -attachment to my mother, but it could not give him the shudder of horror -that passed over me with the thought that he loved her as much as I did, -and was beloved by her, and yet had my father's blood upon his -conscience! - -He loved her! It was for her that he had bought the assassin's hand, and -caused that blood to be shed, and it was she who brought him to -destruction at last, she who moved about between us with the same look -of happy tenderness she had cast upon us both, on the evening when she -found me by her ailing husband's bedside, and when her smile had beamed -so softly upon him and me--the very same smile! The efforts he made to -preserve the tranquillity of that woman's heart of hers were destined to -destroy him. Yes, all the precautions he had taken with a view to -warding off eventualities which he thought possible, were the cause of -his ultimate ruin, from the cunning disclosures he made to the gentle -unsuspecting creature, even to the false affection which he pretended -for me in her presence. If he and I had not made a pretence of mutual -regard, she would never have spoken to me as she did speak, I should -never have learned from her what I did learn, with the result that the -silent duel in which my useless energies were being exhausted was -brought to a sudden end. Is there then an overruling fate, as certain -men have believed, ay, even those who, like Bonaparte, have striven most -vigorously with stern realities? What I gather from the contemplation of -my life, from beyond the accomplished events of it, is that there is a -logical law of situation and character, which develops all the -consequences of our actions even to their end, so inexorably that the -very success of our criminal projects contains that which will crush us -some day. When I think this out for a little while, remembering how it -was she, the woman whom he so loved, who put the effectual clue for -which I had ceased to hope into my hand, and that it led to the -certainty from which there was no drawing back, a vertigo of terror -seizes upon me, as though the awful breath of destiny swept over my -brow. Yes, I am terrified, because I too have blood upon my hands; but -at the same time it comforts me because I can say to myself that I have -but been the instrument of an inevitable deed, the necessary slave of an -invisible master. Poor mother! If you had known? You also were the -deadly weapon in the hand of fate, blind, like the knife that kills and -knows it not. Whereas I--I have seen, I have known, I have willed. Ah! -Until now I have been strong enough to keep the compact made with -myself, that I would confess my story simply, detail by detail, passing -no judgment on myself. And now, as the scene approaches which determined -the new and last period of the drama of my life, my spirit shrinks. -Coward! Once more I yield to a kind of stupefaction at the thought that -it is really my own story I am setting down, that thus I acted, that -there is in my memory----No, I have pledged my word; I will go on. Yes, -with this hand that holds my pen I have done the deed. Yes, I have -blood, blood, an indelible stain upon these fingers. They falter, but -they must needs obey me and write out the story to its end. - - - - -XIV - - -At the beginning of the summer, six months after my aunt's death, I was -in exactly the same position with respect to my stepfather as on that -already distant day when, maddened with suspicion by my father's -letters, I entered his study, to play the part of the physician who -examines a man's body, searching with his finger for the tender spot -that is probably a symptom of a hidden abscess. I was full of intuitions -now, just as I was at the moment when he passed me in his carriage with -his terrible face, but I did not grasp a single certainty. Would I have -persisted in a struggle in which I felt beforehand that I must be -beaten? I cannot tell; for, when I no longer expected any solution to -the problem set before me for my grief, a grief, too, that was both -sterile and mortal, a day came on which I had a conversation with my -mother so startling and appalling that to this hour my heart stands -still when I think of it. I have spoken of never-to-be-forgotten dates; -among them is the 25th of May, 1879. - -My stepfather, who was on the eve of his departure for Vichy, had just -had a severe attack of liver complaint, the first since his illness -after our terrible conversation in the month of January. I know that I -counted for nothing--at least in any direct or positive way--in this -acute revival of his malady. The fight between us, which went on without -the utterance of a word on either side, and with no witnesses except -ourselves, had not been marked by any fresh episode; I therefore -attributed this complication to the natural development of the disease -under which he laboured. I can exactly recall what I was thinking of on -the 25th of May, at five o'clock in the evening, as I walked up the -stairs in the hotel on the Boulevard de Latour-Marbourg. I hoped to -learn that my stepfather was better, because I had been witnessing my -mother's distress for a whole week, and also--I must tell all--because -to know he was going to this watering-place was a great relief to me, on -account of the separation it would bring about. I was so tired of my -unprofitable pain! My wretched nerves were in such a state of tension -that the slightest disagreeable impression became a torment. I could not -sleep without the aid of narcotics, and such sleep as these procured was -full of cruel dreams in which I walked by my father's side, while -knowing and feeling that he was dead. One particular nightmare used to -recur so regularly that it rendered my dread of the night almost -unbearable. I stood in a street crowded with people, and was looking -into a shop window; on a sudden I heard a man's step approaching, that -of M. Termonde. I did not see him, and yet I was certain it was he. I -tried to move on, but my feet were leaden; to turn my head, but my neck -was immovable. The step drew nearer, my enemy was behind me, I heard his -breathing, and knew that he was about to strike me. He passed his arm -over my shoulder. I saw his hand, it grasped a knife, and sought for the -spot where my heart lay; then it drove the blade in, slowly, slowly, and -I awoke in unspeakable agony. So often had this nightmare recurred -within a few weeks, that I had taken to counting the days until my -stepfather's departure, which had been at first fixed for the 21st, and -then put off until he should be stronger. I hoped that when he was -absent I should be at rest at least for a time. I had not the courage to -go away myself, attracted as I was every day by that presence which I -hated, and yet sought with feverish eagerness; but I secretly rejoiced -that the obstacle was of his raising, that his absence gave me -breathing-time, without my being obliged to reproach myself with -weakness. Such were my reflections as I mounted the wooden staircase, -covered with a red carpet, and lighted by stained-glass windows, that -led to my mother's favourite hall. The servant who opened the door -informed me in answer to my question that my stepfather was better, and -I entered the room with which my saddest recollections were connected, -more cheerfully than usual. Little did I think that the dial hung upon -one of the walls was ticking off in minutes one of the most solemn hours -of my life! My mother was seated before a small writing-table, placed in -a corner of the deep glazed projection which formed the garden-end of -the hall. Her left hand supported her head, and in the right, instead of -going on with the letter she had begun to write, she held her idle pen, -in a golden holder with a fine pearl set in the top of it (the latter -small detail was itself a revelation of her luxurious habits). She was -so lost in reverie that she did not hear me enter the room, and I looked -at her for some time without moving, startled by the expression of -misery in her refined and lovely face. What dark thought was it that -closed her mouth, furrowed her brow, and transformed her features? The -alteration in her looks and the evident absorption of her mind -contrasted so strongly with the habitual serenity of her countenance -that it at once alarmed me. But, what was the matter? Her husband was -better; why, then, should the anxiety of the last few days have -developed into this acute trouble? Did she suspect what had been going -on close to her, in her own house, for months past? Had M. Termonde made -up his mind to complain to her, in order to procure the cessation of the -torture inflicted upon him by my assiduity? No. If he had divined my -meaning from the very first day, as I thought he had, unless he were -sure he could not have said to her: "André suspects me of having had -his father killed." Or had the doctor discerned dangerous symptoms -behind this seeming improvement in the invalid? Was my stepfather in -danger of death? At the idea, my first feeling was joy, my second was -rage--joy that he should disappear from my life, and for ever; rage that -being guilty he should die without having felt my full vengeance. -Beneath all my hesitation, my scruples, my doubts, there lurked that -savage appetite for revenge which I had allowed to grow up in me, -revenge that is not satisfied with the death of the hated object unless -it be caused by one's self. I thirsted for revenge as a dog thirsts for -water after running in the sun on a summer day. I wanted to roll myself -in it, as the dog in question rolls himself in the water when he comes -to it, were it the sludge of a swamp. I continued to gaze at my mother -without moving. Presently she heaved a deep sigh and said aloud: "Oh, -me, oh, me! what misery it is!" Then lifting up her tear-stained face, -she saw me, and uttered a cry of surprise. I hastened towards her. - -"You are in trouble, mother," I said. "What ails you?" - -Dread of her answer made my voice falter; I knelt down before her as I -used to do when a child, and, taking both her hands, I covered them with -kisses. Again, at this solemn hour, my lips were met by that golden -wedding-ring which I hated like a living person; yet the feeling did not -hinder me from speaking to her almost childishly. "Ah," I said, "you -have troubles, and to whom should you tell them if not to me? Where will -you find any one to love you more? Be good to me," I went on; "do you -not feel how dear you are to me?" She bent her head twice, made a sign -that she could not speak, and burst into painful sobs. - -"Has your trouble anything to do with me?" I asked. - -She shook her head as an emphatic negative, and then said in a half -stifled voice, while she smoothed my hair with her hands, as she used to -do in the old times: - -"You are very nice to me, my André." - -How simple those few words were, and yet they caught my heart and -gripped it as a hand might do. How had I longed for some of those little -words which she had never uttered, some of those gracious phrases which -are like the gestures of the mind, some of her involuntary tender -caresses. Now I had what I had so earnestly desired, but at what a -moment and by what means! It was, nevertheless, very sweet to feel that -she loved me. I told her so, employing words which scorched my lips, so -that I might be kind to her. - -"Is our dear invalid worse?" - -"No, he is better. He is resting now," she answered, pointing in the -direction of my stepfather's room. - -"Mother, speak to me," I urged, "trust yourself to me; let me grieve -with you, perhaps I may help you. It is so cruel for me that I must take -you by surprise in order to see your tears." - -I went on, pressing her by my questions and my complaining. What then -did I hope to tear from those lips which quivered but yet kept silence? -At any price I would know; I was in no state to endure fresh mysteries, -and I was certain that my stepfather was somehow concerned in this -inexplicable trouble, for it was only he and I who so deeply moved that -woman's heart of hers. She was not thus troubled on account of me, she -had just told me so; the cause of her grief must have reference to him, -and it was not his health. Had she too made any discovery? Had the -terrible suspicion crossed her mind also? At the mere idea a burning -fever seized upon me; I insisted and insisted again. I felt that she was -yielding, if it were only by the leaning of her head towards me, the -passing of her trembling hand over my hair, and the quickening of her -breath. - -"If I were sure," said she at length, "that this secret would die with -you and me." - -"Oh! mother!" I exclaimed, in so reproachful a tone that the blood flew -to her cheeks. Perhaps this little betrayal of shame decided her, she -pressed a lingering kiss on my forehead, as though she would have -effaced the frown which her unjust distrust had set there. - -"Forgive me, my André," she said, "I was wrong. In whom should I trust, -to whom confide this thing, except to you? From whom ask counsel?" And -then she went on as though she were speaking to herself, "If he were -ever to apply to him?" - -"He! Whom?" - -"André, will you swear to me by your love for me, that you will never, -you understand me, never, make the least allusion to what I am going to -tell you?" - -"Mother!" I replied, in the same tone of reproach, and then added at -once, to draw her on, "I give you my word of honour!" - -"Nor----" she did not pronounce a name, but she pointed anew to the door -of the sick man's room. - -"Never." - -"You have heard of Edmond Termonde, his brother?" Her voice was lowered, -as though she were afraid of the words she uttered, and now her eyes -only were turned towards the closed door, indicating that she meant the -brother of her husband. I had a vague knowledge of the story; it was of -this brother I had thought when I was reviewing the mental history of my -stepfather's family. I knew that Edmond Termonde had dissipated his -share of the family fortune, no less than 1,200,000 francs, in a few -years; that he had then enlisted, that he had gone on leading a -debauched life in his regiment; that, having no money to come into from -any quarter, and after a heavy loss at cards, he had been tempted into -committing both theft and forgery. Then, finding himself on the brink of -being detected, he had deserted. The end was that he did justice on -himself by drowning himself in the Seine, after he had implored his -brother's forgiveness in terms which proved that some sense of moral -decency still lingered in him. The stolen money was made good by my -stepfather; the scandal was hushed up, thanks to the scoundrel's -disappearance. I had reconstructed the whole story in my mind from the -gossip of my good old nurse, and also from certain traces of it which I -had found in some passages of my father's correspondence. Thus, when my -mother put her question to me in so agitated a way, I supposed she was -about to tell me of family grievances on the part of her husband which -were totally indifferent to me, and it was with a feeling of -disappointment that I asked her: - -"Edmond Termonde? The man who killed himself?" - -She bent her head to answer, yes, to the first part of my question; -then, in a still lower voice, she said: - -"He did not kill himself, he is still alive." - -"He is still alive," I repeated, mechanically, and without a notion of -what could be the relation between the existence of this brother and the -tears which I had seen her shed. - -"Now you know the secret of my sorrow," she resumed, in a firmer, almost -a relieved tone. "This infamous brother is the tormentor of my Jacques; -he puts him to death daily by the agonies which he inflicts upon him. -No; the suicide never took place. Such men as he have not the courage to -kill themselves. Jacques dictated that letter to save him from penal -servitude after he had arranged everything for his flight, and given him -the wherewithal to lead a new life, if he would have done so. My poor -love, he hoped at least to save the integrity of his name out of all the -terrible wreck. Edmond had, of course, to renounce the name of Termonde, -to escape pursuit, and he went to America. There he lived--as he had -lived here. The money he took with him was soon exhausted, and again he -had recourse to his brother. Ah! the wretch knew well that Jacques had -made all these sacrifices to the honour of his name, and when my husband -refused him the money he demanded, he made use of the weapon which he -knew would avail. Then began the vilest persecution, the most atrocious -levying of blackmail. Edmond threatened to return to France; between -going to the galleys here or starving in America, he said, he preferred -the galleys here, and Jacques yielded the first time--he loved him, -after all, he was his only brother. You know when you have once shown -weakness in dealing with people of this sort you are lost. The threat to -return had succeeded, and the other has since used it to extort sums of -which you have no idea. This abominable persecution has been going on -for years, but I have only been aware of it since the war. I saw that my -husband was utterly miserable about something; I knew that a hidden -trouble was preying on him, and then, one day, he told me all. Would you -believe it? It was for me that he was afraid. 'What can he possibly do -to me?' I asked my Jacques. 'Ah,' he said, 'he is capable of anything -for the sake of revenge.' And then he saw me so overwhelmed by distress -at his fits of melancholy, and I so earnestly entreated him, that at -length he made a stand. He positively refused to give any more money. We -have not heard of the wretch for some time--he has kept his -word--André, he is in Paris!" - -I had listened to my mother with growing attention. At any period of my -life, I, who had not the same notions of my stepfather's sensitiveness -of feeling which my dear mother entertained, would have been astonished -at the influence exercised by this disgraced brother. There are similar -pests in so many families, that it is plainly to the interest of society -to separate the various representatives of the same name from each -other. At any time I should have doubted whether M. Termonde, a bold and -violent man as I knew him to be, had yielded under the menace of a -scandal whose real importance he would have estimated quite correctly. -Then I would have explained this weakness by the recollections of his -childhood, by a promise made to his dying parents; but now, in the -actual state of my mind, full as I was of the suspicions which had been -occupying my thoughts for weeks, it was inevitable that another idea -should occur to me. And that idea grew, and grew, taking form as my -mother went on speaking. No doubt my face betrayed the dread with which -the notion inspired me, for she interrupted her narrative to ask me: - -"Are you feeling ill, André?" - -I found strength to answer, "No; I am upset by having found you in -tears. It is nothing." - -She believed me; she had just seen me overcome by her emotion; she -kissed me tenderly, and I begged her to continue. She then told me that -one day in the previous week a stranger, coming ostensibly from one of -their friends in London, had asked to see my stepfather. He was ushered -into the hall, and into her presence, and she guessed at once by the -extraordinary agitation which M. Termonde displayed that the man was -Edmond. The two brothers went into my stepfather's private room, while -my mother remained in the hall, half dead with anxiety and suspense, -every now and then hearing the angry tones of their voices, but unable -to distinguish any words. At length the brother came out, through the -hall, and looked at her as he passed by with eyes that transfixed her -with fear. - -"And the same evening," she went on, "Jacques took to his bed. Now, do -you understand my despair? Ah, it is not our name that I care for. I -wear myself out with repeating, 'What has this to do with us? How can we -be spattered by this mud?' It is his health, his precious health! The -doctor says that every violent emotion is a dose of poison to him. Ah!" -she cried, with a gesture of despair, "this man will kill him." To hear -that cry, which once again revealed to me the depth of her passion for -my stepfather, to hear it at this moment, and to think what I was -thinking! - -"You saw him?" I asked, hardly knowing what I said. - -"Have I not told you that he passed by me, there?" and, with terror -depicted in her face, she showed me the place on the carpet. - -"And you are sure that the man was his brother?" - -"Jacques told me so in the evening; but I did not require that; I should -have recognised him by the eyes. How strange it is! Those two brothers, -so different; Jacques so refined, so distinguished, so noble-minded, and -the other, a big, heavy, vulgar lout, common-looking, and a -rascal--well, they have the same look in their eyes." - -"And under what name is he in Paris?" - -"I do not know. I dare not speak of him any more. If he knew that I have -told you this, with his ideas! But then, dear, you would have heard it -at some time or other; and besides," she added with firmness, "I would -have told you long ago about this wretched secret if I had dared! You -are a man now, and you are not bound by this excessively scrupulous -fraternal affection. Advise me, André, what is to be done?" - -"I do not understand you." - -"Yes, yes. There must be some means of informing the police and having -this man arrested without its being talked of in the newspapers or -elsewhere. Jacques would not do this, because the man is his brother; -but if we were to act, you and I, on our own side? I have heard you say -that you visit M. Massol, whom we knew at the time of our great -misfortune; suppose I were to go to him and ask his advice? Ah t I must -keep my husband alive--he must be saved! I love him too much!" - -Why was I seized with a panic at the idea that she might carry out this -project, and apply to the former Judge of Instruction--I, who had not -ventured to go to his house since my aunt's death for fear he should -divine my suspicions merely by looking at me? What was it that I saw so -clearly, that made me implore her to abandon her idea in the very name -of the love she bore her husband. - -"You will not do this," I said; "you have no right to do it. He would -never forgive you, and he would have just cause; it would be betraying -him." - -"Betraying him! It would be saving him!" - -"And if his brother's arrest were to strike him a fresh blow? If you -were to see him ill, more ill than ever, on account of what you had -done?" - -I had used the only argument that could have convinced her. Strange -irony of fate! I calmed her, I persuaded her not to act--I, who had -suddenly conceived the monstrous notion that the doer of the murderous -deed, the docile instrument in my stepfather's hands, was this infamous -brother--that Edmond Termonde and Rochdale were one and the same man! - - - - -XV - - -The night which followed that conversation with my mother remains in my -memory as the most wretched I had hitherto endured; and yet how many -sleepless nights had I passed, while all the world around me slept, in -bitter conflict with a thought which held mine eyes waking and devoured -my heart! I was like a prisoner who has sounded every inch of his -dungeon--the walls, the floor, the ceiling--and who, on shaking the bars -of his window for the hundredth time, feels one of the iron rods loosen -under the pressure. He hardly dares to believe in his good fortune, and -he sits down upon the ground almost dazed by the vision of deliverance -that has dawned upon him. "I must be cool-headed now," said I to myself, -as I walked to and fro in the smoking-room, whither I had retired -without tasting the meal that was served on my return. Evening came, -then the black night; the dawn followed, and once more the full day. -Still I was there, striving to see clearly amid the cloud of -suppositions in which an event, simple in itself (only that in my state -of mind no event would have seemed simple), had wrapped me. I was too -well used to these mental tempests not to know that the only safety -consisted in clinging to the positive facts, as though to immovable -rocks. In the present instance, the positive facts reduced themselves to -two: first, I had just learned that a brother of M. Termonde, who passed -for dead, and of whom my stepfather never spoke, existed; secondly, that -this man, disgraced, proscribed, ruined, an outlaw in fact, exercised a -dictatorship of terror over his rich, honoured, and irreproachable -brother. The first of these two facts explained itself. It was quite -natural that Jacques Termonde should not dispel the legend of the -suicide, which was of his own invention, and had saved the other from -the galleys. It is never pleasant to have to own a thief, a forger, or a -deserter, for one's nearest relation; but this, after all, is only an -excessively disagreeable matter. The second fact was of a different -kind. The disproportion between the cause assigned by my stepfather and -its result in the terror from which he was suffering was too great. The -dominion which Edmond Termonde exercised over his brother was not to be -justified by the threat of his return, if that return were not to have -any other consequence than a transient scandal. My mother, who regarded -her husband as a noble-minded, high-souled, great-hearted man, might be -satisfied with the alleged reason; but not I. It occurred to me to -consult the Code of Military Justice, and I ascertained, by the 184th -clause, that a deserter cannot claim immunity from punishment until -after he has attained his forty-seventh year, so that it was most likely -Edmond Termonde was still within the reach of the law. Was it possible -that his desire to shield his brother from the punishment of the offence -of desertion should throw my stepfather into such a state of illness and -agitation? I discerned another reason for this dominion--some dark and -terrible bond of complicity between the two men. What if Jacques -Termonde had employed his brother to kill my father, and proof of the -transaction was still in the murderer's possession? No doubt his hands -would be tied so far as the magistrates were concerned; but he had it in -his power to enlighten my mother, and the mere threat of doing this -would suffice to make a loving husband tremble, and tame his fierce -pride. - -"I must be cool," I repeated, "I must be cool;" and I put all my -strength to recalling the physical and moral particulars respecting the -crime which were in my possession. It was my business now to try whether -one single point remained obscure when tested by the theory of the -identity of Rochdale with Edmond Termonde. The witnesses were agreed in -representing Rochdale as tall and stout, my mother had described Edmond -Termonde as a big, heavy man. Fifteen years lay between the assassin of -1864 and the elderly rake of 1879; but nothing prevented the two from -being identical. My mother had dwelt upon the colour of Edmond -Termonde's eyes, pale blue like those of his brother; the concierge of -the Imperial Hotel had mentioned the pale blue colour and the brightness -of Rochdale's eyes in his deposition, which I knew by heart. He had -noticed this peculiarity on account of the contrast of the eyes with the -man's bronzed complexion. Edmond Termonde had taken refuge in America -after his alleged suicide, and what had M. Massol said? I could hear him -repeat, with his well-modulated voice, and methodical movement of the -hand: "A foreigner, American or English, or, perhaps, a Frenchman -settled in America." Physical impossibility there existed none. And -moral impossibility? That was equally absent. In order to convince -myself more fully of this, I took up the history of the crime from the -moment at which my father's correspondence concerning Jacques Termonde -became explicit, that is to say, in January, 1864. - -So as to rid my judgment of every trace of personal enmity, I suppressed -the names in my thoughts, reducing the dreadful occurrence by which I -had suffered to the bareness of an abstract narrative. A man is -desperately in love with the wife of one of his intimate friends, a -woman whom he knows to be absolutely, spotlessly virtuous; he knows, he -feels, that if she were free she would love him; but that, not being -free, she will never, never be his. This man is of the temperament which -makes criminals, his passions are violent in the extreme, he has no -scruples and a despotic will; he is accustomed to see everything give -way to his desires. He perceives that his friend is growing jealous; a -little later and the house will no longer be open to him. Would not the -thought come to him--if the husband could be got rid of? And yet----? -This dream of the death of him, who forms the sole obstacle to his -happiness, troubles the man's head, it recurs once, twice, many times, -and he turns the fatal idea over and over again in his brain until he -becomes used to it. He arrives at the "If I dared," which is the -starting-point of the blackest villainies. The idea takes a precise -form; he conceives that he might have the man whom he now hates, and by -whom he feels that he is hated, killed. Has he not, far away, a wretch -of a brother, whose actual existence, to say nothing of his present -abode, is absolutely unknown? What an admirable instrument of murder he -should find in this infamous, depraved, and needy brother, whom he holds -at his beck and call by the aid in money that he sends him! And the -temptation grows and grows. An hour comes when it is stronger than all -besides, and the man, resolved to play this desperate game, summons his -brother to Paris. How? By one or two letters in which he excites the -rascal's hopes of a large sum of money to be gained, at the same time -that he imposes the condition of absolute secrecy as to his voyage. The -other accepts; he is a social failure, a bankrupt in life, he has -neither relations nor ties, he has been leading an anonymous and -haphazard existence for years. The two brothers are face to face. Up to -that point all is logical, all is in conformity with the possible stages -of a project of this order. - -I arrived at the execution of it; and I continued to reason in the same -way, impersonally. The rich brother proposes the blood-bargain to the -poor brother. He offers him money; a hundred thousand francs, two -hundred thousand, three hundred thousand. From what motive should the -scoundrel hesitate to accept the offer? Moral ideas? What is the -morality of a rake who has gone from libertinism to theft? Under the -influence of my vengeful thoughts I had read the criminal news of the -day in the journals, and the reports of criminal trials, too assiduously -for years past, not to know how a man becomes a murderer. How many cases -of stabbing, shooting, and poisoning have there not been, in which the -gain was entirely uncertain, and the conditions of danger extreme, -merely to enable the perpetrators to go, presently, and expend the -murder-money in some low haunt of depravity! Fear of the scaffold? Then -nobody would kill. Besides, debauchees, whether they stop short at vice -or roll down the descent into crime, have no foresight of the future. -Present sensation is too strong for them; its image abolishes all other -images, and absorbs all the vital forces of the temperament and the -soul. An old dying mother, children perishing of hunger, a despairing -wife; have these pictures of their deeds ever arrested drunkards, -gamblers, or profligates? No more have the tragic phantoms of the -tribunal, the prison, and the guillotine, when, thirsting for gold, they -kill to procure it. The scaffold is far off, the brothel is at the -street corner, and the being sunk in vice kills a man, just as a butcher -would kill a beast, that he may go thither, or to the tavern, or to the -low gaming-house, with a pocket full of money. This is the daily mode of -procedure in crime. Why should not the desire of a more elevated kind of -debauch possess the same wicked attraction for men who are indeed more -refined, but are quite as incapable of moral goodness as the rascally -frequenters of the lowest dens of iniquity? Ah! the thought that my -father's blood might have paid for suppers in a New York night-house was -too cruel and unendurable. I lost courage to pursue my cold, calm, -reasonable deductions, a kind of hallucination came upon me--a mental -picture of the hideous scene--and I felt my reason reel. With a great -effort I turned to the portrait of my father, gazed at it long, and -spoke to him as if he could have heard me, aloud, in abject entreaty. -"Help me, help me!" And then, I once more became strong enough to resume -the dreadful hypothesis, and to criticise it point by point. Against it -was its utter unlikelihood; it resembled nothing but the nightmare of a -diseased imagination. A brother who employs his brother as the assassin -of a man whose wife he wants to marry! Still, although the conception of -such a devilish plot belonged to the domain of the wildest fantasies, I -said to myself: "This may be so, but in the way of crime, there is no -such thing as unlikelihood. The assassin ceases to move in the habitual -grooves of social life by the mere fact that he makes up his mind to -murder." And then a score of examples of crimes committed under -circumstances as strange and exceptional as those whose greater or less -probability I was then discussing with myself, recurred to my memory. -One objection arose at once. Admitting this complicated crime to be -possible only, how came I to be the first to form a suspicion of it? Why -had not the keen, subtle, experienced old magistrate, M. Massol, looked -in that direction for an explanation of the mystery in whose presence he -confessed himself powerless? The answer came readily. M. Massol did not -think of it, that was all. The important thing is to know, not whether -the Judge of Instruction suspected the fact, or did not suspect it; but -whether the fact itself is, or is not real. Again, what indications had -reached M. Massol to put him on this scent? If he had thoroughly studied -my father's home and his domestic life, he had acquired the certainty -that my mother was a faithful wife, and a good woman. He had witnessed -her sincere grief, and he had not seen, as I had, letters written by my -father in which he acknowledged his jealousy, and revealed the passion -of his false friend. But, even supposing the judge had from the first -suspected the villainy of my future stepfather, the discovery of his -accomplice would have been the first thing to be done, since, in any -case, the presence of M. Termonde in our house at the time of the murder -was an ascertained fact. Supposing M. Massol had been led to think of -the brother who had disappeared, what then? Where were the traces of -that brother to be found? Where and how? If Edmond and Jacques had been -accomplices in the crime, would not their chief care be to contrive a -means of correspondence which should defy the vigilance of the police? -Did they not cease for a time to communicate with each other by letters? -What had they to communicate, indeed? Edmond was in possession of the -price of the murder, and Jacques was occupied in completing his conquest -of my mother's heart. I resumed my argument: all this granted again, -but, although M. Massol was ignorant of the essential factor in the -case, although he was unaware of Jacques Termonde's passion for the wife -of the murdered man, my aunt knew it well, she had in her hands -indisputable proofs of my father's suspicions, how came she not to have -thought as I was now thinking? And how did I know that she had not -thought just as I was thinking? She had been tormented by suspicions, -even she, too; she had lived and died haunted by them. The only -difference was that she had included my mother in them, being incapable -of forgiving her the sufferings of the brother whom she loved so deeply. -To act against my mother was to act against me, so she had forsworn that -idea for ever. But, if she would have acted against my mother, how could -she have gone beyond the domain of vague inductions, since she, no more -than I, could have divined my stepfather's alibi, or known of the actual -existence of Edmond Termonde? No; that I should be the first to explain -the murder of my father as I did, proved only that I had come into -possession of additional information respecting the surroundings of the -crime, and not that the conjectures drawn from it were baseless. - -Other objections presented themselves. If my stepfather had employed his -brother to commit the murder, how came he to reveal the existence of -that brother to his wife? An answer to this question was not far to -seek. If the crime had been committed under conditions of complicity, -only one proof of the fact could remain, namely, the letters written by -Jacques Termonde to Edmond, in which the former recalled the latter to -Europe and gave him instructions for his journey; these letters Edmond -had of course preserved, and it was through them, and by the threat of -showing them to my mother, that he kept a hold over his brother. To tell -his wife so much as he had told her was to forestall and neutralise this -threat, at least to a certain extent; for, if the doer of the deed -should ever resolve on revealing the common secret to the victim's -widow, now the wife of him who had inspired it, the latter would be able -to deny the authenticity of the letters, to plead the former confidence -reposed in her respecting his brother, and to point out that the -denunciation was an atrocious act of revenge achieved by a forgery. And, -besides, if indeed the crime had been committed in the manner that I -imagined, was not that revelation to my mother justified by another -reason? - -The remorseful moods by which I believed my stepfather to be tortured -were not likely to escape the observant affection of his wife; she could -not fail to know that there was a dark shadow on his life which even her -love could not dispel. Who knows but she had suffered from the worst of -all jealousy, that which is inspired by a constant thought not imparted, -a strange emotion hidden from one? And he had revealed a portion of the -truth to her so as to spare her uneasiness of that kind, and to protect -himself from questions which his conscience rendered intolerable to him. -There was then no contradiction between this half-revelation made to my -mother, and my own theory of the complicity of the two brothers. It was -also clear to me that in making that revelation he had been unable to go -beyond a certain point in urging upon her the necessity of silence -towards me--silence which would never have been broken but for her -unforeseen emotion, but for my affectionate entreaties, but for the -sudden arrival of Edmond Termonde, which had literally bewildered the -poor woman. But how was my stepfather's imprudence in refusing money to -this brother, who was at bay and ready to dare any and everything, to be -explained? This, too, I succeeded in explaining to myself. It had -happened before my aunt's death, at a period when my stepfather believed -himself to be guaranteed from all risk on my side. He believed himself -to be sheltered from justice by the statute of limitation. He was ill. -What, then, was more natural than that he should wish to recover those -papers which might become a means of levying blackmail upon his widow -after his death, and dishonouring his memory in the heart of that woman -whom he had loved--even to crime--at any price? Such a negotiation could -only be conducted in person. My stepfather would have reflected that his -brother would not fulfil his threat without making a last attempt; he -would come to Paris, and the accomplices would again be face to face -after all these years. A fresh but final offer of money would have to be -made to Edmond, the price of the relinquishment of the sole proof -whereby the mystery of the Imperial Hotel could be cleared up. In this -calculation my stepfather had omitted to forecast the chance that his -brother might come to the hotel on the Boulevard de Latour-Maubourg, -that he would be ushered into my mother's presence, and that the result -of the shock to himself--his health being already undermined by his -prolonged mental anguish--would be a fresh attack of his malady. In -events, there is always the unexpected to put to rout the skilful -calculations of the most astute and the most prudent, and when I -reflected that so much cunning, such continual watchfulness over himself -and others had all come to this--unless indeed these surmises of mine -were but fallacies of a brain disturbed by fever and the consuming -desire for vengeance--I once more felt the passage of the wind of -destiny over us all. - -However, whether reality or fancy, there they were, and I could not -remain in ignorance or in doubt. At the end of all my various arguments -for and against the probability of my new explanation of the mystery, I -arrived at a positive fact: rightly or wrongly I had conceived the -possibility of a plot in which Edmond Termonde had served as the -instrument of murder in his brother's hand. Were there only one single -chance, one against a thousand, that my father had been killed in this -way, I was bound to follow up the clue to the end, on pain of having to -despise myself as the veriest coward that lived. The time of sorrowful -dreaming was over; it was now necessary to act, and to act was to know. - -Morning dawned upon these thoughts of mine. I opened my window, I saw -the faces of the lofty houses livid in the first light of day, and I -swore solemnly to myself, in the presence of re-awakening life, that -this day should see me begin to do what I ought, and the morrow should -see me continue, and the following days should see the same, until I -could say to myself: "I am certain." I resolutely repressed the wild -feelings which had taken hold of me during the night, and I fixed my -mind upon the problem: "Does there exist any means of making sure -whether Edmond Termonde is, or is not, identical with the man who in -1864 called himself Rochdale?" For the answer to this question I had -only myself, the resources of my own intelligence, and my personal will -to rely upon. I must do myself the justice to state that not for one -minute, during all those cruel hours, was I tempted to rid myself once -for all of the difficulties of my tragic task by appealing to justice, -as I should have done had I not taken my mother's sufferings into -account. I had resolved that the terrible blow of learning that for -fifteen years she had been the wife of an assassin should never be dealt -to her by me. In order that she might always remain in ignorance of this -story of crime, it was necessary for the struggle to be strictly -confined to my stepfather and myself. And yet, I thought, what if I find -that he is guilty? At this idea, no longer vague and distant, but liable -to-day, to-morrow, at any time, to become an indisputable truth, a -terrible project presented itself to my mind. But I would not look in -that direction, I made answer to myself: "I will think of this later -on," and I forced myself to concentrate all my reflections upon the -actual day and its problem: How to verify the identity of Edmond -Termonde with the false Rochdale? To tear the secret from my stepfather -was impossible. I had vainly endeavoured for months to find the flaw in -his armour of dissimulation; I had but broken not one dagger, but twenty -against the plates of that cuirass. If I had had all the tormentors of -the Middle Ages at my service, I could not have forced his fast-shut -lips to open, or extorted an admission from his woebegone and yet -impenetrable face. There remained the other; but, in order to attack -him, I must first discover under what name he was hiding in Paris, and -where. No great effort of imagination was required to hit upon a certain -means of discovering these particulars. I had only to recall the -circumstances under which I had learned the fact of Edmond Termonde's -arrival in Paris. For some reason or other--remembrance of a guilty -complicity or fear of a scandal--my stepfather trembled with fear at the -mere idea of his brother's return. His brother had returned, and my -stepfather would undoubtedly make every effort to induce him to go away -again. He would see him, but not at the house on the Boulevard de -Latour-Maubourg, on account of my mother and the servants. I had, -therefore, a sure means of finding out where Edmond Termonde was living; -I would have his brother followed. - -There were two alternatives: either he would arrange a meeting in some -lonely place, or he would go himself to Edmond Termonde's abode. In the -latter case, I should have the information I wanted at once; in the -former, it would be sufficient to give the description of Edmond -Termonde just as I had received it from my mother, and to have him also -followed on his return from the place of meeting. The spy-system has -always seemed to me to be infamous, and even at that moment I felt all -the ignominy of setting this trap for my stepfather; but when one is -fighting, one must use the weapons that will avail. To attain my end, I -would have trodden everything under foot except my mother's grief. And -then? Supposing myself in possession of the false name of Edmond -Termonde and his address, what was I to do? I could not, in imitation of -the police, lay my hand upon him and his papers, and get off with -profuse excuses for the action when the search was finished. I remember -to have turned over twenty plans in my mind, all more or less ingenious, -and rejected them all in succession, concluding by again fixing my mind -on the bare facts. - -Supposing the man really had killed my father, it was impossible that -the scene of the murder should not be indelibly impressed upon his -memory. In his dark hours the face of the dead man, whom I resembled so -closely, must have been visible to his mind's eye. Once more I studied -the portrait at which my stepfather had hardly dared to glance, and -recalled my own words: "Do you think the likeness is sufficiently strong -for me to have the effect of a spectre upon the criminal?" Why not -utilise this resemblance? I had only to present myself suddenly before -Edmond Termonde, and call him by the name--Rochdale--to his ears its -syllables would have the sound of a funeral bell. Yes! that was the way -to do it: to go into the room he now occupied, just as my father had -gone into the room at the Imperial Hotel, and to ask for him by the name -under which my father had asked for him, showing him the very face of -his victim. If he was not guilty, I should merely have to apologise for -having knocked at his door by mistake; if he was guilty, he would be so -terrified for some minutes that his fear would amount to an avowal. It -would then be for me to avail myself of that terror to wring the whole -of his secret from him. What motives would inspire him? Two, -manifestly--the fear of punishment, and the love of money. It would then -be necessary for me to be provided with a large sum when taking him -unawares, and to let him choose between two alternatives, either that he -should sell me the letters which had enabled him to blackmail his -brother for years past, or that I should shoot him on the spot. And what -if he refused to give up the letters to me? Is it likely that a ruffian -of his kind would hesitate? Well, then, he would accept the bargain, -hand me over the papers by which my stepfather is convicted of murder, -and take himself off? And I must let him go away just as he had gone -away from the Imperial Hotel, smoking a cigar, and paid for his -treachery to his brother, even as he had been paid for his treachery to -my father! Yes, I must let him go away thus, because to kill him with my -own hand would be to place myself under the necessity of revealing the -whole of the crime, which I am bound to conceal at all hazards. "Ah, -mother! what will you not cost me!" I murmured with tears. Fixing my -eyes again upon the portrait of the dead man, it seemed to me that I -read in its eyes and mouth an injunction never to wound the heart of the -woman he had so dearly loved--even for the sake of avenging him. "I will -obey you," I made answer to my father, and bade adieu to that part of my -vengeance. It was very hard, very cruel to myself; nevertheless, it was -possible; for, after all, did I hate the wretch himself? He had struck -the blow, it is true, but only as a servile tool in the hand of another. -Ah! that other, I would not let _him_ escape, when he should be in my -grip, he who had conceived, meditated, arranged, and paid for the deed, -he who had stolen all from me, all, all, from my father's life even to -my mother's love, he, the real, the only culprit. Yes, I would lay hold -of him, and contrive and execute my vengeance, while my mother should -never suspect the existence of that duel out of which I should come -triumphant. I was intoxicated beforehand with the idea of the punishment -which I would find means to inflict upon the man whom I execrated. It -warmed my heart only to think of how this would repay my long, cruel -martyrdom. "To work! to work!" I cried aloud. I trembled lest this -should be nothing but a delusion, lest Edmond Termonde should have -already left the country, my stepfather having previously purchased his -silence. At nine o'clock I was in an abominable Private Inquiry -Office--merely to have passed its threshold would have seemed to me a -shameful action, only a few hours before. At ten, I was with my broker, -giving him instructions to sell out 100,000 francs' worth of shares for -me. That day passed, and then a second. How I bore the succession of the -hours, I know not. I do know that I had not courage to go to my mother's -house, or to see her again. I feared she might detect my wild hope in my -eyes, and unconsciously forewarn my stepfather by a sentence or a word, -as she had unconsciously informed me. Towards noon, on the third day, I -learned that my stepfather had gone out that morning. It was a -Wednesday, and on that day my mother always attended a meeting for some -charitable purpose in the Grenelle quarter. M. Termonde had changed his -cab twice, and had alighted from the second vehicle at the Grand Hotel. -There he had paid a visit to a traveller who occupied a room on the -second floor (No. 353); this person's name was entered in the list of -arrivals as Stanbury. At noon I was in possession of these particulars, -and at two o'clock I ascended the staircase of the Grand Hotel, with a -loaded revolver and a note-case containing one hundred bank-notes, -wherewith to purchase the letters, in my pocket. - -Was I about to enter on a formidable scene in the drama of my life, or -was I about to be convinced that I had been once more made the dupe of -my own imagination? - -At all events, I should have done my duty. - - - - -XVI - - -I had reached the second floor. At one corner of the long corridor there -was a notification that the numbers ran from 300 to 360. A waiter passed -me, whistling; two girls were chattering and laughing in a kind of -office at the stair-head; the various noises of the courtyard came up -through the open windows. The moment was opportune for the execution of -my project. With these people about the man could not hope to escape -from the house. 345, 350, 351 353--I stood before the door of Edmond -Termonde's room; the key was in the lock; chance had served my purpose -better than I had ventured to hope. This trifling particular bore -witness to the security in which the man whom I was about to surprise -was living. Was he even aware that I existed? I paused a moment before -the closed door. I wore a short coat, so as to have my revolver within -easy reach in the pocket, and I put my right hand upon it, opened the -door with my left, and entered without knocking. - -"Who is there?" said a man who was lying rather than sitting in an -arm-chair, with his feet on a table; he was reading a newspaper and -smoking, and his back was turned to the door. He did not trouble himself -to rise and see whose hand had opened the door; thinking, no doubt, that -a servant had come in, he merely turned his head slightly, and I did not -give him time to look completely round. - -"M. Rochdale?" I asked. - -He started to his feet, pushed away the chair, and rushed to the other -side of the table, staring at me with a terrified countenance; his light -blue eyes were unnaturally distended, his face was livid, his mouth was -half open, his logs bent under him. His tall, robust frame had sustained -one of those shocks of excessive terror which almost paralyse the forces -of life. He uttered but one word--Cornélis! - -At last I held in my victorious hand the proof that I had been seeking -for months, and in that moment I was master of all the resources of my -being. Yes, I was as calm, as clear of purpose as my adversary was the -reverse. He was not accustomed to live, like his accomplice, in the -daily habit of studied dissimulation. The name, "Rochdale," the -terrifying likeness, the unlooked--for arrival! I had not been mistaken -in my calculation. With the amazing rapidity of thought that accompanies -action I perceived the necessity of following up this first shock of -moral terror by a shock of physical terror. Otherwise, the man would -hurl himself upon me, in the moment of reaction, thrust me aside and -rush away like a madman, at the risk of being stopped on the stairs by -the servants, and then? But I had already taken out my revolver, and I -now covered the wretch with it, calling him by his real name, to prove -that I knew all about him. - -"M. Edmond Termonde," I said, "if you make one step towards me, I will -kill you, like an assassin as you are, as you killed my father." - -Pointing to a chair at the corner of the half-open window, I added: - -"Sit down!" - -He obeyed mechanically. At that instant I exercised absolute control -over him; but I felt sure this would cease so soon as he recovered his -presence of mind. But even though the rest of the interview were now to -go against me, that could not alter the certainty which I had acquired. -I had wanted to know whether Edmond Termonde was the man who had called -himself Rochdale, and I had secured undeniable proof of the fact. -Nevertheless, it was due to myself that I should extract from my enemy -the proof of the truth of all my conjectures, that proof which would -place my stepfather at my mercy. This was a fresh phase of the struggle. - -I glanced round the room in which I was shut up with the assassin. On -the bed, placed on my left, lay a loaded cane, a hat and an overcoat, on -a small table were a steel knuckle-duster and a revolver. Among the -articles laid out on a chest of drawers on my right a bowie-knife was -conspicuous, a valise was placed against an unused door, a wardrobe with -a looking-glass stood before another unused door, then came the -toilet-stand, and the man, crouching under the aim of my revolver, -between the table and the window. He could neither escape, nor reach to -any means of defence without a personal struggle with me; but he would -have to stand my fire first, and besides, if he was tall and robust, I -was neither short nor feeble. I was twenty-five, he was fifty. All the -moral forces were for me, I must win. - -"Now," said I, as I took a seat, but without releasing him from the -covering barrel of my pistol, "let us talk." - -"What do you want of me?" he asked roughly. His voice was both hoarse -and muffled; the blood had gone back into his cheeks, his eyes, those -eyes so exactly like his brother's, sparkled. The brute-nature was -reviving in him after having sustained a fearful shock, as though -astonished that it still lived. - -"Come, then," he added, clenching his fists, "I am caught. Fire on me, -and let this end." - -Then, as I made him no answer, but continued to threaten him with my -pistol, he exclaimed: - -"Ah! I understand; it is that blackguard Jacques who has sold me to you -in order to get rid of me himself. There's the statute of -limitations--he thinks he is safe! But has he told you that he was in it -himself, good, honest man, and that I have the proof of this? Ah! he -thinks I am going to let you kill me, like that, without speaking? No, -no, I shall call out, we shall be arrested, and all will be known." - -Fury had seized upon him; he was about to shout "Help!" and the worst of -it was that rage was rising in me also. It was he, with that same hand -which I saw creeping along the table, strong, hairy, seeking something -to throw at me--yes--it was he who had killed my father. One impulse -more of anger and I was lost; a bullet was lodged in his body, and I saw -his blood flow. Oh, what good it would have done me to see that sight! -But no, I had made the sacrifice of this particular vengeance. In a -second, I beheld myself arrested, obliged to explain everything, and my -mother exposed to all the misery of it. Happily for me, he also had an -interval of reflection. The first idea that must have occurred to him -was that his brother had betrayed him, by telling me one-half of the -truth, so as to deliver him up to my vengeance. The second, no doubt, -was that, for a son who came to avenge his dead father, I was making a -good deal of delay about it. There was a momentary silence between us. -This allowed me to regain my coolness, and to say: "You are mistaken," -so quietly that his amazement was visible in his face. He looked at me, -then closed his eyes, and knitted his brow. I felt that he could not -endure my resemblance to my father. - -"Yes, you are mistaken," I continued deliberately, giving the tone of a -business conversation to this terrible interview. "I have not come here -either to have you arrested, or to kill you. Unless," I added, "you -oblige me to do so yourself, as I feared just now you would oblige me. I -have come to propose a bargain to you, but it is on the condition that -you listen, as I shall speak, with coolness." - -Once more we were both silent. In the corridor, almost at the door of -the room, there were sounds of feet, voices, and peals of laughter. This -was enough to recall me to the necessity of controlling myself, and him -to the consciousness that he was playing a dangerous game. A shot, a -cry, and some one would enter the room, for it opened upon the corridor. -Edmond Termonde had heard me with extreme attention, a gleam of hope -succeeded by a singular look of suspicion had passed over his face. - -"Make your conditions," said he. - -"If I had intended to kill you," I resumed, so as to convince him of my -sincerity by the evidence of his senses, "you would be dead already." I -raised the revolver. "If I had intended to have you arrested, I would -not have taken the trouble to come here myself; two policemen would have -been sufficient, for you don't forget that you are a deserter, and still -amenable to the law." - -"True," he replied simply, and then added, following out a mental -argument which was of vital importance to the issue of our interview: - -"If it is not Jacques, then who is it that has sold me?" - -"I held you at my disposal," I continued, without noticing what he had -said, "and I have not availed myself of that. Therefore I had a strong -reason for sparing you yesterday, ere yesterday, this morning, a little -while ago, at the present moment; and it depends upon yourself whether I -spare you altogether." - -"And you want me to believe you," he answered, pointing to my revolver -which I still continued to hold in my hand, but no longer covering him -with it. "No, no," and he added--with an expression which smacked of the -barrack-room, "I don't tumble to that sort of thing." - -"Listen to me," said I, now assuming a tone of extreme contempt. "The -powerful motive which I have for not shooting you like a mad dog, you -shall learn. I do not choose that my mother should ever know what a man -she married in your brother. Do you now understand why I resolved to let -you go; provided you are of the same mind, however; for even the idea of -my mother would not stop me, if you pushed me too far. I will add, for -your guidance, that the limitation by which you supposed yourself to be -safe from pursuit for the murder in 1864 has been traversed; you are -therefore staking your head at this moment. For ten years past you have -been successfully levying blackmail on your brother. I do not suppose -you have merely played upon the chord of fraternal love. When you came -from America to assume the personality of Rochdale, it was clearly -necessary that he should send you some instructions. You have kept those -letters. I offer you one hundred thousand francs for them." - -"Sir," he replied slowly, and his tone showed me that for the moment he -had recovered his self-control, "how can you imagine that I should take -such a proposal seriously? Admitting that any such letters were ever -written, and that I had kept them, why should I give up a document of -this kind to you? What security should I have that you would not have me -laid by the heels the moment after? Ah!" he cried, looking me straight -in the face, "you know nothing! That name! That likeness! Idiot that I -am, you have tricked me." - -His face turned crimson with rage, and he uttered an oath. - -"You shall pay for this!" he cried; and at the same instant, when he was -no longer covered by my pistol, he pushed the table upon me so -violently, that if I had not sprung backwards I must have been thrown -down; but he already had time to fling himself upon me and seize me -round the body. Happily for me the violence of the attack had knocked -the pistol out of my hands, so that I could not be tempted to use it, -and a struggle began between us in which not one word was spoken by -either. With his first rush he had flung me to the ground; but I was -strong, and the strange premonitions of danger, from which I suffered in -my youth, had led me to develop all my physical energy and adroitness. I -felt his breath on my face, his skin upon my skin, his muscles striving -against mine, and at the same time the dread that our conflict might be -overheard gave me the coolness which he had lost. After a few minutes of -this tussle, and just as his strength was failing, he fastened his teeth -in my shoulder so savagely that the pain of the bite maddened me; I -wrenched one of my arms from his grasp and seized him by the throat at -the risk of choking him. I held him under me now, and I struck his head -against the floor as though I meant to smash it. He remained motionless -for a minute, and I thought I had killed him. I first picked up my -pistol, which had rolled away to the door, and then bathed his forehead -with water in order to revive him. - -When I caught sight of myself in the glass, with my coat-collar torn, my -face bruised, my cravat in rags, I shuddered as if I had seen the -spectre of another André Cornélis. The ignoble nature of this -adventure filled me with disgust; but it was not a question of -fine-gentleman fastidiousness. My enemy was coming to himself, I must -end this. I knew in my conscience I had done all that was possible to -fulfil my vow in regard to my mother. The blame must fall upon destiny. -The wretch had half-raised himself, and was looking at me; I bent over -him, and put the barrel of my revolver within a hair's breadth of his -temple. - -"There is still time," I said. "I give you five minutes to decide upon -the bargain which I proposed to you just now; the letters, and one -hundred thousand francs, with your liberty; if not, a bullet in your -head. Choose. I wished to spare you on account of my mother; but I will -not lose my vengeance both ways. I shall be arrested, your papers will -be searched, the letters will be found, it will be known that I had a -right to shoot you. My mother will go mad with grief; but I shall be -avenged. I have spoken. You have five minutes, not one more." - -No doubt my face expressed invincible resolution. The assassin looked at -that face, then at the clock. He tried to make a movement, but saw that -my finger was about to press the trigger. - -"I yield," he said. - -I ordered him to rise, and he obeyed me. - -"Where are the letters?" - -"When you have them," he implored, with the terror of a trapped beast in -his abject face, "you will let me go away?" - -"I swear it," I answered; and, as I saw doubt and dread in his quailing -eyes, I added, "by the memory of my father. Where are the letters?" - -"There." - -He pointed to a valise in a corner of the room. - -"Here is the money." - -I flung him the note-case which contained it. Is there a sort of moral -magnetism in the tone of certain words and in certain expressions of -countenance? Was it the nature of the oath which I had just taken, so -deeply impressive at that moment, or had this man sufficient strength of -mind to say to himself that his single chance of safety resided in -belief in my good faith? However that may be, he did not hesitate for a -moment; he opened the ironbound valise, took out a yellow-leather box -with a patent lock, and, having opened it, flung its contents--a large -sealed envelope--to me, exactly as I had flung the bank-notes to him. I, -too, for my part, had not a moment's fear that he would produce a weapon -from the valise and attack me while I was verifying the contents of the -envelope. These consisted of three letters only; the two first bore the -double stamp of Paris and New York, the third those of New York and -Liverpool, and all three bore the January or February postmarks of the -year 1864. - -"Is that all?" he asked. - -"Not yet," I answered; "you must undertake to leave Paris this evening -by the first train, without having seen your brother or written to him." - -"I promise; and then?" - -"When was he to come back here to see you?" - -"On Saturday," he answered, with a shrug of his shoulders. "The bargain -was concluded. He was determined to wait until the day came for me to -set out for Havre before paying me the money, so that he might make -quite sure I should not stay on in Paris.--The game is up," he added, -"and now I wash my hands of it." - -"Edmond Termonde," said I, rising, but not loosing him from the hold of -my eye, "remember that I have spared you; but you must not tempt me a -second time by putting yourself in my way, or crossing the path of any -whom I love." - -Then, with a threatening gesture, I quitted the room, leaving him seated -at the table near the window. I had hardly reached the corridor when my -nerves, which had been so strangely under my control during the -struggle, failed me. My legs bent under me, and I feared I was about to -fall. How was I to account for the disorder of my clothes? I made a -great effort, concealed the torn ends of my cravat, turned up the collar -of my coat to hide the condition of my shirt, and did my best to repair -the damage that had been done to my hat. I then wiped my face with my -handkerchief, and went downstairs with a slow and careless step. The -inspector of the first floor was, doubtless, occupied at the other end -of the corridor; but two of the waiters saw me and were evidently -surprised at my aspect. They were, however, too busy, luckily for me, to -stop me and inquire into the cause of my discomposure. At last I reached -the courtyard. If anybody who knew me had been there? I got into the -first cab and gave my address. I had kept my word. I had conquered. - - - - -XVII - - -What was I going to do with those letters of my stepfather's which I had -bought so dear, since I had paid for them by the sacrifice of one-half -of my vengeance? The letters placed him at my mercy, even as they had -held him for long years at the mercy of his brother--what was I going to -do with them? - -I began to read them in the cab on my way to the Avenue Montaigne. The -first, which was of great length, reminded Edmond of his past faults and -the hopelessness of his actual condition, and then indicated, without -entering into any particulars, a possible means of at least partially -repairing all these disasters and once more gaining a fortune. The first -condition was that the outlaw should scrupulously obey the orders of his -brother. He was to begin by announcing his departure from New York to -all his ordinary associates, and then to remove into another quarter of -the city under a new name, and wait there for the next letter. That one, -the second, made it evident that an answer from Edmond had been received -prior to its despatch, and that he had accepted the offer. By this -second letter the wretch was enjoined to go to Liverpool and to await -further instructions there. These instructions, contained in the third -letter--a mere note--were limited to an appointment at an early date, at -ten o'clock in the evening, in Paris, on the portion of the footpath of -the Rue de Jussieu which faces the Rue Guy-de-la-Brosse. At that hour, -those two streets, situated between the old Jardin des Plantes and the -buildings of the Entrepôt des Vins, are as solitary as the streets of a -country town. There was no more mention in this note than in the two -preceding letters of the plan that had been laid by Jacques Termonde, -and which was to be discussed by the brothers at their first meeting -after so many years; but, even if I had not had the false Rochdale's own -avowal, extorted by his surprise and terror, the coincidence of date -between this clandestine recall and the assassination of my father -constituted an undeniable proof. I read and re-read those accusing -pages--as I had read and re-read my father's letters written at the same -time--first in the cab, and then in the solitude of my own apartment, -and the horrible plot which had made me fatherless was fully revealed to -me with all its terrible details. - -It happened that I was well acquainted with the street in which Jacques -played the part of tempter to Edmond; Joseph Dediot, my former -schoolfellow at Versailles, had a lodging close to it in the Rue Cuvier -for some years after he and I had left school, and I used constantly to -drop in the morning or the afternoon to pass an hour or two with him, -or take him to one of the restaurants on the Quay, from whence we could -look out upon the green water of the Seine, the busy workmen on the -Quay, and the long line of boats. Often and gaily had I trodden that -pavement on which the two accomplices walked while they were keeping -their rendezvous of crime. How plainly I saw them, coming and going -between the gas lamps! I heard the sound of their footsteps, I -distinguished the voice of the man who was to be my stepfather. That -insinuating and impassioned voice uttered words fraught with -consequences to the whole of my life, words which were the death-warrant -of my father and also of my aunt; for the malady that killed her had its -origin in grief. I, myself, had suffered severely in my childhood, was -suffering cruelly at this very moment on account of the words spoken in -that place. And then there came to me an equally distinct vision of the -infamous scoundrel whose bite still made it painful for me to move my -left shoulder. I saw him arranging his disordered dress after I had left -his room, strapping his trunks, calling the waiter, asking for his bill, -paying it with one of the notes which I had flung to him, and leaving -the house. His luggage was hoisted up on the carriage, and he was driven -off in haste to a railway station--no doubt that of Le Nord, because it -is nearest to the frontier. He took the first train and departed, and -never more should I hold him at my mercy. Again rage seized upon me! He -had not yet had time to get very far away. What if I were to go to the -Prefecture de Police? My description of him would be sufficient; he -would be arrested. I had sworn to him by my father's memory that I would -let him go free. Well, what then? An oath to such a wretch! He would be -arrested; they would be arrested--and my mother? What of her? For the -first time since the suspicion of the fatal truth had dawned upon me, I -recoiled from the thought of her. At the moment my anger burned so -fiercely at the image of the escaping murderer, that I reproached -myself, as though it were a weakness, for the filial pity which had -induced me to sacrifice one-half of my vengeance to the peace of my -dearly-beloved mother. "Let her suffer," I said to myself; "let her be -punished for her unfaithfulness to the memory of the dead!" But I was -ashamed a little later of having allowed such a thought to flit across -my mind; I repelled it as a crime. To have lived with an assassin for -fifteen years, and borne his name! Ah, she never could endure such a -discovery, or I the remorse of having revealed so hideous a truth to -her. No, no, let him escape! I looked at the clock, and with each swing -of the pendulum the chances of the villain's escape were increased. What -route had he taken? Had he set out for England? A few hours more and he -would be in London, secure, hidden, and lost amid the swarming -multitudes of the great city. "Oh, mother, mother," I cried as I flung -myself upon the sofa and writhed in mental agony, "what have I not done -for you!" After a while I arose and resolutely put away the image of -Edmond Termonde, substituting that of his brother. He at least could not -escape me. If "vengeance is a dish to be eaten cold," I had full leisure -to prepare mine at my case. My stepfather could not fly as his -accomplice had done; his marriage with my mother, the successful result -of his crime, made him my prisoner. I knew where to find him always, and -should always be free to approach him and bring about the scene between -us which the execution of my design demanded. What design? What but that -which had already haunted me, that which had appeared to offer -sufficient compensation, if I did not allow one of my two enemies to -escape; the design that had taken the form in my mind of a resolution? I -uttered aloud the words, "I am going to kill him." Several times I -repeated, "I am going to kill him, I am going to kill him," with a kind -of frenzy, as though I were intoxicated. So I was, by a vision of my -mothers infamous husband, stiff, stark, dead; those, eyes whose glance I -had suffered from so long, sightless; that mouth which had proposed the -blood bargain, mute. Never would that body, whose movements I had so -detested, move again. A strange wild delight came over me, while the -vision born of my hate was before my mind's eye. "At last, at last," I -again said aloud, "I am going to kill him!" Immediately after came the -inevitable question: how? - -I had to prevent at any cost my mother's learning the truth respecting -the death of my father. I had not sacrificed my first vengeance, -allowing the wretch who actually did the deed to go free, to permit the -consequence of the second to wound the unhappy woman far more cruelly. I -had therefore to plan this second act of justice so as to secure beyond -all risk my own escape from the law. I should have to employ, in the -killing of my stepfather, all the cautious precaution that he had -employed in procuring the killing of my own father. Let me speak -plainly: I was bound to assassinate him. Yes, to assassinate him; that -is the name by which the act of killing a man who does not defend -himself is called--and things would happen thus. No matter how ingenious -the snare that I might lay for him, were I to poison him drop by drop, -to wait for him at a street corner and stab him, to fire a pistol at -him, there would be only one name for the deed. An assassination! I -myself should be an assassin. All the base infamy the word represents -was suddenly evoked in my thoughts, and for the first time I was afraid -of the vengeance I had so much desired, on which I had counted since my -childhood, as the sole and supreme reparation for all my misery. When I -became conscious of the sudden failure of my courage in presence of the -actual deed now it had become feasible, I was at first astounded. I -closed my eyes that I might collect my mind and force it in upon itself, -and I had to confess to myself: "I am afraid." Afraid of what? Afraid of -a word! For it was only a word. My vengeance, to which I had sacrificed -even the respect due to the wishes of the dying--had I not failed to -fulfil the desire of my aunt in her last moments?--now caused me a -thrill of terror, because the work that was to be done was repugnant. To -what? To the prejudices of my class and my time. I am afraid to kill; -but had I been born in Italy, in the fifteenth century, would I have -hesitated to poison my father's murderer? Would I have hesitated to -shoot him, had I been born in Corsica fifty years ago? Am I then nothing -but a civilised person, a wretched and impotent dreamer, who would fain -act, but shrinks from soiling his hands in the action? I forced myself -to contemplate the dilemma in which I stood, in its absolute, -imperative, inevitable distinctness. I must either avenge my father by -handing over his murderer to be dealt with by the law, since M. Massol -had prudently fulfilled all the formalities necessary to bar the -limitation, or I must be my own minister of justice. There was a third -alternative; that I should spare the murderous wretch, allow him to live -on in occupation of his victim's place in my mother's home, from which -he had driven me; but at the thought of this my rage revived. The -scruples of the civilised man did indeed give him pause; but that -hesitation did not hinder the savage, who slumbers in us all, from -feeling the appetite for retaliation which stirs the animal nature of -man--all his flesh, and all his blood--as hunger and thirst stir it. -"Well, then," said I to myself, "I will assassinate my stepfather, since -that is the right word. Was he afraid to assassinate my father? He -killed; he shall be killed. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth; that -is the primitive law, and all the rest is a lie." - -Evening had come while this strife was raging in my soul. I was -labouring under excitement which contrasted strangely with the calmness -I had felt a few hours previously, when ascending the stairs in the -Grand Hotel. The situation also had undergone a change; then I was -preparing for a struggle, a kind of duel; I was about to confront a man -whom I had to conquer, to attack him face to face without any treachery, -and I had not flinched. It was the mean hypocrisy of clandestine murder -that had made me shrink from the idea of killing my stepfather, by -luring him into a snare. I had controlled this trembling the first time; -but I was afraid of its coming again, and that I should have a sleepless -night, and be unfit to act next day with the cool calmness I desired. I -felt that I could not bear suspense; on the morrow I must act. The plan -on which I should decide, be it what it might, must be executed within -the twenty-four hours. The best means of calming my nerves was by making -a beginning now, at once; by doing something beforehand to guard against -suspicion. I determined upon letting myself be seen by persons who could -bear witness, if necessary, that they had seen me, careless, easy, -almost gay. I dressed and went out, intending to dine at a place where I -was known, and to pass the most of the night at the club. When I was in -the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, crowded with carriages and people on -foot--the May evening was delicious--I shared the physical sensation of -the joy of living which was abroad in the air. The sky quivered with the -innumerable throbs of the stars, and the young leaves shook at the touch -of a slow and gentle breeze. Garlands of light illumined the various -pleasure-gardens. I passed in front of a restaurant where the tables -extended to the edge of the footpath, and young men and women were -finishing their dinner gaily. The contrast between the spring-festival -aspect of Paris and the tragedy of my own destiny came home to me too -strongly. What had I done to Fate to deserve that I should be the one -only person, amid all this crowd, condemned to such an experience? Why -had my path been crossed by a man capable of pushing passion to the -point of crime, in a society in which passion is ordinarily so mild, so -harmless, and so lukewarm? Probably there did not exist in all the -"good" society of Paris four persons with daring enough to conceive such -a plan as that which Jacques Termonde had executed with such cool -deliberation under the influence of his passion. And this villain, who -could love so intensely, was my stepfather! Once more the breath of -fatality, which had already thrilled me with a kind of mysterious -horror, passed over me, and I felt that I could no longer bear the sight -of the human face. Turning my back upon the noisy quarter of the -Champs-Élysées, I walked on towards the Arc de Triomphe. Without -thinking about it I took the road to the Bois, bore to the right to -avoid the vehicles, and turned into one of the loneliest paths. Had I -unconsciously obeyed one of those almost animal impulses of memory, -which bring us back to ways that we have already trodden? By the soft, -bluish light of the spring moon I recognised the place where I had -walked with my stepfather in the winter, on the occasion of our first -drive to the Bois. It was on that day I obliged him to look the portrait -of his victim in the face, on that day he came to me on the pretext of -asking for the Review which my mother had lent me. In my thoughts I -beheld him, as he then was, and recalled the strange pity which had -stirred my head at the sight of him, so sad, broken-down, and, so to -speak, conquered. He stood before me, in the light of that remembrance, -as living and real as if he had been there, close beside me, and the -acute sensation of his existence made me feel at the same time all the -signification of those fearful and mysterious words: to kill. To kill? I -was going to kill him, in a few hours it might be, at the latest in a -few days. I heard voices, and I withdrew into the shade. Two forms -passed me, a young man and a girl, lovers, who did not see me. The -moonlight fell upon them, as they went on their way, hand in hand. I -burst into tears, and wept long, unrestrainedly; for I too was young; in -my heart there was a flood of pent-up tenderness, and here I was, on -this perfumed, moonlit, starlit night, crouching in a dark corner, -meditating murder! - -No, not murder, an execution. Has my stepfather deserved death? Yes. Is -the executioner who lets down the knife on the neck of the condemned -criminal to be called an assassin? No! Well, then I shall be the -executioner and nothing else. I rose from the bench where I had shed my -last tears of irresolution and cowardice--for thus I regarded those hot -tears to which I now appeal, as a last proof that I was not born for -what I have done. - -While walking back to Paris, I multiplied and reiterated my arguments. -Sometimes I succeeded in silencing a voice within me, stronger than my -reasoning and my longing for vengeance, a voice which pronounced the -words formerly uttered by my aunt: "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord -God." And if there be no God? And if there be, is not the fault His, for -He has let this thing be? Yes, such were my wild words and thoughts; and -then all these scruples of my conscience appeared to me--mere vain -futile quibbles, fitting for philosophers and confessors. There remained -one indisputable, absolute fact: I could not endure that the murderer of -my father should continue to be the husband of my mother. There was a -second no less evident fact: I could not place this man in the hands of -justice without, probably, killing my mother on the spot, or, quite -certainly, laying her whole life waste. Therefore I would have to be my -own tribunal, judge, and executioner in my own cause. What mattered to -me the arguments for or against? I was bound to give heed first to my -filial instinct, and it cried out to me "Kill!" - -I walked fast, keeping my mind fixed on this idea with a kind of tragic -pleasure, for I felt that my irresolution was gone, and that I should -act. All of a sudden, as I came close to the Arc de Triomphe, I -remembered how, on that very spot, I had met one of my club companions -for the last time. He shot himself the next day. Why did this -remembrance suddenly suggest to me a series of new thoughts? I stopped -short with a beating heart. I had caught a glimpse of the way of safety. -Fool that I had been, led away as usual by an undisciplined imagination! -My stepfather should die. I had sentenced him in the name of my -inalienable right as an avenging son; but could I not condemn him to die -by his own hand? Had I not that in my possession which would drive him -to suicide? If I went to him without any more reserves or -circumlocution, and if I said to him, "I hold the proof that you are the -murderer of my father. I give you the choice--either you will kill -yourself, or I denounce you to my mother," what would his answer be? He, -who loved his wife with that reciprocated devotion by which I had -suffered so much, would he consent that she should know the truth, that -she should regard him as a base, cowardly assassin? No, never; he would -rather die. My heart, weary and worn with pain, rushed towards this door -of hope, so suddenly opened. "I shall have done my duty," I thought, -"and I shall have no blood on my hands. My conscience will not be -stained." I experienced an immense relief from the weight of foreseen -remorse that had caused me such agony, and I went on drawing a picture -of the future, freed at last from one dark image which had veiled the -sunshine of my youth. "He will kill himself; my mother will weep for -him; but I shall be able to dry her tears. Her heart will bleed, but I -will heal the wound with the balm of my tenderness. When the assassin is -no longer there, she and I will live over again all the dear time that -he stole from us, and then I shall be able to show her how I love her. -The caresses which I did not give her when I was a child, because the -other froze me by his mere presence, I will give her then; the words -which I did not speak, the tender words that were stopped upon my lips, -she shall hear then. We will leave Paris, and get rid of these sad -remembrances. We will retire to some quiet spot, far, far away, where -she will have none but me, I none but her, and I will devote myself to -her old age. What do I want with any other love, with any other tie? -Suffering softens the heart; her grief will make her love me more. Ah! -how happy we shall be." But once more the voice within resumed: "What if -the wretch refuse to kill himself? What if he were not to believe me -when I threaten to denounce him?" Had I not been acting for months as -his accomplice in maintaining the deceit practised upon my mother? Did -he not know how much I loved her, he who had been jealous of me as her -son, as I had been jealous of him as her husband? Would he not answer: -"Denounce me!" being well assured that I would not deal such a blow at -the poor woman? To these objections I replied, that, whereas I had -suspected previously, now I knew. No, he will not be entirely convinced -that the evidence I hold will make me dare everything. Well then, if he -refuse, I shall have attempted the impossible to avoid murder--let -destiny be accomplished! - - - - -XVIII - - -It was four o'clock in the afternoon on the following day, when I -presented myself at the hotel on the Boulevard de Latour-Maubourg. I -knew that my mother would most probably be out. I also thought it likely -my stepfather would be feeling none the better of his early excursion to -the Grand Hotel on the previous day, and I therefore hoped to find him -at home, perhaps in his bed. I was right; my mother was out, and he had -remained at home. He was in his study, the room in which our first -explanation had taken place. That upon which I was now bent was of far -greater importance, and yet I was less agitated than on the former -occasion. At last I was completely certain of the facts, and with that -certainty a strange calmness had come to me. I can recall my having -talked for a few moments with the servant who announced me, about a -child of his who was ill. I also remember to have observed for the first -time that the smoky chimney of some manufacturing works at the back of -the garden, built, no doubt, during the last winter, was visible through -the window of the staircase. I record these things because I am bound to -recognise that my mind was quite clear and free--for I will be sincere -to the end--when I entered the spacious room. My stepfather was -reclining in a deep arm-chair at the far side of the fireplace, and -occupied in cutting the pages of a new book with a dagger. The blade of -this weapon was broad, short, and strong. He had brought the knife back -from Spain, with several other kinds of arms, which lay about in the -rooms he habitually occupied. I now understood the order of ideas which -this singular taste indicated. He was dressed for walking; but his -altered looks bore witness to the intensity of the crisis through which -he had passed. It had affected his whole being. Very likely my face was -expressive of an extraordinary resolution, for I saw by his eyes as our -looks met, that he had read the depths of my thoughts at a glance. -Nevertheless, he said: "Ah, is it you, André? It is very kind of you to -come," thus exhibiting once more the power of his self-control, and he -put out his hand. I did not take it, and my refusal, contrasting with -his gesture of welcome, the silence which I kept for some minutes, the -contraction of my features, and, no doubt, the menace in my eyes, -entirely enlightened him as to the mood in which I came to him. Very -quietly, he laid down his book and the Spanish knife he had been using, -on a large table within his reach, and then he rose from his chair, -leaned his back against the mantelpiece, and crossing his arms, looked -at me with the haughty stare I knew so well, and which had so often -humiliated me in my boyhood. I was the first to break the silence; -replying to his polite greeting in a harsh tone, and looking him -straight in the face, I said: - -"The time of lies is past. You have guessed that I know all?" - -He bent his brows into the stern frown he always assumed when he felt -anger he was bound to suppress, his eyes met mine with indomitable -pride, and he merely replied: - -"I do not understand you." - -"You do not understand me? Very well, I am about to enlighten you." My -voice shook in uttering these words; my coolness was forsaking me. The -day before, and in my conversation with the brother, I had come in -contact with the vile infamy of a knave and a coward; but the enemy whom -I was now facing, although a greater scoundrel than the other, found -means to preserve a sort of moral superiority, even in that terrible -hour when he knew well he was face to face with his crime. Yes, this man -was a criminal, but of a grand kind, and there was no cowardice in him. -Pride sat upon that brow so laden with dark thoughts, but fear set no -mark upon it, any more than did repentance. In his eyes--exactly like -those of his brother--a fierce resolution shone; I felt that he would -defend himself to the end. He would yield to evidence only, and such -strength of mind displayed at such a moment had the effect of -exasperating me. The blood flew to my head, and my heart beat rapidly, -as I went on: - -"Allow me to take up the matter a little farther back. In 1864 there was -in Paris a man who loved the wife of his most intimate friend. Although -that friend was very trusting, very noble, very easily duped, he became -aware of this love, and he began to suffer from it. He grew -jealous--although he never doubted his wife's purity of heart--jealous -as every one is who loves too well. The man who was the object of his -jealousy perceived it, understood that he was about to be forbidden the -house, knew that the woman whom he loved would never degrade herself by -listening to a lover, and this is the plan which he conceived. He had a -brother somewhere in a distant land, an infamous scoundrel who was -supposed to be dead, a creature sunk in shame, a thief, a forger, a -deserter, and he bethought him of this brother as an instrument ready to -his hand wherewith to rid himself of the friend who stood in the way of -his passion. He sent for the fellow secretly, he appointed to meet him -in one of the loneliest corners of Paris--in a street adjoining the -Jardin des Plantes, and at night--you see. I am well informed. It is -easy to imagine how he persuaded the former thief to play the part of -bravo. A few months after, the husband was assassinated by this brother, -who eluded justice. The felon-friend married almost immediately the -woman whom he loved; he is now a man in society, wealthy, and respected, -and his pure and pious wife loves, admires, nay, worships him. Do you -now begin to understand?" - -"No more than before," he answered, with the same impassive face. He did -well not to flinch. What I had said might be only an attempt to wrest -his secret from him by feigning to know all. Nevertheless, the detail -concerning the place where he had appointed to meet his brother had made -him start. That was the spot to hit, and quickly. - -"The cowardly assassin," I continued, "yes, the coward, because he dared -not commit the crime himself, had carefully calculated all the -circumstances of the murder; but he had reckoned without certain little -accidents, for instance, that his brother would keep the three letters -he had received, the first two at New York, the last at Liverpool, and -which contained instructions relating to the stages of this clandestine -journey. Neither had he taken into account that the son of his victim -would grow up, would become a man, would conceive certain suspicions of -the true cause of his father's death, and would succeed in procuring -overwhelming proof of the dark conspiracy. Come, then," I added -fiercely, "off with the mask! M. Jacques Termonde, it is you who had my -unhappy father killed by your brother Edmond. I have in my possession -the letters you wrote him in January, 1864, to induce him to come to -Europe, first under the false name of Rochester and afterwards under -that of Rochdale. It is not worth your while to play the indignant or -the astonished with me--the game is up." - -He had turned frightfully pale; but his arms still remained crossed, and -his bold eyes did not droop. He made one last attempt to parry the -straight blow I had aimed at him, and he had the hardihood to say: - -"How much did that wretch Edmond ask as the price of the forgery which -he fabricated in revenge for my refusal to give him money?" - -"Be silent, you--" said I still more fiercely. "Is it to me that you -dare to speak thus--to me? Did I need those letters in order to learn -all? Have we not known for weeks past, I, that you had committed the -crime, and you, that I had divined your guilt? What I still needed was -the written, indisputable, undeniable proof, that which can be laid -before a magistrate. You refused him money? You were about to give him -money, only that you mistrusted him, and chose to wait until the day of -his departure. You did not suspect that I was upon your track. Shall I -tell you when it was you saw him for the last time? Yesterday, at ten -o'clock in the morning, you went out, you changed your cab first at the -Place de la Concorde, and a second time at the Palais Royal. You went to -the Grand Hotel, and you asked whether Mr. Stanbury was in his room. A -few hours later, I, I myself, was in that same room. Ah! how much did -Edmond Termonde ask from me for the letters? Why, I tore them from him, -pistol in hand, after a struggle in which I was nearly killed. You see -now that you can deceive me no more, and that it is no longer worth your -while to deny." - -I thought he was about to drop dead before me. His face changed, until -it was hardly human, as I went on, on, on, piling up the exact facts, -tracking his falsehood, as one tracks a wild beast, and proving to him -that his brother had defended himself after his fashion, even as he had -done. He clasped his hands about his head, when I ceased to speak, as -though to compress the maddening thoughts which rushed upon him; then, -once more looking me in the face, but this time with infinite despair in -his eyes, he uttered exactly the same sentence as his brother had -spoken, but with quite another expression and tone: - -"This hour too was bound to come. What do you want from me now?" - -"That you should do justice on yourself," I answered. "You have -twenty-four hours before you. If, to-morrow at this hour, you are still -living, I place the letters in my mother's hands." - -Every sort of feeling was depicted upon his livid face while I placed -this ultimatum before him, in a firm voice which admitted of no farther -discussion. I was standing up, and I leaned against the large table; he -came towards me, with a sort of delirium in his eyes as they strove to -meet mine. - -"No," he cried, "no, André, not yet! Pity me, André, pity me! See now, -I am a condemned man, I have not six months to live. Your revenge! Ah! -you had no need to undertake it. What! If I have done a terrible deed, -do you think I have not been punished for it? Look at me, only look at -me; I am dying of this frightful secret. It is all over; my days are -numbered. The few that remain, leave, oh leave them to me! Understand -this, I am not afraid to die; but to kill myself, to go away, leaving -this grief to her whom you love as I do! It is true that, to win her, I -have done an atrocious deed; but say, answer, has there ever been an -hour, a minute since, in which her happiness was not my only aim? And -you would have me leave her thus, inflict upon her the torment of -thinking that while I might have grown old by her side, I preferred to -go away, to forsake her before the time? No, André, this last year, -leave it to me! Ah, leave it to me, leave it to us, for I assure you -that I am hopelessly ill, that I know it, that the doctors have not -hidden it from me. In a few months--fix a date--if the disease has not -carried me off, you can come back. But I shall be dead. She will weep -for me, without the horror of that idea that I have forestalled my hour, -she who is so pious! You only will be there to console her, to love her. -Have pity upon her, if not upon me. See, I have no more pride towards -you, I entreat you in her name, in the name of her dear heart, for well -you know its tenderness. You love her, I know that; I have guessed truly -that you hid your suspicions to spare her pain. I tell you once again, -my life is a hell, and I would joyfully give it to you in expiation of -what I have done; but she, André, she, your mother, who has never, -never cherished a thought that was not pure and noble, no, do not -inflict this torture upon her." - -"Words, words," I answered, moved to the bottom of my soul in spite of -myself, by the outburst of an anguish in which I was forced to recognise -sincerity. "It is because my mother is noble and pure that I will not -have her remain the wife of a vile murderer for a day longer. You shall -kill yourself, or she shall know all." - -"Do it then if you dare," he replied, with a return to the natural pride -of his character, at the ferocity of my answer. "Do it if you dare! Yes, -she is my wife, yes, she loves me; go and tell her, and kill her -yourself with the words. Ha, you see! You turn pale at the mere thought. -I have allowed you to live, yes, I, on account of her, and do you -suppose I do not hate you as much as you hate me? Nevertheless, I have -respected you because you were dear to her, and you will have to do the -same with me. Yes, do you hear, it must be so----" - -It was he who was giving orders now, he who was threatening. How plainly -had he read my mind, to stand up before me in such an attitude. Furious -passion broke loose in me; I took in the facts of the situation. This -man had loved my mother madly enough to purchase her at the cost of the -murder of his most intimate friend, and he loved her after all those -years passionately enough to desire that not one of the days he had -still to pass with her might be lost to him. And it was also true that -never, never should I have the courage to reveal the terrific truth to -the poor woman. I was suddenly carried away by rage to the point of -losing all control over my frenzy. "Ah!" I cried, "since you will not do -justice on yourself, die then, at once!" I stretched out my hand and -seized the dagger which he had recently placed upon the table. He -looked at me without flinching, or recoiling, indeed presenting his -breast to me, as though to brave my childish rage. I was on his left, -bending down, and ready to spring. I saw his smile of contempt, and then -with all my strength I struck him with the knife in the direction of the -heart. The blade entered his body to the hilt. No sooner had I done this -thing than I recoiled, wild with terror at the deed. He uttered a cry. -His face was distorted with terrible agony, and he moved his right hand -towards the wound, as though he would draw out the dagger. He looked at -me, convulsed with unbearable agony; I saw that he wanted to speak; his -lips moved, but no sound issued from his mouth. The expression of a -supreme effort passed into his eyes, he turned to the table, took a pen, -dipped it into the inkstand, and traced two lines on a sheet of paper -within his reach. He looked at me again, his lips moved once more, then -he fell down like a log. - -I remember--I saw the body stretched upon the carpet, between the table -and the tall mantelpiece, within two feet of me. I approached him, I -bent over his face. His eyes seemed to follow me even after death. Yes, -he was dead. The doctor who certified the death explained afterwards -that the knife had passed through the cardiac muscle without completely -penetrating the left cavity of the heart, and that, the blood not being -shed all at once, death had not been instantaneous. I cannot tell how -long he lived after I struck him, nor do I know how long I remained in -the same place, overwhelmed by the thought: "Some one will come, and I -am lost." It was not for myself that I trembled. What could be done to a -son who had but avenged his murdered father? But, my mother? This was -what all my resolutions to spare her at any cost, my daily solicitude -for her welfare, my unseen tears, my tender silence, had come to in the -end! I must now, inevitably, either explain myself, or leave her to -think that I was a mere murderer. I was lost. But if I called, if I -cried out suddenly that my stepfather had just killed himself in my -presence, should I be believed? And, besides, had he not written what -would convict me of murder, on that sheet of paper lying on the table? -Was I going to destroy it, as a practised criminal destroys every -vestige of his presence before he leaves the scene of his crime? I -seized the sheet of paper; the lines were written upon it in characters -rather larger than usual. How it shook in my hand while I read these -words: "Forgive me, Marie. I was suffering too much. I wanted to be done -with it." And he had had the strength to affix his signature! So then, -his last thought had been for her. In the brief moments that had elapsed -between my blow with the knife, and his death, he had perceived the -dreadful truth, that I should be arrested, that I would speak to explain -my deed, that my mother would then learn his crime--and he had saved me -by compelling me to silence. But was I going to profit by this means of -safety? Was I going to accept the terrible generosity by which the man, -whom I had so profoundly detested, would stand acquitted towards me for -evermore? I must render so much justice to my honour; my first impulse -was to destroy that paper, to annihilate with it even the memory of the -debt imposed upon my hatred by the atrocious but sublime action of the -murderer of my father. At that moment I caught sight of a portrait of my -mother on the table close to where he had been sitting. It was a -photograph taken in her youth; she was represented in brilliant evening -attire, her bare arms shaded with lace, pearls in her hair, gay, ay, -better than gay, happy, with an ineffably pure expression overspreading -her face. My stepfather had sacrificed all to save her from despair on -learning the truth, and was she to receive the fatal blow from me, to -learn at the same moment that the man she loved had killed her first -husband, and that he had been killed by her son? I desire to believe, so -that I may continue to hold myself in some esteem, that only the vision -of her grief led me to my decision. I replaced the sheet of paper on the -table, and turned away from the corpse lying on the carpet, without -casting a glance at it. The remembrance of my flight from the Grand -Hotel, on the previous day, gave me courage; I must try a second time to -get away without betraying discomposure. I found my hat, left the room, -and closed the door carelessly. I crossed the hall and went down the -staircase, passing by the footman who stood up mechanically, and then -the concierge who saluted me. The two servants had not even put me out -of countenance. I returned to my room as I had done the day before, but -in a far more tragic state of suspense! Was I saved? Was I lost? All -depended on the moment at which somebody might go into my stepfather's -room. If my mother were to return within a few minutes of my departure; -if the footman were to go upstairs with some letter, I should instantly -be suspected, in spite of the declaration written by M. Termonde. I felt -that my courage was exhausted. I knew that, if accused, I should not -have moral strength to defend myself, for my weariness was so -overwhelming that I did not suffer any longer. The only thing I had -strength to do, was to watch the swing of the pendulum of the timepiece -on the mantelshelf, and to mark the movement of the hands. A quarter of -an hour elapsed, half-an-hour, a whole hour. It was an hour and a half -after I had left the fatal room, when the bell at the door was rung. I -heard it through the walls. A servant brought me a laconic note from my -mother scribbled in pencil and hardly legible. It informed me that my -stepfather had destroyed himself in an attack of severe pain. The poor -woman implored me to go to her immediately. Ah, she would now never know -the truth! - - - - -XIX - - -The confession that I wished to write, is written. To what end could I -add fresh facts to it now? I hoped to ease my heart by passing in review -all the details of this dark story, but I have only revived the dread -memory of the scenes in which I have been an actor; from the first--when -I saw my father stretched dead upon his bed, and my mother weeping by -his side, to the last--when I noiselessly entered a room in which the -unhappy woman was again kneeling and weeping. Again upon the bed there -lay a corpse, and she rose as she had done before, and uttered the same -despairing cry: "My André--my son." And I had to answer her questions; -I had to invent for her a false conversation with my stepfather, to tell -her that I left him rather depressed, but with nothing in his appearance -or manner to indicate a fatal resolution. I had to take the necessary -steps to prevent this alleged suicide from getting known, to see the -commissary of police and the "doctor of the dead." I had to preside at -the funeral ceremonies, to receive the guests and act as chief mourner. -And always, always, he was present to me, with the dagger in his breast, -writing the lines that had saved me, and looking at me, while his lips -moved. Ah, begone, begone, abhorred phantom! Yes! I have done it; yes! I -have killed you; yes! it was just. You know well that it was just. Why -are you still here now? Ah! I _will_ live; I _will_ forget. If I could -only cease to think of you for one day, only one day, just to breathe, -and walk, and see the sky, without your image returning to haunt my poor -head which is racked by this hallucination, and troubled? My God! have -pity on me. I did not ask for this dreadful fate; it is Thou that hast -sent it to me. Why dost Thou punish me? Oh, my God, have pity on me! -_Miserere mei, Domine_. - -Vain prayers! Is there any God, any justice, is there either good or -evil? None, none, none, none. There is nothing but a pitiless destiny -which broods over the human race, iniquitous and blind, distributing joy -and grief at haphazard. A God who says, "Thou shalt not kill," to him -whose father has been killed? No, I don't believe it. No, if hell were -there before me, gaping open, I would make answer: "I have done well," -and I would not repent. I do not repent. My remorse is not for having -seized the weapon and struck the blow, it is that I owe to him--to -him--that infamous good service which he did me--that I cannot to the -present hour shake from me the horrible gift I have received from that -man. If I had destroyed the paper, if I had gone and given myself up, if -I had appeared before a jury, revealing, proclaiming my deed, I should -not be ashamed; I could still hold up my head. What relief, what joy it -would be if I might cry aloud to all men that I killed him, that he -lied, and I lied, that it was I, I, who took the weapon and -plunged it into him! And yet, I ought not to suffer from having -accepted--no--endured the odious immunity. Was it from any motive of -cowardice that I acted thus? What was I afraid of? Of torturing my -mother, nothing more. Why then do I suffer this unendurable anguish? Ah, -it is she, it is my mother who, without intending it, makes the dead so -living to me, by her own despair. She lives, shut up in the rooms where -they lived together for sixteen years; she has not allowed a single -article of furniture to be touched; she surrounds the man's accursed -memory with the same pious reverence that my aunt formerly lavished on -my unhappy father. I recognise the invincible influence of the dead in -the pallor of her cheeks, the wrinkles in her eyelids, the white streaks -in her hair. He disputes her with me from the darkness of his coffin, he -takes her from me, hour by hour, and I am powerless against that love. -If I were to tell her, as I would like to tell her, all the truth, from -the hideous crime which he committed, down to the execution carried out -by me, it is I whom she would hate, for having killed him. She will grow -old thus, and I shall see her weep, always, always---- What good is it -to have done what I did, since I have not killed him in her heart? - - - - - -HERE ENDS THE STORY OF ANDRÉ CORNÉLIS - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF ANDRÉ CORNÉLIS *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: The Story of André Cornélis</p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Paul Bourget</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Translator: G. F. Monkshood</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: October 31, 2021 [eBook #66636]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Laura Natal Rodrigues</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF ANDRÉ CORNÉLIS ***</div> - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/cornelis_cover.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> - - -<h1>THE STORY -<br /> -OF -<br /> -ANDRÉ CORNÉLIS</h1> - - - -<h4>By</h4> - - -<h2>PAUL BOURGET</h2> - - - - -<h4>Adapted by</h4> - - -<h3>G.F. MONKSHOOD</h3> - - - - -<h4>LONDON</h4> - -<h4>GREENING & CO., LTD.</h4> - -<h5>1909</h5> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CONTENTS</h4> -<p class="nind">CHAPTER <a href="#I">I</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#II">II</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#III">III</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#IV">IV</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#V">V</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#VI">VI</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#VII">VII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#VIII">VIII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#IX">IX</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#X">X</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XI">XI</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XII">XII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XIII">XIII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XIV">XIV</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XV">XV</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XVI">XVI</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XVII">XVII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XVIII">XVIII</a><br /> -CHAPTER <a href="#XIX">XIX</a></p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>THE STORY OF<br /> -ANDRÉ CORNÉLIS</h4> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="I">I</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -When a child, I went to confession. How often have I wished that I were -still the lad who came at five o'clock into the chapel of our school, -the cold empty chapel, with its white-washed walls, its benches on which -our places were numbered, its harmonium, its Holy Family, its blue -ceiling dotted with stars. We were taken to this chapel in tens. When it -came to my turn to kneel in one of the two spaces on either side of the -central seat of the priest, my heart would beat violently, and a feeling -of oppression would come upon me, produced by the gloom and silence, and -the murmur of the confessor's voice as he questioned the boy on the -opposite side, to whom I was to succeed. These sensations, and the shame -inspired by sins which I was to confess, made me start with dread when -the sound of the sliding panel announced that the moment had come, and I -could distinguish the priest's profile, and note the keenness of his -glance. What a moment of pain to endure, and then what a sense of relief! -What a feeling of liberty, alleviation, pardon—nay, effacement -of wrong-doing; what conviction that a spotless page was now offered to -me, and it was mine to fill it with good deeds. I am too far removed now -from the faith of my early years to imagine that there was a phenomenon -in all this. Whence then came the sense of deliverance that renewed the -youth of my soul? It came from the fact that I had told my sins, that I -had thrown over the burden of conscience that oppresses us all. -Confession was the lancet-stroke that empties the abscess. Alas! I have -now no confessional at which to kneel, no prayer to murmur, no God in -whom to hope! Nevertheless, I must get rid of these intolerable -recollections. The tragedy of my life presses too heavily upon my -memory, and I have no friend to speak to, no echo to take up my plaint. -There are things which cannot be uttered, since they ought not to find a -hearer; and so I have resolved, in order to cheat my pain, to make my -confession here, to myself alone, on this white paper, as I might make -it to a priest. I will write down all the details of my terrible history -as each comes to my remembrance, and when this confession is finished, I -shall see whether I am to be rid of the anguish also. Ah! if it could -even be diminished! If it were but lessened, so that I might have my -share of youth and life! I have suffered so much, and yet I love life, -in spite of my sufferings. A full glass of the black drug, the laudanum -that I always keep at hand for nights when I cannot sleep, and the slow -torture of my remorse would cease at once. But I cannot, I will not. The -instinctive animal desire <i>to live on</i> stirs me more strongly than all -the moral reasons which urge me to make an end. Live then, poor wretch, -since Nature bids you tremble at the thought of death. Nature? And besides, -I do not want to go down there—no, not yet—into that dark -world where it may be we should meet. No, no, not that terror, not that! -See now, I had promised myself that I would be self-possessed, and I am -already losing control over my thoughts; but I will resume it. The -following is my project: -</p> - -<p> -On these sheets of paper I will draw a true picture of my destiny, for I -can catch only glimpses of it in the blurred mirror of my thoughts. And -when the pages are covered with my scrawl I will burn them. But the -thing will have taken form, and existed before my eyes, like a living -being. I shall have thrown a light upon the chaos of horrible -recollections which bewilder me. I shall know what my strength really -is. Here, in this room where I came to the final resolution, it is only -too easy for me to remember. To work, then! I pass my word to myself -that I will set down the whole. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="II">II</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Let me remember? I have the sense of having trodden a sorrowing way -during many years, but what was my first step in the blood-spotted -pathway of pain? Where ought I to take up the tale of the slow -martyrdom, whose last stage of torture I have reached to-day? I know -not, for my feelings are like those lagoon-worn shores on which one -cannot tell where sea begins or ends; vague places, sand and water, -whose uncertain outline is constantly changing and being formed anew; -regions without bounds. Nevertheless these places are drawn upon the -map, and we may depict our feelings also by reflection, and after the -manner of analysis. The reality is ever shifting about. How intangible -it is, always escaping our eager grasp! The enigma of enigmas is to know -the exact moment at which a wound gapes in the heart, one of those -wounds which in mine have never closed. In order to simplify everything, -and to keep myself from sinking into that torpor of reverie which steals -over me like the influence of opium, I will divide my task into events, -marking first the precise fact which was the primal and determining cause -of all the rest—the tragic and mysterious death of my father. Let -me endeavour to recall the emotion by which I was overwhelmed at that -time, without mixing with it anything of what I have since understood -and felt. -</p> - -<p> -I was nine years old. It was in 1864, in the month of June, at the close -of a warm afternoon. I was at my studies in my room as usual, having -come in from the Lycée Bonaparte, and the outer shutters were closed. -We lived in the Rue Tronchet, in the seventh house on the left, coming -from the church. Three highly-polished steps led to the little room, -prettily furnished in blue, within whose walls I passed the last happy -days of my life. Everything comes back to me. I was seated at my table, -dressed in a black overall, and engaged in writing out the tenses of a -Latin verb. All of a sudden I heard a cry, followed by a clamour of -voices; then rapid steps trod the corridor outside my room. -Instinctively I rushed to the door and came against a servant, who was -pale, and had a roll of linen in his hand. I understood the use of this -afterwards. At the sight of me he exclaimed: -</p> - -<p> -"Ah! M. André, what an awful misfortune!" -</p> - -<p> -Then, regaining his presence of mind, he said: -</p> - -<p> -"Go back into your room—go back at once!" -</p> - -<p> -Before I could answer, he caught me up in his arms, placed me on the -upper step of my staircase, locked the door of the corridor, and walked -rapidly away. -</p> - -<p> -"No, no," I cried, flinging myself against the door, "tell me all; I -will, I must know." No answer. I shook the lock, I struck the panel with -my clenched fists, I dashed my shoulder against the door. Then, sitting -upon the lowest step, I listened, in an agony of fear, to the coming and -going of people outside, who knew of "the awful misfortune," but what -was it they knew? Child as I was, I understood the terrible -signification which the servant's exclamation bore under the actual -circumstances. Two days previously, my father had gone out after -breakfast, according to custom, to the place of business which he had -occupied for over four years, in the Rue de la Victoire. He had been -thoughtful during breakfast, indeed for some months past he had lost his -accustomed cheerfulness. When he rose to go, my mother, myself, and one -of the frequenters of our house, M. Jacques Termonde, a fellow student -of my father's at the École de Droit, were at table. My father left his -seat before breakfast was over, having looked at the clock, and inquired -whether it was right. -</p> - -<p> -"Are you in such a hurry, Cornélis?" asked Termonde. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," answered my father, "I have an appointment with a client who is -ill—a foreigner—I have to call on him at his hotel to procure -important papers. He is an odd sort of man, and I shall not be sorry to -see something of him at closer quarters. I have taken certain steps on -his behalf and I am almost tempted to regret them." -</p> - -<p> -And, since then, no news! In the evening of that day, when dinner, which -had been put off for one quarter of an hour after another, was over, and -my father, always so methodical, so punctual, had not come in, mother -began to betray her uneasiness, and could not conceal from me that his -last words dwelt in her mind. It was a rare occurrence for him to speak -with misgiving of his undertakings! The night passed, then the next -morning and afternoon, and once more it was evening. My mother and I -were once more seated at the square table, where the cover laid for my -father in front of his empty chair, gave, as it were, form to our -nameless dread. My mother had written to M. Jacques Termonde, and he -came—after dinner. I was sent away immediately, but not without my -having had time to remark the extraordinary brightness of M. Termonde's -blue eyes, and usually shone coldly in his thin face. He had fair hair -and a light beard. So children take note of small details, which are -speedily effaced from their minds, but afterwards reappear, at the -contact of life, just as certain invisible marks come out upon paper -held to the fire. While begging to be allowed to remain I was -mechanically observing the hurried and agitated turning and returning of a -light cane—I had long coveted it—held behind his back in his -beautiful hands. If I had not admired the cane so much, and the fighting -Centaurs on its handle—a fine piece of work—this symptom of -extreme disturbance might have escaped me. But, how could M. Termonde fail -to be disturbed by the disappearance of his best friend? Nevertheless, his -voice, which made all his phrases melodious, was calm. -</p> - -<p> -"To-morrow," he said, "I will have every inquiry made, if Cornélis has -not returned; but he will come back, and all will be explained. Depend -on it, he went away somewhere on business he told you of, and left a -letter for you to be sent by a commissionaire who has not delivered it." -</p> - -<p> -"Ah!" said my mother, "you think that is possible?" -</p> - -<p> -How often, in my dark hours, have I recalled this dialogue, and the room -in which it took place—a little salon, much liked by my mother, with -hangings and furniture of some foreign stuff striped in red and white, -black and yellow, that my father had brought from Morocco; and how -plainly have I seen my mother in my mind's eyes, with her black hair, -brown eyes, and quivering lips. She was as white as the summer gown she -wore that evening. M. Termonde was dressed with his usual correctness, -and I remember well his elegant figure. It makes me smile when people -talk of presentiments. I went off perfectly satisfied with what he had -said. I had a childish admiration for this man, and hitherto he had -represented nothing to me but treats and indulgence. I attended the two -classes at the Lycée with a relieved heart. But, while I was sitting -upon the lower step of my little staircase, all my uneasiness revived. I -hammered at the door again, I called as loudly as I could; but no one -answered me, until the good woman who had been my nurse came into my -room. -</p> - -<p> -"My father!" I cried, "where is my father?" -</p> - -<p> -"Poor child, poor child," said nurse, and took me in her arms. -</p> - -<p> -She had been sent to tell me the truth, but her strength failed her. I -escaped from her, ran out into the corridor, and reached my father's -bedroom before any one could stop me. Ah! upon the bed lay a form -covered by a white sheet, upon the pillow a bloodless, motionless face, -with fixed, wide-open eyes, for the lids had not been closed; the chin -was supported by a bandage, a napkin was bound around the forehead; at -the bed's foot knelt a woman, still dressed in her white summer gown, -crushed, helpless with grief. These were my father and my mother. I -flung myself upon her, and she clasped me passionately, with the -piercing cry, "My Andre, my André!" In that cry there was much intense -grief, in that embrace there was such frenzied tenderness, her heart was -then so big, that it warms my own even now to think of it. The next -moment she rose and carried me out of the room, that I might see the -dreadful sight no more. She did this easily, her terrible excitement had -doubled her strength. "God punishes me!" she said over and over again. -She had always been given, by fits and starts, to mystical piety. Then -she covered my face, my neck, and my hair with kisses and tears. May all -that we suffered, the dead and I, be forgiven you, poor mother, for the -sincerity of those tears at that moment. In my darkest hours, and when -the phantom was there, beckoning to me, your grief pleaded with me more -strongly than his plaint. Because of the kisses of that moment I have -always been able to believe in you, for those kisses and tears were not -meant to conceal anything. Your whole heart revolted against the deed -that bereaved me of my father. I swear by the anguish which we shared in -that moment, that you had no part in the hideous plot. Ah, forgive me, -that I have felt the need even now of affirming this. If you only knew -how one sometimes hungers and thirsts for certainty—ay, even to the -point of agony. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="III">III</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -When I asked my mother to tell me all about the awful event, she said -that my father had been seized with a fit in a hackney carriage, and -that as no papers were found upon him, he had not been recognised for -two days. Grownup people are too ready to think it is equally easy to -tell lies to all children. Now, I was a child who pondered long in my -thoughts over things that were said to me, and by means of putting a -number of small facts together, I came to the conviction that I did not -know the whole truth. If my father's death had occurred in the manner -stated to me, why should the man-servant have asked me, one day when he -took me out to walk, what had been said to me about it? And when I -answered him, why did he say no more, and, being a very talkative -person, why had he kept silence ever since? Why, too, did I feel the -same silence all around me, sitting on every lip, hidden in every look? -Why was the subject of conversation constantly changed whenever I drew -near? I guessed this by many trifling signs. Why was not a single -newspaper left lying about, whereas, during my father's lifetime, the -three journals to which we subscribed were always to be found on a table -in the salon? Above all, why did both the masters and my schoolfellows -look at me so curiously, when I went back to school early in October, -four months after our great misfortune? Alas! it was their curiosity -which revealed the full extent of the catastrophe to me. It was only a -fortnight after the reopening of the school, when I happened to be -playing one morning with two new boys; I remember their names, Rastonaix -and Servoin, now, and I can see the fat cheeks of Rastonaix and the -ferret face of Servoin. Although we were outdoor pupils, we were allowed -a quarter of an hour's recreation indoors, between the Latin and English -lessons. The two boys had engaged me on the previous days for a game of -ninepins, and when it was over, they came close to me, and looking at -each other to keep up their courage, they put to me the following -questions, point-blank: -</p> - -<p> -"Is it true that the murderer of your father has been arrested?" -</p> - -<p> -"And that he is to be guillotined?" -</p> - -<p> -This occurred sixteen years ago, but I cannot now recall the beating of -my heart at those words without horror. I must have turned pale, for the -two boys, who had struck me this blow with the carelessness of their -age—of our age—stood there disconcerted. A blind fury seized -upon me, urging me to command them to be silent, and to hit them if they -spoke again; but at the same time I felt a wild impulse of -curiosity—what if this were the explanation of the silence by -which I felt myself surrounded?—and also a pang of fear, the fear -of the unknown. The blood rushed into my face, and I stammered out: -</p> - -<p> -"I do not know." -</p> - -<p> -The drum-tap, summoning us back to the schoolroom, separated us. What a -day I passed, bewildered by my trouble, turning the two terrible -sentences over and over again. -</p> - -<p> -It would have been natural for me to question my mother; but the truth -is, I felt quite unable to repeat to her what my unconscious tormentors -had said. It was strange but true, that henceforth my mother, whom -nevertheless I loved with all my heart, exercised a paralysing influence -over me. She was so beautiful in her pallor, so beautiful and proud. No, -I should never have ventured to reveal to her that an irresistible doubt -of the story she had told me was implanted in my mind merely by the two -questions of my schoolfellows; but, as I could not keep silence entirely -and live, I resolved to have recourse to Julie, my former nurse. She was -a little woman, fifty years of age, an old maid too, with a flat -wrinkled face; but her eyes were full of kindness, and indeed so was her -whole face, although her lips were drawn in by the loss of her front -teeth, and this gave her a witch-like mouth. She had deeply mourned my -father in my company, for she had been in his service before his -marriage. Julie was retained specially on my account, and in addition to -her the household consisted of the cook, the man-servant, and the -chamber-maid. Julie put me to bed and tucked me in, heard me say my -prayers, and listened to my little troubles. "Oh! the wretches!" she -exclaimed, when I opened my heart to her and repeated the words that had -agitated me so terribly. "And yet it could not have been hidden from you -for ever." Then it was that she told me all the truth, there in my -little room, speaking very low and bending over me, while I lay sobbing -in my bed. She suffered in the telling of that truth as much as I in the -hearing of it, and the touch of her dry old hand, with fingers scarred -by the needle, fell softly on my curly head. -</p> - -<p> -That ghastly story, which bore down my youth with the weight of an -impenetrable mystery, I have found written in the newspapers of the day, -but not more clearly than it was narrated by my dear old Julie. Here it -is, plainly set forth, as I have turned and re-turned it over and over -again in my thoughts, day after day, with the vain hope of penetrating -it. -</p> - -<p> -My father, who was a distinguished advocate, had resigned his practice -in court some years previously, and set up as a financial agent, hoping -by that means to make a fortune more rapidly than by the law. His good -official connection, his scrupulous probity, his extensive knowledge of -the most important questions, and his great capacity for work, had -speedily secured him an exceptional position. He employed ten -secretaries, and the million and a half francs which my mother and I -inherited formed only the beginnings of the wealth to which he aspired, -partly for his own sake, much more for his son's, but, above all, for his -wife's—he was passionately attached to her. Notes and letters found -among his papers proved that at the time of his death he had been for a -month previously in correspondence with a certain person named, or -calling himself, William Henry Rochdale, who was commissioned by the -firm of Crawford, in San Francisco, to obtain a railway concession in -Cochin China, then recently conquered, from the French Government. It -was with Rochdale that my father had the appointment of which he spoke -before he left my mother, M. Termonde, and myself, after breakfast, on -the last fatal morning. The <i>Instruction</i> had no difficulty in -establishing this fact. The appointed place of meeting was the Imperial -Hotel, a large building, with a long façade, in the Rue de Rivoli, not -far from the Ministère de la Marine. The entire block of houses was -destroyed by fire in the Commune; but during my childhood I frequently -begged Julie to take me to the spot, that I might gaze, with an aching -heart, upon the handsome courtyard adorned with green shrubs, the wide, -carpeted staircase, and the slab of black marble, encrusted with gold, -that marked the entrance to the place whither my father wended his way, -while my mother was talking with M. Termonde, and I was playing in the -room with them. My father had left us at a quarter-past twelve, and he -must have taken a quarter of an hour to walk to the Imperial Hotel, for -the concierge, having seen the corpse, recognised it, and remembered -that it was just about half-past twelve when my father inquired of him -what was the number of Mr. Rochdale's rooms. This gentleman had arrived -on the previous day, and had fixed, after some hesitation, upon an -apartment situated on the second floor, and composed of a salon and a -bedroom, with a small anteroom, which separated the apartment from the -landing outside. From that moment he had not gone out, and he dined the -same evening and breakfasted the next morning in his salon. The -concierge also remembered that Rochdale came down alone, at about two -o'clock on the second day; but he was too much accustomed to the -continual coming and going to notice whether the visitor who arrived at -half-past twelve had or had not gone away again. Rochdale handed the key -of his apartment to the concierge, with directions that anybody who -came, wanting to see him, should be asked to wait in his salon. After -this he walked away in a leisurely manner, with a business-like -portfolio under his arm, smoking a cigar, and he did not reappear. -</p> - -<p> -The day passed on, and towards night two housemaids entered the -apartment of the foreign gentleman to prepare his bed. They passed -through the salon without observing anything unusual. The traveller's -luggage, composed of a large and much-used trunk and a quite new -dressing-bag, were there. His dressing-things were arranged on the top -of a cabinet. The next day, towards noon, the same housemaids entered -the apartment, and finding that the traveller had slept out, they merely -replaced the day-covering upon the bed, and paid no attention to the -salon. Precisely the same thing occurred in the evening; but on the -following day, one of the women having come into the apartment early, -and again finding everything intact, began to wonder what this meant. -She searched about, and speedily discovered a body, lying at full length -underneath the sofa, with the head wrapped in towels. She uttered a -scream which brought other servants to the spot, and the corpse of my -father was removed from the hiding-place in which the assassin had -concealed it. It was not difficult to reconstruct the scene of the -murder. A wound in the back of the neck indicated that the unfortunate -man had been shot from behind, while seated at the table examining -papers, by a person standing close beside him. The report had not been -heard, on account of the proximity of the weapon, and also because of -the constant noise in the street, and the position of the salon at the -back of the anteroom. Besides, the precautions taken by the murderer -rendered it reasonable to believe that he had carefully chosen a weapon -which would produce but little sound. The ball had penetrated the spinal -marrow and death had been instantaneous. The assassin had placed new -unmarked towels in readiness, and in these he wrapped up the head and -neck of his victim, so that there were no traces of blood. He had dried -his hands on a similar towel, after rinsing them with water taken from -the carafe; this water he had poured back into the same bottle, which -was found concealed behind the drapery of the mantelpiece. Was the -robbery real or pretended? My father's watch was gone, and neither his -letter-case nor any paper by which his identity could be proved was -found upon his body. An accidental indication led, however, to his -immediate recognition. Inside the pocket of his waistcoat was a little -band of tape, bearing the address of the tailor's establishment. Inquiry -was made there, in the afternoon the sad discovery ensued, and after the -necessary legal formalities, the body was brought home. -</p> - -<p> -And the murderer? The only data on which the police could proceed were -soon exhausted. The trunk left by the mysterious stranger, whose name -was certainly not Rochdale, was opened. It was full of things bought -haphazard, like the trunk itself, from a bric-à-brac seller who was -found, but who gave a totally different description of the purchaser -from that which had been obtained from the concierge of the Imperial -Hotel. The latter declared that Rochdale was a dark, sunburnt man with a -long thick beard; the former described him as of fair complexion and -beardless. The cab on which the trunk had been placed immediately after -the purchase, was traced, and the deposition of the driver coincided -exactly with that of the bric-à-brac seller. The assassin had been -taken in the cab, first to a shop, where he bought a dressing-bag, next -to a linendraper's, where he bought the towels, thence to the Lyons -railway station, and there he had deposited the trunk and the -dressing-bag at the parcels office. Then the other cab which had taken -him, three weeks afterwards, to the Imperial Hotel, was traced, and the -description given by the second driver agreed with the deposition of the -concierge. From this it was concluded that in the interval formed by -these three weeks, the assassin had dyed his skin and his hair, for all -the depositions were in agreement with respect to the stature, figure, -bearing, and tone of voice of the individual. This hypothesis was -confirmed by one Jullien, a hairdresser, who came forward of his own -accord to make the following statement: -</p> - -<p> -On a day in the preceding month, a man who answered to the description -of Rochdale given by the first driver and the bric-à-brac seller, being -fair-haired, pale, tall, and broad-shouldered, came to his shop to order -a wig and a beard; these were to be so well constructed that no one -could recognise him, and were intended, he said, to be worn at a fancy -ball. The unknown person was accordingly supplied with a black wig and a -black beard, and he provided himself with all the necessary ingredients -for disguising himself as a native of South America, purchasing kohl for -blackening his eyebrows, and a composition of Sienna earth for colouring -his complexion. He applied these so skilfully, that when he returned to -the hairdresser's shop, Jullien did not recognise him. The unusualness -of a fancy ball given in the middle of summer, and the perfection to -which his customer carried the art of disguise, astonished the -hairdresser so much that his attention was immediately attracted by the -newspaper articles upon "The Mystery of the Imperial Hotel," as the -affair was called. At my father's house two letters were found; both -bore the signature of Rochdale, and were dated from London, but without -envelopes, and were written in a reversed hand, pronounced by experts to -be disguised. He would have had to forward a certain document on receipt -of these letters; probably that document was in the letter-case which -the assassin carried off after his crime. The firm of Crawford had a -real existence at San Francisco, but had never formed the project of -making a railroad in Cochin China. The authorities were confronted by -one of those criminal problems which set imagination at defiance. It was -probably not for the purpose of theft that the assassin had resorted to -such numerous and clever devices; he would hardly have led a man of -business into so skilfully laid a trap merely to rob him of a few -thousand francs and a watch. Was the murder committed for revenge? A -search into the record of my father revealed nothing whatever that could -render such a theory tenable. Every suspicion, every supposition, was -routed by the indisputable and inexplicable fact that Rochdale was a -reality whose existence could not be contested, that he had been at the -Imperial Hotel from seven o'clock in the evening of one day until two -o'clock in the afternoon of the next, and that he had then vanished, like -a phantom, leaving one only trace behind—<i>one only</i>. This man -had come there, other men had spoken to him; the manner in which he had -passed the night and the morning before the crime was known. He had done -his deed of murder, and then—nothing. "All Paris" was full of this -affair, and when I made a collection, long afterwards, of newspapers -which referred to it, I found that for six whole weeks it occupied a -place in the chronicle of every day. At length the fatal heading, "The -Mystery of the Imperial Hotel," disappeared from the columns of the -newspapers, as the remembrance of that ghastly enigma faded from the -minds of their readers, and solicitude about it ceased to occupy the -police. The tide of life, rolling that poor waif amid its waters, had -swept on. Yes; but I, the son? How should I ever forget the old woman's -story that had filled my childhood with tragic horror? How should I ever -cease to see the pale face of the murdered man, with its fixed, open -eyes? How should I not say: "I will avenge thee, thou poor ghost?" Poor -ghost! When I read <i>Hamlet</i> for the first time, with that passionate -avidity which comes from an analogy between the moral situation depicted -in a work of art and some crisis of our own life, I remember that I -regarded the Prince of Denmark with horror. Ah! if the ghost of my -father had come to relate the drama of his death to me, with his -unbreathing lips, would I have hesitated one instant? No! I protested to -myself; and then? I learned all, and yet I hesitated, like him, though -less than he, to dare the terrible deed. Silence! Let me return to -facts. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="IV">IV</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -I remember little of succeeding events. All was so trivial, -insignificant, between that first vision of horror and the vision of woe -which came to me two years later, that, with one exception, I hardly -recall the intervening time. In 1864 my father died; in 1866 my mother -married M. Jacques Termonde. The exceptional period of the interval was -the only one during which my mother bestowed constant attention upon me. -Before the fatal date my father was the only person who had cared for -me; at a later period there was no one at all to do so. Our apartment in -the Rue Tronchet became unbearable to us; there we could not escape from -the remembrance of the terrible event, and we removed to a small hotel -in the Boulevard de Latour-Maubourg. The house had belonged to a -painter, and stood in a small garden which seemed larger than it was -because other gardens adjoined it, and overshadowed its boundary wall -with greenery. The centre of the house was a kind of hall, in the -English style, which the former occupant had used as a studio; my mother -made this her ordinary sitting-room. Now, at this distance of time, I -can understand my mother's character, and recognise that there was -something unreal and slightly theatrical about her, which, although it -was very harmless, led her to exaggerate the outward expression of all -her feelings. While she occupied herself in studying the attitudes by -which her emotions were to be fittingly expressed, the sentiments -themselves were fading away. For instance, she chose to condemn herself -to voluntary exile and seclusion after her bereavement, receiving only a -very few friends, of whom M. Jacques Termonde was one; but she very soon -began to adorn herself and everything around her with the fine and -subtle tastefulness that was innate in her. My mother was a very lovely -woman; her beauty was of a refined and pensive order, her figure was -tall and slender, her dark hair was very luxuriant and of remarkable -length. No doubt it was to the Greek blood in her veins that she owed -the classical lines of her profile, her full-lidded soft eyes, and the -willowy grace of her form. Her maternal grandfather was a Greek -merchant, of the name of Votronto, who had come from the Levant to -Marseilles when the Ionian Islands were annexed to France. Many times in -after years I have recalled the strange contrast between her rare and -refined beauty and my father's stolid sturdy form, and my own, and -wondered whether the origin of many irreparable mistakes might not be -traced to that contrast. But I did not reason in those days; I was under -the spell of the fair being who called me "My son." I used to look at -her with idolatry when she was seated at her piano in that elegant -sanctum of hers, which she had hung with draped foreign stuffs, and -decorated with tall green plants and various curious things, after a -fashion entirely her own. For her sake, and in spite of my natural -awkwardness and untidiness, I strove to keep myself very clean and neat -in the more and more elaborate costumes which she made me wear, and also -more and more did the terrible image of the murdered man fade away from -that home, which, nevertheless, was provided and adorned by the fortune -which he had earned for us and bequeathed to us. All the ways of modern -life are so opposed to the tragic in events, so far removed from the -savage realities of passion and bloodshed, that when such things intrude -upon the decorous life of a family, they are put out of sight with all -speed, and soon come to be looked upon as a bad dream, impossible to -doubt, but difficult to realise. -</p> - -<p> -Yes, our life had almost resumed its normal course when my mother's -second marriage was announced to me. This time I accurately remember not -only the period, but also the day and hour. I was spending my holidays -with my spinster aunt, my father's sister, who lived at Compiègne, in a -house situated at the far end of the town. She had three servants, one -of whom was my dear old Julie, who had left us because my mother could -not get on with her. My aunt Louise was a little woman of fifty, with -countrified looks and manners: she had hardly ever consented to stay two -whole days in Paris during my father's lifetime. Her almost invariable -attire was a black silk gown made at home, with just a line of white at -the neck and wrists, and she always wore a very long gold chain of -ancient date, which was passed under the bodice of her gown and came out -at the belt. To this chain her watch and a bunch of seals and charms -were attached. Her cap, plainly trimmed with ribbon, was black like her -dress, and the smooth bands of her hair, which was turning grey, framed -a thoughtful brow and eyes so kind that she was pleasant to behold, -although her nose was large and her mouth and chin were heavy. She had -brought up my father in this same little town of Compiègne, and had -given him, out of her fortune, all that she could spare from the simple -needs of her frugal life, when he wished to marry Mdlle. de Slane, in -order to induce my mother's family to listen to his suit. The contrast -between the portrait in my little album of my aunt and her face as I saw -it now, told plainly enough how much she had suffered during the past -two years. Her hair had become more white, the lines which run from the -nostrils to the corners of the mouth were deepened, her eyelids had a -withered look. And yet she had never been demonstrative in her grief. I -was an observant little boy, and the difference between my mother's -character and that of my aunt was precisely indicated to my mind by the -difference in their respective sorrow. At that time it was hard for me -to understand my aunt's reserve, while I could not suspect her of want -of feeling. Now it is to the other sort of nature that I am unjust. My -mother also had a tender heart, so tender that she did not feel able to -reveal her purpose to me, and it was my aunt Louise who undertook to do -so. She had not consented to be present at the marriage, and M. -Termonde, as I afterwards learned, preferred that I should not attend on -the occasion, in order, no doubt, to spare the feelings of her who was -to become his wife. In spite of all her self-control, Aunt Louise had -tears in her brown eyes when she led me to the far end of the garden, -where my father had played when he was a child like myself. The golden -tints of September had begun to touch the foliage of the trees. A vine -spread its tendrils over the arbour in which we seated ourselves, and -wasps were busy among the ripening grapes. My aunt took both my hands in -hers, and began: -</p> - -<p> -"André, I have to tell you a great piece of news." -</p> - -<p> -I looked at her apprehensively. The shock of the dreadful event in our -lives had left its mark upon my nervous system, and at the slightest -surprise my heart would beat until I nearly fainted. She saw my -agitation and said simply: -</p> - -<p> -"Your mother is about to marry." -</p> - -<p> -It was strange this sentence did not immediately produce the impression -which my look at her had led my aunt to expect. I had thought from the -tone of her voice, that she was going to tell me of my mother's illness -or death. My sensitive imagination readily conjured up such fears. I -asked calmly: -</p> - -<p> -"Whom?" -</p> - -<p> -"You do not guess?" -</p> - -<p> -"M. Termonde?" I cried. -</p> - -<p> -Even now I cannot define the reasons which sent this name to my lips so -suddenly, without a moment's thought. No doubt M. Termonde had been a -good deal at our house since my father's death; but had he not visited -us as often, if not more frequently, before my mother's widowhood? Had -he not managed every detail of our affairs for us with care and -fidelity, which even then I could recognise as very rare? Why should the -news of his marriage with my mother seem to me on the instant to be much -worse news than if she had married no matter whom? Exactly the opposite -effect ought to have been produced, surely? I had known this man for a -long time; he had been very kind to me formerly—they said he spoiled -me—and he was very kind to me still. My best toys were presents from -him, and my prettiest books; a wonderful wooden horse which moved by -clockwork, given to me when I was seven—how much my poor father was -amused when I told him this horse was "a double thoroughbred"—"Don -Quixote," with Doré's illustrations, this very year; in fact some new -gift constantly, and yet I was never easy and light-hearted in his -presence as I had formerly been. When had this restraint begun? I could -not have told that, but I thought he came too often between my mother -and me. I was jealous of him, I may as well confess it, with that -unconscious jealousy which children feel, and which made me lavish -kisses on my mother when he was by, in order to show him that she was my -mother, and nothing at all to him. Had he discovered my feelings? Had -they been his own also? However that might be, I now never failed to -discern antipathy similar to my own in his looks, notwithstanding his -flattering voice and his over-polite ways. To a child instinct is never -deceived about such impressions. This was quite enough to account for -the shiver that went over me when I uttered his name. But I saw my aunt -start at my cry. -</p> - -<p> -"M. Termonde," said she; "yes, it is he; but why did you think of him -immediately?" Then, looking me full in the face searchingly, she said in -a low tone, as though she were ashamed of putting such a question to a -child: "What do you know?" -</p> - -<p> -At these words, and without any other cause than the weakness of nerves -to which I had been subject ever since my father's death, I burst into -tears. The same thing happened to me sometimes when I was shut up in my -room alone, with the door bolted, suffering from a dread which I could -not conquer, like that of a coming danger. I would forecast the worst -accidents that could happen; for example, that my mother would be -murdered, like my father, and then myself, and I peered under all the -articles of furniture in the room. It had occurred to me, when out -walking with a servant, to imagine that the harmless man might be an -accomplice of the mysterious criminal, and have it in charge to take me -to him, or at all events to lose me in some unknown place. My too -highly-wrought imagination overmastered me. I fancied myself, however, -escaping from the deadly device, and in order to hide myself more -effectually, making for Compiègne. Should I have enough money? Then I -reflected that it might be possible to sell my watch to an old -watchmaker whom I used to see, when on my way to the Lycée. That was a -sad faculty of foresight which poisoned so many of the harmless hours of -my childhood! It was the same faculty that now made me break out into -choking sobs when my aunt asked me what I had in my mind against M. -Termonde. I related the worst of my grievances to her then, leaning my -head on her shoulder, and in this one all the others were summed up. It -dated from two months before. I had come back from school in a merry -mood, contrary to my habit. My teacher had dismissed me with praise of -my compositions and congratulations on my prizes. What good news this -was to take home, and how tenderly my mother would kiss me when she -heard it! I put away my books, washed my hands carefully, and flew to -the salon where my mother was. I entered the room without knocking at -the door, and in such haste that as I sprang towards her to throw myself -into her arms, she gave a little cry. She was standing beside the -mantelpiece, her face was very pale, and near her stood M. Termonde. He -seized me by the arm and held me back from her. -</p> - -<p> -"Oh, how you frightened me!" said my mother. -</p> - -<p> -"Is that the way to come into a salon?" said M. Termonde. -</p> - -<p> -His voice had turned rough like his gesture. He had grasped my arm so -tightly that where his fingers had fastened on it I found black marks -that night when I undressed myself. But it was neither his insolent -words nor the pain of his grasp which made me stand there stupidly, with -a swelling heart. No, it was hearing my mother say to him: -</p> - -<p> -"Don't scold André too much; he is so young. He will improve." -</p> - -<p> -Then she drew me towards her, and rolled my curls round her fingers; but -in her words, in their tone, in her glance, in her faint smile, I -detected a singular timidity, almost a supplication, directed to the man -before her, who frowned as he pulled his moustache with his restless -fingers, as if in impatience of my presence. By what right did he, a -stranger, speak in the tone of a master in our house? Why had he laid -his hand on me ever so lightly? Yes, by what right? Was I his son or his -ward? Why did not my mother defend me against him? Even if I were in -fault it was towards her only. A fit of rage seized upon me; I burned -with longing to spring upon M. Termonde like a beast, to tear his face -and bite him. I darted a look of fury at him and at my mother, and left -the room without speaking. I was of a sullen temper, and I think this -defect was due to my excessive sensitiveness. All my feelings were -exaggerated, so that the least thing angered me, and it was misery to me -to recover myself. Even my father had found it very difficult to get the -better of those fits of wounded feeling, during which I strove against -my own relentings with a cold and concentrated anger which both relieved -and tortured me. I was well aware of this moral infirmity, and as I was -not a bad child in reality, I was ashamed of it. Therefore, my -humiliation was complete when, as I went out of the room, M. Termonde -said: -</p> - -<p> -"Now for a week's sulk! His temper is really insufferable." -</p> - -<p> -His remark had one advantage, for I made it a point of honour to give -the lie to it, and did not sulk; but the scene had hurt me too deeply -for me to forget it, and now my resentment was fully revived, and grew -stronger and stronger while I was telling the story to my aunt. Alas! my -almost unconscious second-sight, that of a too sensitive child, was not -in error. That puerile but painful scene symbolised the whole history of -my youth, my invincible antipathy to the man who was about to take my -father's place, and the blind partiality in his favour of her who ought -to have defended me from the first and always. -</p> - -<p> -"He detests me!" I said through my tears; "what have I done to him?" -</p> - -<p> -"Calm yourself," said the kind woman. "You are just like your poor -father, making the worst of all your little troubles. And now you must -try to be nice to him on account of your mother, and not to give way to -this violent feeling, which frightens me. Do not make an enemy of him," -she added. -</p> - -<p> -It was quite natural that she should speak to me in this way, and yet -her earnestness appeared strange to me from that moment out. I do not -know why she also seemed surprised at my answer to her question. "What -do you know?" She wanted to quiet me, and she increased the -apprehension with which I regarded the usurper—so I called him ever -afterwards—by the slight faltering of her voice when she spoke of -him. -</p> - -<p> -"You will have to write to them this evening," said she at length. -</p> - -<p> -Write to them! The words sickened me. They were united; never, nevermore -should I be able to think of the one without thinking of the other. -</p> - -<p> -"And you?" -</p> - -<p> -"I have already written." -</p> - -<p> -"When are they to be married?" -</p> - -<p> -"They were married yesterday," she answered, in so low a tone that I -hardly heard the words. -</p> - -<p> -"And where?" I asked, after a pause. -</p> - -<p> -"In the country, at the house of some friends." Then she added quickly: -"They preferred that you should not be there on account of the -interruption of your holidays. They have gone away for three weeks; then -they will go to see you in Paris before they start for Italy. You know I -am not well enough to travel. I will keep you here until then. Be a good -boy, and go now and write." -</p> - -<p> -I had many other questions to put to her, and many more tears to weep, -but I restrained myself, and a quarter of an hour later, I was seated at -my dear good aunt's writing-table in her salon. -</p> - -<p> -How I loved that room on the ground floor, with its glass door opening -on the garden. It was filled with remembrance for me. On the wall at the -side of the old-fashioned "secretary" hung the portraits, in frames of -all shapes and sizes, of those whom the good and pious soul had loved -and lost. This funereal little corner spoke strongly to my fancy. -One of the portraits was a coloured miniature, representing my -great-grandmother in the costume of the Directory, with a short waist, and -her hair dressed <i>à la</i> Proudhon. There was also a miniature of my -great-uncle, her son. What an amiable, self-important visage was that of -the staunch admirer of Louis Philippe and M. Thiers! Then came my -paternal grandfather, with his strong parvenu physiognomy, and my father -at all ages. Underneath these works of art was a bookcase, in which I -found all my father's school prizes, piously preserved. What a feeling -of protection I derived from the portières in green velvet, with long -bands of needlework, my aunt's masterpieces, which hung in wide folds -over the doors! With what admiration I regarded the faded carpet, with -its impossible flowers, which I had so often tried to gather in my -babyhood! This was one of the legends of my earliest years, one of those -anecdotes which are told of a beloved son, which make him feel that the -smallest details of his existence have been observed, understood, and -loved. In later days I have been frozen by the ice of indifference. And -my aunt, she whose life had been lived among these old-fashioned things, -how I loved her, with that face in which I read nothing but supreme -tenderness for me, those eyes whose gaze did me good in some mysterious -part of my soul! I felt her so near to me, only through her likeness to -my father, that I rose from my task four or five times to kiss her, -during the time it took me to write my letter of congratulation to the -worst enemy I had, to my knowledge, in the world. -</p> - -<p> -And this was the second indelible date in my life. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="V">V</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Indelible! Yes, those two dates and only those have remained so, and -when I retrace the past in fancy, I am always stopped by them. The two -images—my father assassinated, my mother married again—weighed -long upon my heart. Other children have restless and supple minds which -yield easily to successive impressions; they surrender themselves entirely -to the actual moment, pass from a pleasure to a childish trouble, and -forget in the evening what they have felt during the day. But I? ah, no! -From my two recollections I was never released. An ever present -hallucination kept before my mind's eye the dead face on the pillow, and -my mother kneeling at the bed's foot, or the sound in my ears of my -aunt's voice announcing the other news. I could always see her sad face, -her brown eyes, and the black bows on her cap shaking in the wind of the -September afternoon. And still, even to-day, when I am endeavouring to -reproduce the history of my mind's life, or the real and solitary André -Cornélis, all other remembrances vanish before those two; not a phase -of my youth but is pervaded by them and contained in them, as the cloud -contains the lightning, and the fire it kindles, and the ruins of the -homesteads which it strikes. Of all the images that crowd upon my -memory, recalling what I was during my long years of childhood and -youth, those two disastrous days are always the chief; they form the -background of the picture of my life, the dark horizon of a more -melancholy landscape. -</p> - -<p> -What are the other images? A large space, with old trees in it, some -children playing late on an autumn day; while others, who are not -playing, but only look on, lean against the old brown tree-stems, or -wander about like forsaken creatures. This is the playground of the -Lycée at Versailles. The scholars who are playing are the "old" boys, -the others, the shy exiles, are the "new," and I am one of the latter. -It is just four short weeks since my aunt told me of my mother's -marriage, and already my life is entirely changed. On my return from the -holidays it was decided that I should enter the school as a boarder. My -mother and my stepfather were about to travel in Italy until the summer, -and the question of their taking me with them was not even mooted. My -mother proposed to allow me to remain as a day-pupil, under the care of -my aunt, who would come up to Paris; but my stepfather negatived the -proposition at once by quite reasonable arguments. Why should so great a -sacrifice of all her habits be imposed upon the old lady, and what was -there to dread in the rough life of a boarding-school, which is the best -means of forming a boy's character? -</p> - -<p> -"And he needs that schooling," added my stepfather, directing the same -cold glance towards me as on the day when he grasped my arm so roughly. -In short, it was settled that I was to go to school, but not in Paris. -</p> - -<p> -"The air is bad," said my stepfather. -</p> - -<p> -Why am I not in the least obliged to him for his seeming solicitude for -my health? It was not because I foresaw what he had foreseen -already—he, the man who wanted to separate me from my mother for -ever—that it would be easier for them to leave me at a school outside -the city than at one nearer home, when they returned? What need has he -of these calculations? Is it not enough that he should give utterance to -a wish for Madame Termonde to obey him? How I suffer when I hear her say -"thou" to him, just as she used to say it to my own father. And then I -think of the days when I came home from my classes at the Lycée -Bonaparte, and that dear father helped me with my lessons. My stepfather -brought me to this school yesterday in the afternoon, and it was he who -presented me to the head master, a tall thin personage with a bald head, -who tapped me on the cheek and said: -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, he comes from Bonaparte, the school of the 'Muscadins.'" -</p> - -<p> -That same evening I had the curiosity to refer to the dictionary for -this word "Muscadin," and I found the following definition: "A young man -who studies personal adornment." It is true that I do not resemble the -fellows in tunics among whom I am to live, for I am handsomely dressed, -according to my mother's taste, and my costume includes a large white -collar and smart English boots. The other boys have shapeless képis, -coarse blue stockings which fall over their broken shoes, and their -buttons are mostly torn off. They wear out the last year's outdoor -costume in the house. During the first play-time on my first day, -several of the boys eyed me curiously, and one of them asked me: "What -does your father do?" I made no answer. What I dread, with unbearable -misery, is that they may speak to me of it. Yesterday, while my -stepfather and I were coming down to Versailles in the railway carriage, -without exchanging a word, what would I have given to be able to tell -him of this dread, to entreat him not to throw me among a number of -boys, and leave me to their heedless rudeness and cruelty, to promise -him that I would work harder and better than before, if I might but -remain at home! But the look in his blue eyes is so sharp when they rest -on me, it is so hard for me to say the word "Papa" to him—that word -which I am always saying in my thoughts to the other; to him who lies, -in the sleep that knows no waking, in the cemetery at Compiègne! And so -I addressed no supplication to M. Termonde, and I allowed myself to be -shut up in the Versailles Lycée without a word of protest. I preferred -to wander about as I do among strangers, to uttering one complaint to -him. Mamma is to come to-morrow; she is going away the next day, and the -nearness of this interview prevents me from feeling the inevitable -separation too keenly. If she will only come without my stepfather! -</p> - -<p> -She came—and with him. She took her seat in the parlour, which is -decorated with vile portraits of scholars who have taken prizes at the -general examinations. My schoolfellows were also talking to their -mothers, but none could boast a mother so worthy to be loved as mine! -Never had she seemed to me so beautiful, with her slender and elegant -figure, her graceful neck, her deep eyes, her fine smile. But I could -not say a word to her, because my stepfather, "Jack," as she called him, -with her pretty affectation of an English accent, was there between us. -Ah! that antipathy which paralyses all the loving impulses of the heart, -how intensely have I felt it, then and since! I thought I could perceive -that my mother was surprised, almost saddened by my coldness when she -bade me farewell; but ought she not to have known that I would never -show my love for her in his presence? She is gone; she is on her -travels, and I remain here. -</p> - -<p> -Other images arise which recall our schoolroom in the evenings of that -first winter of my imprisonment. The metal stove burns red in the middle -of the gas-lit room. A bowl of water is placed upon the top lest the -heat should affect our heads. All along the walls stretches the line of -our desks, and behind each of us is a little cupboard in which we keep -our books and papers. Silence reigns, and is rendered more perceptible -by the scratching of pens, the turning over of leaves, and an occasional -suppressed cough. The master is in his place, behind a desk which is -raised above the others. His name is Rodolphe Sorbelle, and he is a -poet. The other day he let fall out of his pocket a sheet of paper -covered with writing and erasures, from which we managed to make out the -following lines: -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">Je voudrais être oiseau des champs,</span><br /> -<span class="i12">Avoir un bec,</span><br /> -<span class="i12">Chanter avec:</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Je voudrais être oiseau des champs,</span><br /> -<span class="i12">Avoir des ailes,</span><br /> -<span class="i12">Voler sur elles.</span><br /> -<span class="i2">Mais je ne puis en faire autant,</span><br /> -<span class="i12">Car j'ai le bec</span><br /> -<span class="i12">beaucoup trop sec,</span><br /> -<span class="i12">Et je suis pion,</span><br /> -<span class="i12">'Cré nom de nom!</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -This prodigious poem gave us, cruel little wretches that we were, the -greatest delight. We sang the verses perpetually, in the dormitory, out -walking, in the playground, setting the last words to the classic music -of "Les Lampions." But the old watch-dog has sharp teeth, and defends -himself by "detentions," so none of us care to brave him to his face. -The lamp hung over his head shows up his greenish-grey hair, his red -forehead, and his threadbare coat, which once was blue. No doubt he is -rhyming, for he is writing, and every now and then he raises that -swollen brow, and his large blue eyes—which express such real -kindness when we do not torment him with our tricks—search the -room and observe in turn each of the thirty-five desks. I, too, take a -prolonged survey of the companions of my slavery; I already know their -faces. There is Rocquain, a little fellow, with a big red nose in a long -white face; and Parizelle, a tall, stout boy, with an underhung jaw. He -is fair-skinned, has green eyes and freckles, and for a wager ate a -cockroach the other day. There is Gervais, a brown, curly-haired lad, -who makes his will every week. He has communicated to me the latest of -these documents, in which there is the following clause: "I leave to -Leyreloup some good advice, contained in my letter to Cornélis." -Leyreloup is his former friend, who played him the trick of rolling him -in a heap of dead leaves last autumn, having been egged on to the deed -by big Parizelle, whom the vengeful Gervais ever since regards as a -rascal, and the advice contained in the posthumous letter is a warning -to distrust the giant. All this small school-world is absorbed in -countless interests which even at that time I held to be puerile, when -compared with the thoughts that are in me. And my schoolfellows -themselves seem to understand that there is something in my life which -does not exist in theirs; they spare me the torments that are generally -inflicted upon a new boy, but I am not the friend of any of them, except -this same Gervais, who is my walking companion when we go out. Gervais -is an imaginative lad, and when he is at home he devours a collection of -the <i>Journal pour Tous</i>. He has found in it a series of romances -called "L'Homme aux Figures de Cire," "Le Roi des Gabiers," "Le Chat du -Bord," and Thursday after Thursday, when we go out walking, he relates -these stories to me. The tragic strain of my own fate is the cause of my -taking a grim pleasure in these narratives, in which crime plays the -chief part. Unfortunately I have confided the secret of this -questionable amusement to my good aunt, and the head master has -separated the improvised feuilletoniste from his public. Gervais and I -are forbidden to walk together. My aunt believed that the excess of -sensitiveness in me, which alarmed her, would be corrected by this. -Neither her solicitous tenderness, nor her pious care and -foresight—she comes to Versailles from Compiègne every Sunday to -take me out—nor my studies—for I redouble my efforts so that -my stepfather should not triumph in my bad marks—nor my religious -enthusiasm—for I have become the most fervent of us all at the -chapel—no, nothing, nothing appeases the hidden demon which -possesses and devours me. While the evening studies are going on, and in -the interval between two tasks, I read a letter from Italy. This is my -food for the week, conveyed in pages written by my mother. They give me -details of her travels, which I do not understand very clearly; but I do -understand that she is happy without me, outside of me—that the -thought of my father and his mysterious death no longer haunts her; -above all, that she loves her new husband, and I am -jealous—miserably, basely jealous. My imagination, which has its -strange lapses, has also a singular minuteness. I see my mother in a -room in a foreign inn, and spread out upon the table are the various -fittings of her travelling-bag, silver-mounted, with her cipher in -relief, the Christian name in full, and encircling it the letter T. -Marie T——. Well, had she not the right to make a new life -for herself, honourably? Why should this mixture of her past with her -present hurt me so much? So much, that just now, when stretched upon my -narrow iron bed in the dormitory, I could not close my eyes. -</p> - -<p> -How long those nights seemed to me, when I lay down oppressed by this -thought, and strove in vain to lose it in the sweet oblivion of sleep! I -prayed to God for sleep, with all the strength of my childlike piety. I -said mentally twelve times twelve <i>Paters</i> and <i>Aves</i>—and -I did not sleep. I then tried to "form a chimera;" for thus I called a -strange faculty with which I knew myself to be endowed. When I was quite a -little boy, on an occasion when I was suffering from toothache, I had -shut my eyes, forcibly abstracted my mind, and compelled it to represent -a happy scene in which I was the chief actor. Thus I was enabled to -overrule my sensations to the point of becoming insensible to the -toothache. Now, whenever I suffer, I do the same, and the device is -almost always successful. I employ it in vain when my mother is in -question. Instead of the picture of felicity which I evoke, the other -picture presents itself to me, that of the intimate life of the being -whom in all the world I most love, with the man whom I most hate. For I -hate him, with an implacable hatred, and without being able to assign -any other motive than that he has taken the first place in the heart -which was all my own. Ah, me! I shall hear the slow hours struck, first -from the belfry of a church hard by, and then by the school-clock—a -grave and sonorous chime, then a treble ringing. I shall hear old -Sorbelle walk through the whole length of the dormitory, and then go -into the room which he occupies at the far end. How dull is the -spectacle of the two rows of our little beds, with their brass knobs -shining in the dim light; and how odious it is to be listening to the -snores of the sleepers! At measured intervals the watchman, an old -soldier with a big face and thick black moustaches, passes. He is -wrapped in a brown cloth cape, and carries a dark lantern. Can it be -that he is not afraid, all alone, at night, in those long passages, and -on the stone staircases, where the wind rushes about with a dismal -noise? How I should hate to be obliged to go down those stairs, -shuddering in that darkness with the fear of meeting a ghost! I try to -drive away this new idea, but in vain, and then I think. . . . Where is -he who killed my father? Is it with fear, is it with horror that I -shudder at this question? And I go on thinking. . . . Does he know that -I am here? Panic seizes upon me, with the idea that the assassin might -be capable of assuming the disguise of a school servant, for the purpose -of killing me also. I commend my soul to God, and in the midst of these -awful thoughts I fall asleep at length, very late, to be awakened with a -start at half-past five in the morning, with an aching head, shaken -nerves, and an ailing mind, sick of a disease which is beyond cure. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="VI">VI</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Three years have passed away since the autumnal evening on which a -hackney-coach had set down my stepfather and myself in that corner of -one of the gloomy avenues of Old Versailles, which is made more gloomy -by the walls of the school. I was to have remained at this school for ten -months only—the period of my mother's stay in Italy. That evening -was in the autumn of 1866; we are now in the winter of 1870, and I have -been all this time imprisoned in the Lycée, "where the air is so good, -and I get on so well." These are the reasons assigned by my mother for -not taking me back to her home. My schoolfellows pass before me in the -twilight of remembrance of that distant time. Rocquain, more pasty-faced -than ever, with his comic-actor-like red nose, sings café-concert -songs, smokes cigarettes in secret places, and collects the photographs -of actresses. Gervais, still brown and surly, has a passion for races, -at which he is always playing, and is reconciled with Leyreloup, "the -hedgehog," as we call him, whom he has infected with his dangerous -mania. The two are constantly arranging insect or tortoise -steeple-chases. They have even contrived a betting system, and ten of us -have joined in it. The game is played by placing in front of a -dictionary several bits of paper with the name of a horse written upon -each of them. The dictionary is then opened and shut rapidly, and the -bit of paper which is blown farthest away by the little breeze thus -created, is the winner, and the boys who have backed it divide the -stakes. Parizelle is bigger than ever; at sixteen he is already growing -a beard, and has been entertained by some military acquaintances at a -certain café, which he points out to us when we take our weekly walks. -As for myself, I have a new friend, one Joseph Dediot, who has -introduced me to some of the verses of De Musset. We go wild over this -poet. Dediot's place in the schoolroom is by the side of Scelles, the -bookseller's son, whom we call Bel-Œil, because he squints. Bel-Œil is -as lazy as a lobster, and Dediot has made the oddest bargain with him. -Dediot does all his exercises, and in return for each, Bel-Œil hands -over to him a copy of twenty lines of Rolla. In exchange for I know not -how many versions, themes, and Latin verses, my friend has at last -secured the entire poem, and we spout its most characteristic lines -enthusiastically. -</p> - -<p> -We have become sceptics and misanthropes. We play at despairing Atheism -just as Parizelle and Rocquain play at debauchery, Gervais and others at -sport and fashion, politics and love. Old Sorbelle, having been -dismissed from the Lycée, has just published a pamphlet in which he -figures under the name of Lebros, and the Provost under that of M. -Bifteck. This little book occupies our attention throughout the whole -winter, and induces us to form a conspiracy which leads to nothing. Here -we are, then, playing at revolution! What a strange discipline is that -of those infamous schools, where young boys ruin their years of unhappy -youth by the puerile and premature imitation of passions from which they -will have to suffer in reality some day, just as children, who are -destined to die in war as men, play at soldiers, with their flaxen curls -and their ringing laughter! Alas! for me the game was over too soon. -</p> - -<p> -Nevertheless, this shabby, dull, mean school was my home, the only place -in which I felt myself really "at home," and I loved it. Yes, I loved -that hulks which was also partly barracks and partly hospital, because -there at all events I was not perpetually confronted with the evidence -of my double misfortune. After all, the influence of my age made itself -felt there, the nervous strain upon me was relaxed, and I escaped from -the fixed idea of the murderer of my father to be discovered, and my -stepfather to be detested. My half-holidays were such misery to me that -they would have made me dread the termination of my school-time, only -that I knew the same date would place me in possession of my fortune, -enabling me to devote myself entirely to the supreme aim and purpose of -my life. I had sworn to myself that the mysterious assassin whom justice -had failed to discover should be unearthed by me, and I derived -extraordinary moral strength from that resolution, which I kept strictly -to myself, without ever speaking of it. This, however, did not prevent -me from suffering from trifles, whenever those trifles were signs of my -doubly-orphaned state. How clearly present to me now are the torments of -those sortie days! When the servant who was to take me to my mother's -abode comes to fetch me on those Sunday mornings at eight, his careless -manner makes me feel that I am no longer the son of the house. This -wretch, this François Niquet, with his shaven chin and his insolent -eye, does not remove his hat when I come down into the parlour. -Sometimes, when the weather is bad, he presumes to grumble, and, -although the smell of tobacco makes me sick, he lights his pipe in the -railway carriage, and smokes without asking my leave. I would rather die -than make any observation upon this, because I had once complained of my -stepfather's valet, a vile fellow whom they made out to be in the right -as against me, and I then and there resolved that never again would I -expose myself to a similar affront. Besides, I had already suffered too -much, and thus to suffer teaches one to feel contempt. The train -proceeds, and I do not exchange a dozen words with the fellow. I know -that I am regarded as proud and unamiable; but the same bent of mind -which made me sullen when quite a child, now makes me take a pleasure in -displeasing those whom I dislike. Amid silence and the reek of coarse -tobacco, we reach the Montparnasse Station, where no carriage ever -awaits me, no matter how bad the weather may be. We take the Boulevard -Latour-Maubourg, and pass by the long avenues lined with buildings, -hospitals, and bric-à-brac shops, turn down by the Church of Saint -François Xavier, cross the Place des Invalides, and reach the door of -our hotel. I hate the concierge, also a creature of M. Termonde's, and -his broad flat face, in which I read hostility which is no doubt -absolute indifference. But everything transforms itself into a sign of -enmity, to my mind, from the faces of the servants, even to the aspect -of my own room. M. Termonde has taken my own dear old room from me; a -large handsome room, which used to be flooded with sunshine, with a -window opening on the garden, and a door communicating with my mother's -apartment. I now occupy a sort of large closet, with a northern aspect -and no view except that of a wood-stack. When I reach home on those -Sunday mornings, I have to go straight to this room and wait there until -my mother has risen and can receive me. No one has taken the trouble to -light a fire; so I ask for one, and while the servant is blowing at the -logs, I take a chair, and gaze at the portrait of my father, which is -now banished to my quarters after having figured for so long upon an -easel draped with black, in my mother's morning-room. The odour of damp -wood in process of kindling is mingled with the musty flavour of the -room, which has been shut up all the week. I have some bitter moments to -pass there. These mean miseries make me feel the moral forsakenness of -my position more keenly, more cruelly. And my mother lives, she breathes -at the distance of a few steps from me; yes, and she loves me! -</p> - -<p> -Now that I can cast a look back upon my unhappy youth, I am aware that -my own temper had much to do with the misunderstanding between my poor -mother and myself which has never ceased to exist. Yes, she loved me, -and at the same time she loved her husband. It was for me to explain to -her the sort of pain she caused me by uniting and mingling those two -affections in her heart. She would have understood me, she would have -spared me the series of small dumb troubles that ultimately made any -explanation between us impossible. When at length I saw her on those -"sortie" days, at about eleven, just before breakfast, she expected me -to meet her with effusive delight; how should she know that the presence -of her husband paralysed me, just as it had done when we parted before -her journey to Italy? There was an incomprehensible mystery to her in -that absolute incapacity for revealing my mind, that stony inertness -which overwhelmed me so soon as we were not alone, she and I—and -we were never alone. She used to come to see me at Versailles once a -week, on Wednesday, and it hardly ever happened that she came without my -stepfather. I never wrote a letter to her that she did not show to her -husband; indeed, he saw every letter which she received. How well I knew -this habit of hers, how she would say, "André has written to me," and -then hand to him the sheet of paper on which I could not trace one -sincere, heartfelt, trustful line, because of the idea that his eyes -were to rest upon it! How many notes have I torn up in which I tried to -tell her the story of the troubles amid which I lived! Yes, yes, I ought -to have spoken to her, nevertheless, to have explained myself a little, -confessed my sufferings, my wild jealousy, my brooding grief, my great -need of having a corner in her thoughts for myself alone, were it only -pity—but I dared not. It was in my nature to feel the pain that I -must cause her by speaking thus, too strongly, and I was unable to bear -it. All the various trouble of my heart then was bound up in a timid -silence, in embarrassment in her presence which affected herself. Like -many women she was unable to understand a disposition different from her -own, a manner of feeling opposed to hers. She was happy in her second -marriage, she loved, she was loved. In M. Termonde she had met a man to -whom she had given her whole self, but she had also given to me freely, -lavishly. I was her son, it seemed so natural to her that he whom she -loved should also love her child. And, in fact, had not M. Termonde been -to me a vigilant and irreproachable protector? Had he not carefully -provided for every detail of my education? No doubt he had insisted upon -my being sent to school as a boarder, but I had also been of his opinion -as to that. He had chosen masters for me in all branches of instruction; -I learned fencing, riding, dancing, music, foreign languages. He had -attended to, and he continued to attend to, the smallest details, from -the New Year's gift that I was to receive—it was always very -handsome—to the fixing of my allowance, my "week," as we called -it, which was paid on each Thursday, at the highest figure permitted by -the rules of the Lycée. Never had this man, who was so imperious by -nature, raised his voice in speaking to me. Never once since his -marriage had he varied from the most perfect politeness towards me; a -woman who was in love with him would naturally see in this a proof of -exquisite tact and devoted affection. Put my grievances against my -stepfather into words? No, I could not do it. And so I was silent, and -how was my mother to explain my sullenness, the absence of any -demonstrativeness on my part towards my stepfather otherwise than by my -selfishness and want of feeling? She did believe me, in fact, to be a -selfish and unfeeling boy, and I, owing to my unhealthy mood of mind, -felt that when I was in her presence I really became what she believed -me. I shrank into myself like a surly animal. But why did she not spare -me those trials which completed our alienation from each other? Why, -when we met on those wretched Sundays, did she not contrive that I -should have the five minutes alone with her that would have enabled me, -not to talk to her—I did not ask so much—but to embrace her, -as I loved her, with all my heart? I came into the room which she had -transformed into a private sitting-room—in every corner of it I -had played at my free pleasure when I, the spoiled child whose lightest -wish was a command, was the master—and there was M. Termonde in -his morning costume, smoking cigarettes and reading newspapers. It -needed nothing but the rustic of the sheet in his hand, the tone of his -voice as he bade me good-day, the touch of his fingers—he merely -gave me their tips—and I recoiled upon myself. So strong was my -antipathy that I never remember to have eaten with a good appetite at -the same table with him. My wretchedness was at its height during those -Sunday breakfasts and dinners. Ah, I hated everything about him; his -blue eyes, almost too far apart, which were sometimes fixed, and at -others rolled slightly in their orbits, his high prominent forehead, and -prematurely grey hair, the refinement of his features, and the elegance -of his manners, such a contrast with my natural dulness and lack of -ease—yes, I hated all these, and even to the finely-shaped foot -which was set off by his perfect boots. I think that even now, at this -present hour, I should recognise a coat he had worn, among a thousand, -so living a thing has a garment of his seemed to me, under the influence -of that aversion. Only too well did I, with my filial instinct, realise -that he, with his slender graceful figure, his feline movements, his -flattering voice, his native and acquired aristocratic ways, was the -true husband of the lovely, highly-adorned, almost ideal creature whom -I, her son, resembled as little as my poor father had resembled her. Ah, -how bitter was that knowledge! -</p> - -<p> -Out of the depths of the silence which I preserved on those wretched -half-holidays, I followed with intense interest all the conversations -that took place before me, especially during breakfast and dinner, in -the dining-room—newly furnished, like all the rest of the house. The -hours of those meals were no longer the hours of my father's time. This -change, and the new furnishing of our dwelling, typified the newness of -my mother's life. M. Termonde, who was the son of a stockbroker, and had -been for some time in diplomacy, had kept up social relations of a kind -quite different from our former ones. My mother and he went frequently -into that mixed and cosmopolitan society which was then, and is now, -called "smart." What had become of the familiar faces at the dinners, -few and far between, which my father used to give at the Rue Tronchet? -Those dinner parties consisted of three or four persons, the ladies in -high gowns, and the gentlemen in morning dress. The talk was of politics -and business; a former Minister of King Louis Philippe's, who had gone -back to his practice at the bar, was the oracle of the little circle; -and the dinner hour was half-past six, instead of seven, on those days, -because the old statesman always retired to rest at ten o'clock. In the -wealthy but plain bourgeois life of our home, to go to a theatre was an -event, and a ball formed an epoch. Thus, at least, did things represent -themselves to my childish mind. Now the old ex-Minister came to the -house no more, nor Mdme. Largeyx, the engineer's widow, whom papa was -always quoting to mamma as a model, and whom my mother laughingly called -her "mother-in-law." Now, my mother and my stepfather went out almost -every evening. They had horses and several carriages, instead of the -coupé hired by the month with which the wife of the renowned lawyer had -been content. All the men who came in after dinner, all the women whom I -met at six o'clock in my mother's drawing-room, were young and full of -life and spirits, and their talk was solely of amusements; new plays, -fancy balls, races, and dress. My father, who was full of the ideas of -the Monarchy of July, like his old political friend, used to speak -severely of the imperial régime; but now, my mother was invited to the -great receptions at the Tuileries. How could I have ventured to talk to -her about the small miseries of my school life, which seemed to me so -mean when I contrasted them with her brilliant and opulent existence? -Formerly, when I was a day pupil at the Bonaparte, I used to relate to -her every trifle concerning the school and my fellow pupils; but now, I -should have been ashamed to bore her with Rocquain, Gervais, Leyreloup, -and the rest. It seemed to me that she could not possibly be interested -in the story of how Joseph Dediot had been traitorously deserted by his -faithless cousin Cécile; and yet, how tragic the case was, to my mind! -Notwithstanding that two locks of hair had been exchanged, a bouquet -offered and accepted, a kiss snatched and returned, the false girl had -married an apothecary at Avranches. Dediot had even written two poems, -inspired by his misfortune, and one of them, dedicated to me, began -thus: -</p> - -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i2">Sèche ton cœur, André, ne sois jamais aimant.</span> -</div></div> - -<p> -How could I have talked of all these small things to a lady who dined -with the Duchesse d'Arcole, whose intimate friends were a Maréchale and -two Marquises, and whose entertainments were described in the society -journals? My mother was now the beautiful Madame Termonde, and so -completely had her new name replaced the old, that I was almost the only -person who remembered she was also the widow of M. Cornélis, he whose -tragical death had been related in the very same newspapers. Had she -herself forgotten it? -</p> - -<p> -"Forgetfulness! Is this then in all reality the world's law?" I asked -myself, with the indignant revolt of a young heart, which does not admit -the inevitable compromises of feeling. And I made answer to myself, No! -There was one person who remembered as well as I did, one person to whom -my father's death still remained a hideous nightmare, one person to whom I -could tell all my thoughts and all my grief—my dear, good, kind aunt. -In her case at least all the fond and tender things of the past remained -unchanged. When August came, and I went to Compiègne for a portion of -my holidays, I found everything in its place, both in the house and in -the heart of the dear old maid. -</p> - -<p> -For my sake, I knew it well, she had consented to keep up her former -relations with my mother, and she dined with her three or four times a -year. Dear Aunt Louise! She would listen with the utmost kindness to all -my childish complaints, and she always sent me home softened, almost -appeased; more indulgent towards my mother, and convinced that I was -wrong in my judgment of M. Termonde. -</p> - -<p> -Nevertheless, I did not tell Aunt Louise anything about my reprisals -upon the man whom I accused of having stolen my mother's heart from me. -I had perceived, very soon, certain signs of an antipathy towards myself -on the part of my stepfather, similar to that which I entertained -towards him. When I came rather suddenly into the salon, and he was -engaged in a conversation either with my mother or one of his friends, -my presence sufficed to cause a slight alteration in his voice; a change -which, most likely, no one else would have perceived, but which did not -escape me, for did not my own throat contract, and my lips quiver with -sheer abhorrence? -</p> - -<p> -I should not have been the sullen and resentful boy I then was, if I had -not planned how to utilise my strange power of disturbing the man whom I -execrated, in the interest of my enmity. My system was to force him to -feel the acute sensation which my presence inflicted on him, by keeping -silence, and steadily pursuing him with my gaze. Great as his -self-control was, I never fixed my eyes upon him from the far end of the -room, but, after a while, he would turn his eyes towards me. Then his -glance avoided mine, and he would go on talking; but still he was -looking at me, and presently our eyes would meet, and his would shift -away again. I knew, by a frown which gathered on his forehead, that he -was on the point of forbidding me to look at him in that way; but then -he would put strong restraint upon himself, and sometimes he would leave -the room. -</p> - -<p> -That abstention from any kind of struggle with me was a fixed resolution -on his part, I guessed, because I knew him to be very determined by -nature, and especially incapable of enduring that any one should brave -him. He was fond of relating how, in his youth, when he was attached to -the Embassy at Madrid, he had killed a bull at an amateur "ring," on -being "dared" to do it by a young Spaniard. It must have hurt his pride -severely to permit me the silent insolence of my eyes; he did allow me -to indulge it, however, and I did not acknowledge that petty triumph to -Aunt Louise. I must set down everything here, and the truth is I was -most unhappy; I knew myself to be so, and I did not lessen my trouble in -the least in dilating upon it; on the contrary, I rather exaggerated it -so as to win that tender sympathy which did my sore heart good. -</p> - -<p> -I once spoke to her of the vow I had taken, the solemn promise I had -made to myself that I would discover the murderer of my father, and take -vengeance upon him, and she laid her hand upon my mouth. She was a pious -woman, and she repeated the words of the gospel: "Vengeance is mine, -saith the Lord." Then she added: "We must leave the punishment of the -crime to Him; His will is hidden from us. Remember the divine precept -and promise, 'Forgive and you shall be forgiven.' Never say: 'An eye for -an eye, a tooth for a tooth.' Ah, no; drive this enmity out of your -heart, Cornélis; yes, even this." And there were tears in her eyes. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="VII">VII</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -My poor aunt! She thought me made of stronger stuff than I really was. -There was no need of her advice to prevent my being consumed by the -desire for vengeance which had been the fixed star of my early youth, -the blood-coloured beacon aflame in my night. Ah! the resolutions of -boyhood, the "oaths of Hannibal" taken to ourselves, the dream of devoting -all our strength to one single and unchanging aim—life sweeps -all that away, together with our generous illusions, ardent enthusiasm, -and noble hopes. What a difference there is between the boy of fifteen, -unhappy indeed, but so bold and proud in 1870, and the young man of -eight years later, in 1878! And to think, only to think, that but for -chance occurrences, impossible to foresee, I should still be, at this -hour, the young man whose portrait hangs upon the wall above the table -at which I am writing. Of a surety, the visitors to the Salon of that -year (1878) who looked at this portrait among so many others, had no -suspicion that it represented the son of a father who had come to so -tragic an end. And I, when I look at that commonplace image of an -ordinary Parisian, with eyes unlit by any fire or force of will, -complexion paled by senseless dissipation, hair cut in the fashion of -the day, strictly correct dress and attitude, I am astonished to think -that I could have lived as I actually did live at that period. Between -the misfortunes that saddened my childhood, and those of quite recent -date which have finally laid waste my life, the course of my existence -was colourless, monotonous, vulgar, just like that of anybody else. I -shall merely note the stages of it. -</p> - -<p> -In the second half of 1870 the Franco-Prussian war takes place. The -invasion finds me at Compiègne, where I am passing my holidays with my -aunt. My stepfather and my mother remain in Paris during the siege. I go -on with my studies under the tuition of an old priest belonging to the -little town, who prepared my father for his first communion. In the -autumn of 1871 I return to Versailles; in August, 1873, I take my -bachelor's degree, and then I do my one year's voluntary service in the -army at Angers under the easiest possible conditions. My colonel was the -father of my old schoolfellow, Rocquain. In 1874 I am set free from -tutelage by my stepfather's advice. This was the moment at which my task -was to have been begun, the time appointed with my own soul; yet, four -years afterwards, in 1878, not only was the vengeance that had been the -tragic romance, and, so to speak, the religion of my childhood, -unfulfilled, but I did not trouble myself about it. -</p> - -<p> -I was cruelly ashamed of my indifference when I thought about it; but I -am now satisfied that it was not so much the result of weakness of -character as of causes apart from myself which would have acted in the -same way upon any young man placed in my situation. From the first, and -when I faced my task of vengeance, an insurmountable obstacle arose -before me. It is equally easy and sublime to strike an attitude and -exclaim: "I swear that I will never rest until I have punished the -guilty one." In reality, one never acts except in detail, and what could -I do? I had to proceed in the same way as justice had proceeded, to -reopen the inquiry which had been pushed to its extremity without any -result. -</p> - -<p> -I began with the Judge of Instruction, who had had the carriage of the -matter, and who was now a Counsellor of the Court. He was a man of -fifty, very quiet and plain in his way, and he lived in the Ile de -Paris, on the first floor of an ancient house, from whose windows he -could see Nôtre Dame, primitive Paris, and the Seine, which is as -narrow as a canal at that place. -</p> - -<p> -M. Massol, so he was named, was quite willing to resume with me the -analysis of the data which had been furnished by the Instruction. No -doubt existed either as to the personality of the assassin, or the hour -at which the crime was committed. My father had been killed between two -and three o'clock in the day, without a struggle, by that tall, -broad-shouldered personage whose extraordinary disguise indicated, -according to the magistrate, "an amateur." Excess of complication is -always an imprudence, for it multiplies the chances of failure. Had the -assassin dyed his skin and worn a wig because my father knew him by -sight? To this M. Massol said "No; for M. Cornélis, who was very observant, -and who, besides, was on his guard—this is evident from his last -words when he left you—would have recognised him by his voice, his -glance, and his attitude. A man cannot change his height and his figure, -although he may change his face." M. Massol's theory of this disguise -was that the wearer had adopted it in order to gain time to get out of -France, should the corpse be discovered on the day of the murder. -Supposing that a description of a man with a very brown complexion and a -black beard had been telegraphed in every direction, the assassin, -having washed off his paint, laid aside his wig and beard, and put on -other clothes, might have crossed the frontier without arousing the -slightest suspicion. There was reason to believe that the pretended -Rochdale lived abroad. He had spoken in English at the hotel, and the -people there had taken him for an American; it was therefore presumable -either that he was a native of the United States, or that he habitually -resided there. The criminal was, then, a foreigner, American or English, -or perhaps a Frenchman settled in America. As for the motive of so -complicated a crime, it was difficult to admit that it could be robbery -alone. "And yet," observed the Judge of Instruction, "we do not know -what the note-case carried off by the assassin contained. But," he added, -"the hypothesis of robbery seems to me to be utterly routed by the fact -that, while Rochdale stripped the dead man of his watch, he left a ring, -which was much more valuable, on his finger. From this I conclude that -he took the watch merely as a precaution to throw the police off the -scent. My supposition is that the man killed M. Cornélis for revenge." -</p> - -<p> -Then the former Judge of Instruction gave me some singular examples of -the resentment cherished against medical experts employed in legal -cases, Procureurs of the Republic, and Presidents of Assize. His theory -was, that in the course of his practice at the bar my father might have -excited resentment of a fierce and implacable kind; for he had won many -suits of importance, and no doubt had made enemies of those against whom -he employed his great powers. Supposing one of those persons, being -ruined by the result, had attributed that ruin to my father, there would -be an explanation of all the apparatus of this deadly vengeance. M. -Massol begged me to observe that the assassin, whether he were a -foreigner or not, was known in Paris. Why, if this were not so, should -the man have so carefully avoided being seen in the street? He had been -traced out during his first stay in Paris, when he bought the wig and -the beard, and that time he put up at a small hotel in the Rue d'Aboukir -under the name of Rochdale, and invariably went out in a cab. "Observe -also," said the Judge, "that he kept his room on the day before the -murder, and on the morning of the actual day. He breakfasted in his -apartment, having breakfasted and dined there the day before. But, when -he was in London, and when he lived at the hotel to which your father -addressed his first letters, he came and went without any precautions." -</p> - -<p> -And this was all. The addresses of three hotels—such were the meagre -particulars that formed the whole of the information to which I listened -with passionate eagerness; the magistrate had no more to tell me. He had -small, twinkling, very light eyes, and his smooth face wore an -expression of extreme keenness. His language was measured, his general -demeanour was cold, obliging, and mild, he was always closely shaven, -and in him one recognised at once the well-balanced and methodical mind -which had given him great professional weight. He acknowledged that he -had been unable to discover anything, even after a close analysis of the -whole existing situation of my father, as well as his past. -</p> - -<p> -"Ah, I have thought a great deal about this affair," said he, adding -that before he resigned his post as Judge of Instruction he had -carefully reperused the notes of the case. He had again questioned the -concierge of the Imperial Hotel and other persons. Since he had become -Counsellor to the Court, he had indicated to his successor what he -believed to be a clue; a robbery committed by a carefully made up -Englishman had led him to believe the thief to be identical with the -pretended Rochdale. Then there was nothing more. These steps had, -however, been of use inasmuch as they barred the rule of limitation, and -he laid stress on that fact. I consulted him then as to how much time -still remained for me to seek out the truth on my own account. The last -Act of Instruction dated from 1873, so that I had until 1883 to discover -the criminal and deliver him up to public justice. What madness! Ten -years had already elapsed since the crime, and I, all alone, -insignificant, not possessed of the vast resources at the disposal of -the police, I presumed to imagine that I should triumph, where so -skilful a ferret as he had failed! Folly! Yes; it was so. Nevertheless, -I tried. -</p> - -<p> -I began a thorough and searching investigation of all the dead man's -papers. With that unbounded tenderness of hers for my stepfather, which -made me so miserable, my mother had placed all these papers in M. -Termonde's keeping. Alas! Why should she have understood those niceties -of feeling on my part, which rendered the fusion of her present with her -past so repugnant to me, any more clearly on this point than on any -other? M. Termonde had at least scrupulously respected the whole of -those papers, from plans of association and prospectuses to private -letters. Among the latter were several from M. Termonde himself, which -bore testimony to the friendship that had formerly subsisted between my -mother's first husband and her second. Had I not known this always? Why -should I suffer from the knowledge? And still there was nothing, no -indication whatever to put me on the track of a suspicion. -</p> - -<p> -I evoked the image of my father as he lived, just as I had seen him for -the last time; I heard him replying to M. Termonde's question in the -dining-room of the Rue Tronchet, and speaking of the man who awaited him -to kill him: "A singular man whom I shall not be sorry to observe more -closely." And then he had gone out and was walking towards his death -while I was playing in the little salon, and my mother was talking to -the friend who was one day to be her master and mine. What a happy -home-picture, while in that hotel room—— Ah! was I never to -find the key of the terrible enigma? Where was I to go? What was I to do? -At what door was I to knock? -</p> - -<p> -At the same time that a sense of the responsibility of my task -disheartened me, the novel facilities of my new way of life contributed -to relax the tension of my will. During my school days, the sufferings I -underwent from jealousy of my stepfather, the disappointment of my -repressed affections, the meanness and penury of my surroundings, many -grievous influences, had maintained the restless ardour of my feelings; -but this also had undergone a change. No doubt I still continued to love -my mother deeply and painfully, but I now no longer asked her for what I -knew she would not give me, my unshared place, a separate shrine in her -heart. I accepted her nature instead of rebelling against it. Neither -had I ceased to regard my stepfather with morose antipathy; but I no -longer hated him with the old vehemence. Mis conduct to me after I had -left school was irreproachable. Just as in my childhood, he had made it -a point of honour never to raise his voice in speaking to me, so he now -seemed to pique himself upon an entire absence of interference in my -life as a young man. When, having passed my baccalaureate, I announced -that I did not wish to adopt any profession, but without a reason—the -true one was my resolution to devote myself entirely to the fulfilment -of my task of justice—he had not a word to say against that strange -decision; nay, more, he brought my mother to consent to it. When my -fortune was handed over to me, I found that my mother, who had acted as -my guardian, and my stepfather, her co-trustee, had agreed not to touch -my funds during the whole period of my education; the interest had been -re-invested, and I came into possession, not of 750,000 francs, but of -more than a million. Painful as I felt the obligation of gratitude -towards the man whom I had for years regarded as my enemy, I was bound -to acknowledge that he had acted an honourable part towards me. I was -well aware that no real contradiction existed between these high-minded -actions and the harshness with which he had imprisoned me at school, -and, so to speak, relegated me to exile. Provided that I renounced all -attempts to form a third between him and his wife, he would have no -relations with me but those of perfect courtesy; but I must not be in my -mother's house. His will was to reign entirely alone over the heart and -life of the woman who bore his name. How could I have contended with -him? Why, too, should I have blamed him, since I knew so well that in -his place, jealous as I was, my own conduct would have been exactly -similar? I yielded, therefore, because I was powerless to contend with a -love which made my mother happy; because I was weary of keeping up the -daily constraint of my relations with her and him, and also because I -hoped that when once I was free I should be better fitted for my task as -a doer of justice. I myself asked to be permitted to leave the house, so -that at nineteen I possessed absolute independence, an apartment of my -own in the Avenue Montaigne, close to the round-point in the Champs -Élysées, a yearly income of 50,000 francs, the entrée to all the -salons frequented by my mother, and the entrée, too, to all the places -at which one may amuse one's self. How could I have resisted the -influences of such a position? -</p> - -<p> -Yes, I had dreamed of being an avenger, a justiciary, and I allowed -myself to be caught up almost instantly into the whirlwind of that life -of pleasure whose destructive power those who see it only from the -outside cannot measure. It is a futile and exacting existence which -fritters away your hours as it fritters away your mind, ravelling out -the stuff of time thread by thread with irreparable loss, and also the -more precious stuff of mental and moral strength. With respect to that -task of mine, my task as an avenger, I was incapable of immediate -action—what and whom was I to attack? And so I availed myself of all -the opportunities that presented themselves of disguising my inaction by -movement, and soon the days began to hurry on, and press one upon the -other, amid those innumerable, amusements of which the idle rich made a -code of duties to be performed. What with the morning ride in the Bois, -afternoon calls, dinner parties, parties to the theatre and after -midnight, play at the club, or the pursuit of pleasure elsewhere—how -was I to find leisure for the carrying out of a project? I had horses, -intrigues, an absurd duel in which I acquitted myself well, because, as -I believe, the tragic ideas that were always at the bottom of my life -favoured me. A woman of forty persuaded me that I was her first love, -and I became her lover; then I persuaded myself that I was in love with -a Russian great lady, who was living in Paris. The latter was—indeed -she still is—one of those incomparable actresses in society, who, in -order to surround themselves with a sort of court, composed of admirers -who are more or less rewarded, employ all the allurements of luxury, -wit, and beauty; but who have not a particle of either imagination or -heart, although they fascinate by a display of the most refined fancies -and the most vivid emotions. I led the life of a slave to the caprices -of this soulless coquette for nearly six months, and learned that women -of "the world" and women of "the half-world" are very much alike in -point of worth. The former are intolerable on account of their lies, -their assumption, and their vanity; the others are equally odious by -reason of their vulgarity, their stupidity, and their sordid love of -lucre. I forgot all my absurd relations with women of both orders in the -excitement of play, and yet I was well aware of the meanness of that -diversion, which only ceases to be insipid when if becomes odious, -because it is a clever calculation upon money to be gained without -working for it. There was in me something at once wildly dissipated and -yet disgusted, which drove me to excess, and at the same time inspired -me with bitter self-contempt. In the innermost recesses of my being the -memory of my father dwelt, and poisoned my thoughts at their source. An -impression of dark fatalism invaded my sick mind; it was so strange that -I should live as I was living, nevertheless, I did live thus, and the -visible "I" had but little likeness to the real. Upon me, then, poor -creature that I was, as upon the whole universe, a fate rested. "Let it -drive me," I said, and yielded myself up to it. I went to sleep, -pondering upon ideas of the most sombre philosophy, and I awoke to -resume an existence without worth or dignity, in which I was losing not -only my power of carrying out my design of reparation towards the -phantom which haunted my dreams, but all self-esteem, and all -conscience. Who could have helped me reascend this fatal stream? My -mother? She saw nothing but the fashionable exterior of my life, and she -congratulated herself that I had "ceased to be a savage." My stepfather? -But he had been, voluntarily or not, favourable to my disorderly life. -Had he not made me master of my fortune at the most dangerous age? Had -he not procured me admission, at the earliest moment, to the clubs to -which he belonged, and in every way facilitated my entrance into -society? My aunt? Ah, yes, my aunt was grieved by my mode of life; and -yet, was she not glad that at any rate I had forgotten the dark -resolution of hate that had always frightened her? And, besides, I -hardly ever saw her now. My visits to Compiègne were few, for I was at -the age when one always finds time for one's pleasures, but never has -any for one's nearest duties. If, indeed, there was a voice that was -constantly lifted up against the waste of my life in vulgar pleasures, -it was that of the dead, who slept in the day, unavenged; that voice -rose, rose, rose unceasingly, from the depths of all my musings, but I -had accustomed myself to pay it no heed, to make it no answer. Was it my -fault that everything, from the most important to the smallest -circumstance, conspired to paralyse my will? And so I existed, in a sort -of torpor which was not dispelled even by the hurly-burly of my mock -passions and my mock pleasures. -</p> - -<p> -The falling of a thunderbolt awoke me from this craven slumber of the -will. My aunt Louise was seized with paralysis, towards the end of that -sad year 1878, in the month of December. I had come in at night, or -rather in the morning, having won a large sum at play. Several letters -and also a telegram awaited me. I tore open the blue envelope, while I -hummed the air of a fashionable song, with a cigarette between my lips, -untroubled by an idea that I was about to be apprised of an event which -would become, after my father's death and my mother's second marriage, -the third great date in my life. The telegram was signed by Julie, my -former nurse, and it told me that my aunt had been taken ill quite -suddenly, also that I must come at once, although there was a hope of -her recovery. This bad news was the more terrible to me because I had -received a letter from my aunt just a week previously, and in it the -dear old lady complained, as usual, that I did not come to see her. My -answer to her letter was lying half-written upon my writing-table. I had -not finished it; God knows for what futile reason. It needs the advent -of that dread visitant, Death, to make us understand that we ought to -make good haste and love well those whom we do love, if we would not -have them pass away from us for ever, before we have loved them enough. -Bitter remorse, in that I had not proved to her sufficiently how dear -she was to me, increased my anxiety about my aunt's state. It was two -o'clock A.M., the first train for Compiègne did not start until six; in -the interval she might die. Those were very long hours of waiting, which -I killed by turning over in my mind all my shortcomings towards my -father's only sister, my sole kinswoman. The possibility of an -irrevocable parting made me regard myself as utterly ungrateful! My -mental pain grew keener when I was in the train speeding through the -cold dawn of a winter's day, along the road I knew so well. As I -recognised each familiar feature of the way, I became once more the -schoolboy whose heart was full of unuttered tenderness, and whose brain -was laden with the weight of a terrible mission. My thoughts outstripped -the engine, moving too slowly, to my impatient fancy, which summoned up -that beloved face, so frank and so simple, the mouth with its thickish -lips and its perfect kindliness, the eyes out of which goodness looked, -with their wrinkled, tear-worn lids, the flat bands of grizzled hair. In -what state should I find her? Perhaps, if on that night of repentance, -wretchedness, and mental disturbance, my nerves had not been strained to -the utmost—yes, perhaps I should not have experienced those wild -impulses when by the side of my aunt's death-bed, which rendered me -capable of disobeying the dying woman. But how can I regret my -disobedience, since it was the one thing that set me on the track of the -truth? No, I do not regret anything, I am better pleased to have done -what I have done. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="VIII">VIII</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -My good old Julie was waiting for me at the station. Her eyes had failed -her of late, for she was seventy years old, nevertheless she recognised -me as I stepped out of the train, and began to talk to me in her usual -interminable fashion so soon as we were seated in the hired coupé, -which my aunt had sent to meet me whenever I came to Compiègne, from -the days of my earliest childhood. How well I knew the heavy old -vehicle, with its worn cushions of yellow leather, and the driver, who -had been in the service of the livery stable keeper as long as I could -remember. He was a little man with a merry roguish face, and eyes -twinkling with fun; but he tried to give a melancholy tone to his -salutation that morning. -</p> - -<p> -"It took her yesterday," said Julie, while the vehicle rumbled heavily -through the streets, "but you see it had to happen. Our poor demoiselle -had been changing for weeks past. She was so trustful, so gentle, so -just; she scolded, she ferreted about, she suspected—there, then, her -head was all astray. She talked of nothing but thieves and assassins; -she thought everybody wanted to do her some harm, the tradespeople, -Jean, Mariette, myself—yes, I too. She went into the cellar every day -to count the bottles of wine, and wrote the number down on a paper. The -next day she found the same number, and she would maintain the paper was -not the same, she disowned her own handwriting. I wanted to tell you -this the last time you came here, but I did not venture to say anything; -I was afraid it would worry you, and then I thought these were only -freaks, that she was a little crazy, and it would pass off. Well, then, -I came down yesterday to keep her company at her dinner, as she always -liked me to do, because, you know, she was fond of me in reality, -whether she was ill or well. I could not find her. Mariette, Jean, and I -searched everywhere, and at last Jean bethought him of letting the dog -loose; the animal brought us straight to the wood-stack, and there we -found her lying at full length upon the ground. No doubt she had gone to -the stack to count the logs. We lifted her up, our poor dear demoiselle! -Her mouth was crooked, and one side of her could not move. She began to -talk. Then we thought she was mad, for she said senseless words which we -could not understand; but the doctor assures us that she is perfectly -clear in her head, only that she utters one word when she means another. -She gets angry if we do not obey her on the instant. Last night when I -was sitting up with her she asked for some pins, I brought them and she -was angry. Would you believe that it was the time of night she wanted to -know? At length, by dint of questioning her, and by her yeses and noes, -which she expresses with her sound hand, I have come to make out her -meaning. If you only knew how troubled she was all night about you; I -saw it, and when I uttered your name her eyes brightened. She repeats -words, you would think she raves; she calls for you. Now look here, M. -André, it was the ideas she had about your poor father that brought on -her illness. All these last weeks she talked of nothing else. She would -say: 'If only they do not kill André also. As for me, I am old, but he -is so young, so good, so gentle.' And she cried—yes, she cried -incessantly. 'Who is it that you think wants to harm M. André?' I asked -her. Then she turned away from me with a look of distrust that cut me to -the heart, although I knew that her head was astray. The doctor says -that she believes herself persecuted, and that it is a mania; he also -says that she may recover, but will never have her speech again." -</p> - -<p> -I listened to Julie's talk in silence; I made no answer. I was not -surprised that my aunt Louise had begun to be attacked by a mental -malady, the trials of her life sufficiently explained this, and I could -also account for several singularities that I had observed in her -attitude towards me of late. She had surprised me much by asking me to -bring back a book of my father's which I had never thought of taking -away. "Return it to me," she said, insisting upon it so strongly, that I -instituted a search for the book, and at last unearthed it from the -bottom of a cupboard where it had been placed, as if on purpose, under a -heap of other books. Julie's prolix narrative only enlightened me as to -the sad cause of what I had taken for the oddity of a fidgety and lonely -old maid. On the other hand, I could not take the ideas of my aunt upon -my father's death so philosophically as Julie accepted them. What were -those ideas? Many a time, in the course of conversation with her, I had -vaguely felt that she was not opening her heart quite freely to me. Her -determined opposition to my plans of a personal inquiry might proceed -from her piety, which would naturally cause her to disapprove of any -thought or project of vengeance, but was there nothing else, nothing -besides that piety in question? Her strange solicitude for my personal -safety, which even led her to entreat me not to go out unarmed in the -evening, or get into an empty compartment in a train, with other -counsels of the same kind, was no doubt caused by morbid excitement; -still her constant and distressing dread might possibly rest upon a less -vague foundation than I imagined. I also recalled, with a certain -apprehension, that so soon as she ceased to be able completely to -control her mind these strange fears took stronger possession of her -than before. "What!" said I to myself, "am I becoming like her, that I -let such things occur to me? Are not these fixed ideas quite natural in -a person whose brain is racked by the mania of persecution, and who has -lost a beloved brother under circumstances equally mysterious and -tragical?" -</p> - -<p> -Thus reasoning with myself, almost in spite of myself, and listening to -Julie, I arrived at my aunt's house. A gloomy place it looked on that -bitter cold morning, sunk in the grimmest kind of silence, that of the -country in winter. The dog, a big black-and-white Newfoundland, whom I -had named Don Juan, whereat my aunt had been scandalised, jumped upon me -when I got out of the old coupé; but I pushed him away almost roughly, -so sore was my heart at the thought of what I was about to see in my -aunt's room, whither I proceeded at once. -</p> - -<p> -When I entered, the maid-servant, who was seated at the bed's foot, -stopped me with a gesture at the threshold; my aunt was sleeping. I -stole softly over the carpet to an easy-chair beside the fire, and -looked at the invalid from that distance. She lay, with her face turned -towards the wall, in the middle of the old bed with four carved posts, -which had belonged to my grandmother. The curtains, of thick red stuff -brocaded with black velvet, half hid her from my sight. I watched her -sleeping; now listening to her short breathing, and again looking about -the room, which was as familiar to me as the salon below stairs, where I -had written my letter of congratulation to my stepfather on his -marriage. Those red curtains were of an old-fashioned shade, which -harmornised with the antiquated shape of the furniture, the faded paper -of the screen before the window, the white ground of the carpet, the -discoloured reps with which the chairs were covered; in short, with all -the waifs from the wreck of our family life, that had been piously -preserved by the dear old maid. She was so exact and orderly; her -black-mittened hands were so skilful in pouncing upon any dust -overlooked by Jean, who combined the functions of gardener and -house-servant, that these old worn things, owing to the deep shining -brown of the bedstead, the chairs, and the brass-handled chest of -drawers, lent a homely aspect to the room such as the primitive painters -loved to give to their pictures of the Nativity. The contrast between my -apartment—the typical fashionable young man's rooms—and this -peaceful retreat was striking indeed. I had passed from the one to the -other too suddenly not to feel that contrast, and also the mute reproach -that was conveyed to me by the sick room, with its atmosphere tainted by -a medicinal odour instead of the fresh scent of lavender which I had -always recognised there. How bitterly I reproached myself in that half -hour, during which I listened to her breathing as she slept, and -meditated upon her lonely life. What resolutions I formed! I would come -here for long weeks together, when she should be better—for I -would not admit that she was in danger of death—and I eagerly -awaited the moment of her awakening, to beg her forgiveness, to tell her -how much I loved her. All of a sudden she heaved a deep sigh, and I saw -her raise the free arm and move it up and down several times with a -gesture that had something of despair in it. -</p> - -<p> -"She is awake," said Julie, who had taken the maid's place at the foot -of the bed. I approached my aunt and called her by her name. I then -clearly saw her poor face distorted by paralysis. She recognised me, and -as I bent down to kiss her, she stroked my cheek with her sound hand. -This caress, which was habitual with her, she repeated slowly several -times. I placed her, with Julie's assistance, on her back, so that she -could see me distinctly; she looked at me for a long time, and two heavy -tears fell from the eyes in which I read boundless tenderness, supreme -anguish, and inexpressible pity. I answered them by my own tears, which -she dried with the back of her hand; then she strove to speak to me, but -could only pronounce an incoherent sentence that struck me to the heart. -She saw, by the expression of my face, that I had not understood her, -and she made a desperate effort to find words in which to render the -thought evidently precise and lucid in her mind. Once more she uttered -an unintelligible phrase, and began again to make the feeble gesture of -despairing helplessness which had so shocked me at her waking. She -appeared, however, to take courage when I put the question to her: "What -do you want of me, dear aunt?" She made a sign that Julie was to leave -the room, and no sooner were we alone than her face changed. With my -help she was able to slip her hand under her pillow, and withdraw her -bunch of keys; then separating one key from the others she imitated the -opening of a lock. I immediately remembered her groundless fears of -being robbed, and asked her whether she wanted the box to which that key -belonged. It was a small key of a kind that is specially made for safety -locks. I saw that I had guessed aright; she was able to get out the word -"yes," and her eyes brightened. -</p> - -<p> -"But where is this box?" I asked. Once more she replied by a sentence of -which I could make nothing; and, seeing that she was relapsing into a -state of agitation, with the former heart-rending movement, I begged her -to allow me to question her and to answer by gestures only. After some -minutes, I succeeded in discovering that the box in question was locked -up in one of the two large cupboards below stairs, and that the key of -the cupboard was on the ring with the others. I went downstairs, leaving -her alone, as she had desired me by signs to do. I had no difficulty in -finding the casket to which the little key adapted itself; although it -was carefully placed behind a bonnet-box and a case of silver forks. The -casket was of sweet-scented wood, and the initials J.C. were inlaid -upon the lid in gold and platinum. J.C., Justin Cornélis—so, it had -belonged to my father. I tried the key in the lock, to make quite sure -that I was not mistaken. I then raised the lid, and glanced at the -contents almost mechanically, supposing that I was about to find a roll -of business papers, probably shares, a few trinket-cases, and rouleaux -of napoleons, a small treasure in fact, hidden away from motives of -fear. Instead of this, I beheld several small packets carefully wrapped -in paper, each being endorsed with the words, "Justin's Letters," and -the year in which they were written. My aunt had preserved these letters -with the same pious care that had kept her from allowing anything -whatever belonging to him in whom the deepest affection of her life had -centred, to be lost, parted with, or injured. But why had she never -spoken to me of this treasure, which was more precious to me than to any -one else in the world? I asked myself that question as I closed the box; -then I reflected that no doubt she desired to retain the letters to the -last hour of her life; and, satisfied with this explanation, I went -upstairs again. From the doorway my eyes met hers, and I could not -mistake their look of impatience and intense anxiety. I placed the -little coffer on her bed and she instantly opened it, took out a packet -of letters, then another, finally kept only one out, replaced those she -had removed at first, locked the box, and signed to me to place it on -the chest of drawers. While I was clearing away the things on the top of -the drawers, to make a clear space for the box, I caught sight, in the -glass opposite to me, of the sick woman. By a great effort she had -turned herself partly on her side, and she was trying to throw the -packet of letters which she had retained into the fireplace; it was on -the right of her bed, and only about a yard away from the foot. But she -could hardly raise herself at all, the movement of her hand was too -weak, and the little parcel fell on the floor. I hastened to her, to -replace her head on the pillows and her body in the middle of the bed, -and then with her powerless arm she again began to make that terrible -gesture of despair, clutching the sheet with her thin fingers, while -tears streamed from her poor eyes. -</p> - -<p> -Ah! how bitterly ashamed I am of what I am going to write in this place! -I will write it, however, for I have sworn to myself that I will be -true, even to the avowal of that fault, even to the avowal of a worse -still. I had no difficulty in understanding what was passing in my aunt's -mind; the little packet—it had fallen on the carpet close to the -fender—evidently contained letters which she wished to destroy, so -that I should not read them. She might have burned them, dreading as she -did their fatal influence upon me, long since; yet I understood why she had -shrunk from doing this, year after year, I, who knew with what idolatry -she worshipped the smallest objects that had belonged to my father. Had -I not seen her put away the blotting-book which he used when he came to -Compiègne, with the paper and envelopes that were in it at his last -visit? Yes, she had gone on waiting, still waiting, before she could -bring herself to part for ever with those dear and dangerous letters, -and then her sudden illness came, and with it the terrible thought that -these papers would come into my possession. I could also take into -account that the unreasonable distrust which she had yielded to of late -had prevented her from asking Jean or Julie for the little coffer. This -was the secret—I understood it on the instant—of the poor -thing's impatience for my arrival, the secret also of the trouble I had -witnessed. And now her strength had betrayed her. She had vainly -endeavoured to throw the letters into the fire, that fire which she -could hear crackling, without being able to raise her head so as to see -the flame. All these notions which presented themselves suddenly to my -thoughts took form afterwards; at the moment they melted into pity for -the suffering of the helpless creature before me. -</p> - -<p> -"Do not disturb yourself, dear aunt," said I, as I drew the coverlet up -to her shoulders, "I am going to burn those letters." -</p> - -<p> -She raised her eyes, full of eager supplication, I closed the lids with -my lips and stooped to pick up the little packet. On the paper in which -it was folded, I distinctly read this date: "1864—Justin's -Letters." 1864! that was the last year of my father's life. I know it, I -feel it, that which I did was infamous; the last wishes of the dying are -sacred. I ought pot, no, I ought not to have deceived her who was on the -point of leaving me for ever. I heard her breathing quicken at that very -moment. Then came a whirlwind of thought too strong for me. If my aunt -Louise was so wildly, passionately eager that those letters should be -burned, it was because they could put me on the right track of -vengeance. Letters written in the last year of my father's life, and she -had never spoken of them to me! I did not reason, I did not hesitate, in -a lightning-flash I perceived the possibility of learning—what? I -knew not; but—of learning. Instead of throwing the packet of -letters into the fire, I flung it to one side, under a chair, returned -to the bedside and told her in a voice which I endeavoured to keep -steady and calm, that her directions had been obeyed, that the letters -were burning. She took my hand and kissed it. Oh, what a stab that -gentle caress inflicted upon me! I knelt down by her bedside, and hid my -head in the sheets, so that her eyes should not meet mine. Alas! it was -not for long that I had to dread her glance. At ten she fell asleep, but -at noon her restlessness recurred. At two the priest came, and -administered the last sacraments to her. She had a second stroke towards -evening, never recovered consciousness, and died in the night. -</p> - -<p> -Will you pardon me that falsehood which I told you in your last hours, O -my beloved dead? Your desire that I should never read those fatal -letters, which have begun to shed so terrible a light upon the past, -arose from your solicitude to spare me the suspicions that had tortured -yourself. On your death-bed your sole thought was for my happiness. Will -you forgive me for having frustrated that foresight of the dying? I must -speak to you, although I know not whether you can see me this day, or -hear me, or even feel the emotion which goes out to you, beloved one, -from my inmost soul. But, I am ashamed of having lied to you, when you -thought only of being good to me, so good, so good that no human -creature was ever better to another; and I am forced to tell you this. -You, at least, I have never doubted; there is only one touch of -bitterness in my thoughts of you; it is that I did not cherish you -sufficiently while you were here with me, that I betrayed you in the -matter of the last earthly desire of your pure soul. -</p> - -<p> -I see you now, and those eyes which revealed your stainless but sorely -wounded heart. You come to me, and you pardon me; your hand strokes my -check with that sad, sad caress which you gave me before you went away -into the darkness, where hands may no more be clasped or tears mingled. -If death had not come to you too quickly, if I had obeyed your last -desire, you would have carried the secret of your most painful doubts to -the grave. You do not blame me now for having wanted to know? You no -longer blame me for having suffered? A destiny exists, and weighs upon -us, which requires that light shall be cast upon the darkness of that -crime, that justice shall resume its rights, and the avenger come. By -what road? That power knows, and uses strange weapons for its task of -reparation. It was decreed, dear and pious sister of my murdered father, -that your faithful cherishing of his dear memory should at last arouse -my slumbering will. Reproach me not, O tender, unquiet spirit, with the -torments which I have inflicted upon myself, with the tragic purpose to -which I have sacrificed my youth. Rest, I say, rest! May peace descend -upon the grave in which you sleep beside my father, in the cemetery at -Compiègne, where I too shall find repose one day. And to think that -to-morrow might be that day! -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="IX">IX</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -My aunt died at nine o'clock in the evening. I closed her eyes, and sat -by her side until eleven, when Julie came to me and persuaded me to go -downstairs and eat something. I had taken nothing but a cup of coffee at -noon. What a mournful meal was that in the dining-room, with its walls -adorned with old china plates, where I had so often sat opposite to my -dear aunt! A lamp stood on the table and threw a light upon the -table-cloth just in front of me, but did not dispel the shadows in the -room, which was warmed by a big earthenware stove, cracked by the heat. -I listened to the noise of this stove, and it brought back the evenings -in my childhood, when I used to roast chestnuts in the ashes of just -such a fire, after I had split them, lest they should burst. I looked at -Julie, who insisted on waiting upon me herself, and found her drying the -big tears that rolled down her wrinkled cheeks with the corner of her -blue apron. I have passed hours that were more cruel, but have never -known any more poignant; and I may do myself the justice to record that -grief absorbed every other feeling in me at first. During the whole of -that dismal night I never for an instant thought of opening the packet -of letters which I had obtained by so shameful a falsehood. I had -forgotten its existence, although I had taken care to pick it up and -take it to my own room. Where was now my curiosity to learn the secrets -of those letters? I knew that I had just lost for ever the only being -who had loved me entirely, and that knowledge crushed me. I wished to -keep the watch by the side of the dead for part of the night, and I -could not turn my gaze from that motionless face which had looked upon -me for so many years with absolute and unbounded tenderness, but now lay -before me with rigid features, closed lips, shut eyelids, and wearing an -expression of profound sorrow such as I have never seen upon any other -dead face. All the melancholy thoughts which had distilled their slow -poison into her heart while she lived, were revealed by that countenance -now restored to its truth. Ah! that expression of infinite sadness ought -to have driven me on the instant to seek for its mysterious cause in the -letters which had occupied her mind to the very brink of the grave, but -how could I have had strength to reason while gazing on that mournful -face? I could only feel that the lips which had never spoken any words -but those of tenderness to me would utter them no more, that the hands -which had caressed me so tenderly would clasp mine no more for ever. The -nun who was watching the dead repeated the appointed prayers, and I -found myself uttering the old forms in which I no longer believed. As I -recited the Paternoster and the Ave, I thought of all the prayers which -she, who lay at rest before me, had put up to God for my peace and -welfare. -</p> - -<p> -At three o'clock in the morning Julie came in to take my place, and I -retired to my room, which was on the same floor as my aunt's. A box-room -divided the two. I threw myself on my bed, worn out with fatigue, and -nature triumphed over my grief. I fell into that heavy sleep which -follows the expenditure of nerve power, and from which one awakes able -to bear life again and to carry the load that seemed unendurable. When I -awoke it was day, and the wintry sky was dull and dark like that of -yesterday, but it also wore a threatening aspect, from the great masses -of black cloud that covered it. I went to the window and looked out for -a long time at the gloomy landscape closed in by the edge of the forest. -I note these small details in order that I may more faithfully recall my -exact impression at the time. In turning away from the window and going -towards the fire which the maid had just lighted, my eye fell upon the -packet of letters stolen from my aunt. Yes, stolen—'tis the word. It -was in the place where I had put it last night, on the mantelshelf, with -my purse, rings, and cigar-case. I took up the little parcel with a -beating heart. I had only to stretch out my hand and those papers would -fall into the flames and my aunt's dying wish be accomplished. I sank -into an easy-chair and watched the yellow flame gaining on the logs, -while I weighed the packet in my hand. I thought there must be a good -many letters in it. I suffered from the physical uneasiness of -indecision. I am not trying to justify this second failure of my loyalty -to my dear aunt, I am trying to understand it. -</p> - -<p> -Those letters were not mine, I never ought to have appropriated them. I -ought now to destroy them unopened; all the more that the excitement of -the first moment, the sudden rush of ideas which had prevented me from -obeying the agonised supplication of my poor aunt, had subsided. I asked -myself once more what was the cause of her misery, while I gazed at the -inscription upon the cover, in my aunt's hand: "1864—Justin's -Letters." The very room which I occupied was an evil counsellor to me in -this strife between an indisputable duty and my ardent desire to know; -for it had formerly been my father's room, and the furniture had not -been changed since his time. The colour of the hangings was faded, that -was all. He had warmed himself by a fire which burned upon that -self-same hearth, and he had used the same low, wide chair in which I -now sat, thinking my sombre thoughts. He had slept in the bed from which -I had just risen, he had written at the table on which I rested my arms. -No, that room deprived me of free will to act, it made my father too -living. It was as though the phantom of the murdered man had come out of -his grave to entreat me to keep the oft-sworn vow of vengeance. Had -these letters offered me no more than one single chance, one against a -thousand, of obtaining one single indication of the secrets of my -father's private life, I could not have hesitated. With such -sacrilegious reasoning as this did I dispel the last scruples of pious -respect; but I had no need of arguments for yielding to the desire which -increased with every moment. -</p> - -<p> -I had there before me those letters, the last his hand had traced; those -letters which would lay bare to me the recesses of his life, and I was -not to read them! What an absurdity! Enough of such childish hesitation. -I tore off the cover which hid the papers; the yellow sheets with their -faded characters shook in my hands. I recognised the compact, square, -clear writing, with spaces between the words. The dates had been omitted -by my father in several instances, and then my aunt had repaired the -omission by writing in the day of the month herself. My poor aunt! this -pious carefulness was a fresh testimony to her constant tenderness; and -yet, in my wild excitement, I no longer thought of her who lay dead -within a few yards of me. -</p> - -<p> -Presently Julie came to consult me upon all the material details which -accompany death; but I told her I was too much overwhelmed, that she -must do as she thought fit, and leave me quite alone for the whole of -the morning. Then I plunged so deeply into the reading of the letters, -that I forgot the hour, the events taking place around me, forgot to -dress myself, to eat, even to go and look upon her whom I had lost while -yet I could behold her face. Traitor and ingrate that I was! I had -devoured only a few lines before I understood only too well why she had -been desirous to prevent me from drinking the poison which entered with -each sentence into my heart, as it had entered into hers. Terrible, -terrible letters! Now it was as though the phantom had spoken, and a -hidden drama of which I had never dreamed unfolded itself before me. -</p> - -<p> -I was quite a child when the thousand little scenes which this -correspondence recorded in detail took place. I was too young then to -solve the enigma of the situation; and, since, the only person who could -have initiated me into that dark history was she who had concealed the -existence of the too-eloquent papers from me all her life long, and on -her death-bed had been more anxious for their destruction than for her -eternal salvation—she, who had no doubt accused herself of having -deferred the burning of them from day to day as of a crime. When at last -she had brought herself to do this, it was too late. -</p> - -<p> -The first letter, written in January, 1864, began with thanks to my aunt -for her New Year's gift to me—a fortress with tin soldiers—with -which I was delighted, said the letter, because the cavalry were in two -pieces, the man detaching himself from his horse. Then, suddenly, the -commonplace sentences changed into utterances of mournful tenderness. An -anxious mind, a heart longing for affection, and discontent with the -existing state of things, might be discerned in the tone of regret with -which the brother dwelt upon his childhood, and the days when his own -and his sister's life were passed together. There was a repressed -repining in that first letter that immediately astonished and impressed -me, for I had always believed my father and mother to have been -perfectly happy with each other. Alas! that repining did but grow and -also take definite form as I read on. My father wrote to his sister -every Sunday, even when he had seen her in the course of the week. As it -frequently happens in cases of regular and constant correspondence, the -smallest events were recorded in minute detail, so that all our former -daily life was resuscitated in my thoughts as I perused the lines, but -accompanied by a commentary of melancholy which revealed irreparable -division between those whom I had believed to be so closely united. -Again I saw my father in his dressing-gown, as he greeted me in the -morning at seven o'clock, on coming out of his room to breakfast with me -before I started for school at eight. He would go over my lessons with -me briefly, and then we would seat ourselves at the table (without a -table-cloth) in the dining-room, and Julie would bring us two cups of -chocolate, deliciously sweetened to my childish taste. My mother rose -much later, and, after my school days, my father occupied a separate -room in order to avoid waking her so early. How I enjoyed that morning -meal, during which I prattled at my ease, talking of my lessons, my -exercises, and my school-mates! What a delightful recollection I -retained of those happy, careless, cordial hours! In his letters my -father also spoke of our early breakfasts, but in a way that showed how -often he was wounded by finding out from my talk that my mother took too -little care of me, according to his notions—that I filled too small -a place in her dreamy, wilfully frivolous life. There were passages which -the then future had since turned into prophecies. "Were I to be taken -from him, what would become of him?" was one of these. At ten I came -back from school; by that time my father would be occupied with his -business. I had lessons to prepare, and I did not see him again until -half-past eleven, at the second breakfast. Then mamma would appear in -one of those tasteful morning costumes which suited her slender and -supple figure so well. From afar, and beyond the cold years of my -boyhood, that family table came before me like a mirage of warm -homelife; how often had it become a sort of nostalgia to me when I sat -between my mother and M. Termonde on my horrid half-holidays. -</p> - -<p> -And now I found proof in my father's letters that a divorce of the heart -already existed between the two persons who, to my filial tenderness, -were but one. My father loved his wife passionately, and he felt that -his wife did not love him. This was the feeling continually expressed in -his letters—not in words so plain and positive, indeed; but how -should I, whose boyhood had been strangely analogous with this drama of -a man's life, have failed to perceive the secret signification of all he -wrote? My father was taciturn, like me—even more so than -I—and he allowed irreparable misunderstandings to grow up between -my mother and himself. Like me afterwards, he was passionate, awkward, -hopelessly timid in the presence of that proud, aristocratic woman, so -different from him, the self-made man of almost peasant origin, who had -risen to professional prosperity by the force of his genius. Like -me—ah! not more than I—he had known the torture of false -positions, which cannot be explained except by words that one will never -have courage to utter. And, oh, the pity of it, that destiny should thus -repeat itself; the same tendencies of the mind developing themselves in -the son after they had developed themselves in the father, so that the -misery of both should be identical! -</p> - -<p> -My father's letters breathed sighs that my mother had never -suspected—vain sighs for a complete blending of their two hearts; -tender sighs for the fond dream of fully-shared happiness; despairing -sighs for the ending of a moral separation, all the more complete -because its origin was not to be sought in their respective faults -(mutual love pardons everything), but in a complete, almost animal, -contrast between the two natures. Not one of his qualities was pleasing -to her; all his defects were displeasing to her. And he adored her. I -had seen enough of many kinds of ill-assorted unions since I had been -going about in society, to understand in full what a silent hell that -one must have been, and the two figures rose up before me in perfect -distinctness. I saw my mother with her gestures—a little affectation -was, so to speak, natural to her—the delicacy of her hands, her -fair, pale complexion, the graceful turn of her head, her studiously -low-pitched voice, the something un-material that pervaded her whole -person, her eyes, whose glance could be so cold, so disdainful; and, on -the other hand, I saw my father with his robust, working-man's frame, -his hearty laugh when he allowed himself to be merry, the professional, -utilitarian, in fact, plebeian, aspect of him, in his ideas and ways, -his gestures and his discourse. But the plebeian was so noble, so lofty -in his generosity, in his deep feeling. He did not know how to show that -feeling; therein lay his crime. On what wretched trifles, when we think -of it, does absolute felicity or irremediable misfortune depend! -</p> - -<p> -The name of M. Termonde occurred several times in the earlier letters, -and, when I came to the eleventh, I found it mentioned in a way which -brought tears to my eyes, set my hands shaking, and made my heart leap -as at the sound of a cry of sharp agony. In the pages which he had -written during the night—the writing showed how deeply he was -moved—the husband, hitherto so self-restrained, acknowledged to his -sister, his kind and faithful confidante, that he was jealous. He was -jealous, and of whom? Of that very man who was destined to fill his -place at our fireside, to give a new name to her who had been Madame -Cornélis; of the man with cat-like ways, with pale eyes, whom my -childish instinct had taught me to regard with so precocious and so -fixed a hate. He was jealous of Jacques Termonde. In his sudden -confession he related the growth of this jealousy, with the bitterness -of tone that relieves the heart of misery too long suppressed. In that -letter, the first of a series which death only was destined to -interrupt, he told how far back was the date of his jealousy, and how it -awoke to life with his detection of one look cast at my mother by -Termonde. He told how he had at once suspected a dawning passion on the -part of this man, then that Termonde had gone away on a long journey, -and that he, my father, had attributed his absence to the loyalty of a -sincere friend, to a noble effort to fight from the first against a -criminal feeling. Termonde came back; his visits to us were soon -resumed, and they became more frequent than before. There was every -reason for this; my father had been his chum at the École de Droit, and -would have chosen him to be his best man at his marriage had not -Termonde's diplomatic functions kept him out of France at the time. In -this letter and the following ones my father acknowledged that he had -been strongly attached to Termonde, so much so, indeed, that he had -considered his own jealousy as an unworthy feeling and a sort of -treachery. But it is all very well to reproach one's self for a passion, -it is there in our hearts all the same, tearing and devouring them. -After Termonde's return, my father's jealousy increased, with the -certainty that the man's love for the wife of his friend was also -growing; and yet, the unhappy husband did not think himself entitled to -forbid him the house. Was not his wife the most pure and upright of -women? Her very inclination to mysticism and exaggerated devotion, -although he sometimes found fault with her for it, was a pledge that she -would never yield to anything by which her conscience could be stained. -Besides, Termonde's assiduity was accompanied by such evident, such -absolute respect, that it afforded no ground for reproach. What was he to -do? Have an explanation with his wife—he who could not bring himself -to enter upon the slightest discussion with her? Require her to decline -to receive his own friend? But, if she yielded, he would have deprived -her of a real pleasure, and for that he should be unable to forgive -himself. If she did not yield? So, my poor father had preferred to toss -about in that Gehenna of weakness and indecision wherein dwell timid and -taciturn souls. All this misery he revealed to my aunt, dwelling upon -the morbid nature of his feelings, imploring advice and pity, deriding -and blaming the puerility of his jealousy, but jealous all the same, -unable to refrain from recurring again and again to the open wound in -his heart, and incapable of the energy and decision that would have -cured it. -</p> - -<p> -The letters became more and more gloomy, as it always happens when one -has not at once put an end to a false position; my father suffered from -the consequences of his weakness, and allowed them to develop without -taking action, because he could not now have checked them without -painful scenes. After having tolerated the increased frequency of his -friend's visits, it was torture to him to observe that his wife was -sensibly influenced by this encroaching intimacy. He perceived that she -took Termonde's advice on all the little matters of daily life—upon -a question of dress, the purchase of a present, the choice of a book. He -came upon the traces of the man in the change of my mother's tastes, in -music for instance. When we were alone in the evenings, he liked her to -go to the piano and play to him, for hours together, at haphazard; now' -she would play nothing but pieces selected by Termonde, who had acquired -an extensive knowledge of the German masters during his residence -abroad. My father, on the contrary, having been brought up in the -country with his sister, who was herself taught by a provincial -music-master, retained his old-fashioned taste for Italian music. -</p> - -<p> -My mother belonged, by her own family, to a totally different sphere of -society from that into which her marriage with my father had introduced -her. At first she did not feel any regret for her former circle, because -her extreme beauty secured her a triumphant success in the new one; but -it was quite another thing when her intimacy with Termonde, who moved in -the most worldly and elegant of Parisian "worlds," was perpetually -reminding her of all its pleasures and habits. My father saw that she -was bored and weary while doing the honours of her own salon with an -absent mind. He even found the political opinions of his friend echoed -by his wife, who laughed at him for what she called his Utopian -liberalism. Her mockery had no malice in it; but still it was mockery, -and behind it was Termonde, always Termonde. Nevertheless, he said -nothing, and the shyness, which he had always felt in my mother's -presence, increased with his jealousy. The more unhappy he was, the more -incapable of expressing his pain he became. There are minds so -constituted that suffering paralyses them into inaction. And then there -was the ever-present question, what was he to do? How was he to approach -an explanation, when he had no positive accusation to bring? He remained -perfectly convinced of the fidelity of his wife, and he again and again -affirmed this, entreating my aunt not to withdraw a particle of her -esteem from his dear Marie, and imploring her never to make an allusion -to the sufferings of which he was ashamed, before their innocent cause. -And then he dwelt upon his own faults; he accused himself of lack of -tenderness, of failing to win love, and would draw pictures of his -sorrowful home, in a few words, with heart-rending humility. -</p> - -<p> -Rough, commonplace minds know nothing of the scruples that rent and -tortured my father's soul. They say, "I am jealous," without troubling -themselves as to whether the words convey an insult or not. They forbid -the house to the person to whom they object, and shut their wives' -mouths with, "Am I master here?" taking heed of their own feelings -merely. Are they in the right? I know not; I only know that such rough -methods were impossible to my poor father. He had sufficient strength to -assume an icy mien towards Termonde, to address him as seldom as -possible, to give him his hand with the insulting politeness that makes -a gulf between two sincere friends; but Termonde affected -unconsciousness of all this. My father, who did not want to have a scene -with him, because the immediate consequence would have been another -scene with my mother, multiplied these small affronts, and then Termonde -simply changed the time of his visits, and came during my father's -business hours. How vividly my father depicted his stormy rage at the -idea that his wife and the man of whom he was jealous were talking -together, undisturbed, in the flower-decked salon, while he was toiling -to procure all the luxury that money could purchase for that wife who -could never, never love him, although he believed her faithful. But, oh, -that cold fidelity was not what he longed for—he who ended his -letter by these words—how often have I repeated them to myself: -</p> - -<p> -"<i>It is so sad to feel that one is in the way in one's own house, that -one possesses a woman by every right, that she gives one all that her -duty obliges her to give, all, except her heart, which is another's, -unknown to herself, perhaps, unless, indeed, that—— My -sister, there are terrible hours in which I say to myself that I am a -fool, a coward, that he is her lover, she is his mistress, that they -laugh together at me, at my blindness, my stupid trust. Do not scold me, -dear Louise. This idea is infamous, and I drive it away by taking refuge -with you, to whom, at least, I am all the world.</i>" -</p> - -<p> -"Unless, indeed, that——" This letter was written on the -first Sunday in June, 1864; and on the following Thursday, four days -later, he who had written it, and had suffered all it revealed, went out -to the appointment at which he met with his mysterious death, that death -by which his wife was set free to marry his felon friend. What was the -idea, as dreadful, as infamous as the idea of which my father accused -himself in his terrible last letter, that flashed across me now? I -placed the packet of papers upon the mantelpiece, and pressed my two -hands to my head, as though to still the tempest of cruel fancies which -made it throb with fever. Ah, the hideous, nameless thing! My mind got a -glimpse of it only to reject it. But, had not my aunt also been assailed -by the same monstrous suspicion? A number of small facts rose up in my -memory, and convinced me that my father's faithful sister had been a -prey to the same idea which had just laid hold of me so strongly. How -many strange things I now understood, all in a moment! On that day when -she told me of my mother's second marriage, and I spontaneously uttered -the accursed name of Termonde, why had she asked me, in a trembling -voice: "What do you know?" What was it she feared that I had guessed? -What dreadful information did she expect to receive from my childish -observation of things? Afterwards, and when she implored me to abandon -the task of avenging our beloved dead, when she quoted to me the sacred -words, "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord," who were the guilty ones -whom she foresaw I must meet on my path? When she entreated me to bear -with my stepfather, even to conciliate him, not to make an enemy of him, -had her advice any object except the greater ease of my daily life, or -did she think danger might come to me from that quarter? When she became -more afraid for me, owing to the weakening of her brain by illness, and -again and again enjoined upon me to beware of going out alone in the -evening, was the vision of terror that came to her that of a hand which -would fain strike me in the dark—the same hand that had struck my -father? When she summoned up all her strength in her last moments, that -she might destroy this correspondence, what was the clue which she -supposed the letters would furnish? A terrific light shone upon me; what -my aunt had perceived beyond the plain purport of the letters, I too -perceived. Ah! I dared to entertain this idea, yet now I am ashamed to -write it down. But could I have escaped from the hard logic of the -situation? If my aunt had handed over those letters to the Judge of -Instruction in the matter, would he not have arrived at the same -conclusion that I drew from them? No, I could not. A man who has no -known enemies is assassinated; it is alleged that robbery is not the -motive of the murder; his wife has a lover, and shortly after the death -of her husband she marries that lover. "But it is they—it is they -who are guilty, they have killed the husband," the judge would say, and -so would the first-comer. Why did not my aunt place those letters of my -father's in the hands of justice? I understood the reason too well; she -would not have had me think of my mother what I was now in a fit of -distraction thinking—that she had deceived my father, that she had -been Termonde's mistress, that therein lay the secret of the murder. To -conceive of this as merely possible was to be guilty of moral parricide, -to commit the inexpiable sin against her who had borne me. I had always -loved my mother so tenderly, so mournfully; never, never had I judged -her. How many times—happening to be alone with her, and not -knowing how to tell her what was weighing on my heart—how many -times I had dreamed that the barrier between us would not for ever -divide us. Some day I might, perhaps, become her only support, then she -should see how precious she still was to me. My sufferings had not -lessened my love for her; wretched as I was because she refused me a -certain sort of affection, I did not condemn her for lavishing that -affection upon another. As a matter of fact, until those fatal letters -had done their work of disenchantment, of what was she guilty in my -eyes? Of having married again? Of having chosen, being left a widow at -thirty, to construct a new life for herself? What could be more -legitimate? Of having failed to understand the relations of the child -who remained to her with the man whom she had chosen? What was more -natural? She was more wife than mother, and besides, fanciful and -fragile beings such as she was recoil from daily contests; they shrink -from facing realities which would demand sustained courage and energy on -their part. I had admitted all these explanations of my mother's -attitude towards me, at first from instinct and afterwards on -reflection. But now, the inexhaustible spring of indulgence for those -who really hold our heart-strings was dried up in a moment, and a flood -of odious, abominable suspicion overwhelmed me instead. -</p> - -<p> -This sudden invasion of a horrible, torturing idea was not lasting. I -could not have borne it. Had it implanted itself in me then and there, -definite, overwhelming in evidence, impossible of rejection, I must have -taken a pistol and shot myself, to escape from agony such as I endured -in the few minutes which followed my reading of the letters. But the -tension was relaxed, I reflected, and my love for my mother began to -strive against the horrible suggestion. To the onslaught of these -execrable fancies I opposed the facts, in their certainty and -completeness. I recalled the smallest particulars of that last occasion -on which I saw my father and mother in each other's presence. It was at -the table from which he rose to go forth and meet his murderer. But was -not my mother cheerful and smiling that morning, as usual? Was not -Jacques Termonde with us at breakfast, and did he not stay on, after my -father had gone out, talking with my mother while I played with my toys -in the room? It was at that very time, between one and two o'clock, that -the mysterious Rochdale committed the crime. Termonde could not be, at -one and the same moment, in our salon and at the Imperial Hotel, any -more than my mother, impressionable and emotional as I knew her to be, -could have gone on talking quietly and happily, if she had known that -her husband was being murdered at that very hour. Why, I must have been -mad to allow such a notion to present its monstrous image before my eyes -for a single moment, and it was infamous of me to have gone so far -beyond the most insulting of my father's suspicions. Already, and -without any proof excerpt the expression of jealousy acknowledged by -himself to be unreasonable, I had reached a point to which the unhappy -but still loving man had not dared to go, even to the extreme outrage -against my mother, of believing that she had been Termonde's mistress. -What if, during the lifetime of her first husband, she had inspired him -whom she was one day to marry with too strong a sentiment, did this -prove that she had shared it? If she had shared it, would they have -proved her to be a fallen woman? Why should she not have entertained an -affection for Termonde, which, while it in no wise interfered with her -fidelity to her wifely duties, made my father not-unnaturally jealous? -</p> - -<p> -Thus did I justify her, not only from any participation in the crime, -but from any failure in her duty. And then again my ideas changed; I -remembered the cry that she had uttered in presence of my father's dead -body: "I am punished by God!" I was not sufficiently charitable to her -to admit that those words might be merely the utterance of a refined and -scrupulous mind which reproached itself even with its thoughts. I also -recalled the gleaming eyes and shaking hands of Termonde, when he was -talking with my mother about my father's mysterious disappearance. If -they were accomplices, this was a piece of acting performed before me, -an innocent witness, so that they might invoke my childish testimony on -occasion. These recollections once more drove me upon my fated way. The -idea of a guilty tie between her and him now took possession of me, and -then came swiftly the thought that they had profited by the murder, that -they alone had an engrossing interest in it. So violent was the assault -of suspicion that it overthrew all the barriers I had raised against it. -I accumulated all the objections founded upon a physical alibi and a -moral improbability, and thence I forced myself to say it was, strictly -speaking, impossible they could have anything to do with the murder; -impossible, impossible! I repeated this frantically; but even as it -passed my lips, the hallucination returned, and struck me down. There -are moments when the disordered mind is unable to quell visions which it -knows to be false, when the imaginary and the real mingle in a -nightmare-panic, and the judgment is powerless to distinguish between -them. Who is there that, having been jealous, does not know this -condition of mind? What did I not suffer from it during the day after I -had read those letters! I wandered about the house, incapable of -attending to any duty, struck stupid by emotions which all around me -attributed to grief for my aunt's death. Several times I tried to sit -for a while beside her bed; but the sight of her pale face, with its -pinched nostrils, and its deepening expression of sadness, was -unbearable to me. It renewed my miserable doubts. At four o'clock I -received a telegram. It was from my mother, and announced her arrival by -evening train. When the slip of blue paper was in my hand my -wretchedness was for a moment relieved. She was coming. She had thought -of my trouble; she was coming. That assurance dispelled my suspicions. -What if she were to read my criminal thoughts in my face? But those -absurd and infamous notions took possession of me once more. Perhaps she -thinks, so ran my thoughts, that the correspondence between my father -and my aunt had not been destroyed, and she is coming in order to get -hold of those letters before I see them, and to find out what my aunt -said to me when she was dying. If she and Termonde are guilty, they must -have lived in constant dread of the old maid's penetration. Ah! I had -been very unhappy in my childhood, but how gladly would I have gone back -to be the school-boy, meditating during the dull and interminable -evening hours of study, and not the young man who walked to and fro that -night in the station at Compiègne, awaiting the arrival of a mother, -suspected as mine was. Just God! Did not I expiate everything in -anticipation by that one hour? -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="X">X</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The train from Paris approached, and stopped. The railway officials -called out the name of the station, as they opened the doors of the -carriage one after another, very slowly it seemed to me. I went from -carriage to carriage seeking my mother. Had she at the last moment -decided not to come! What a trial to me if it were so! What a night I -should have to pass in all the torment of suspicions which, I knew too -well, her mere presence would dispel. A voice called me. It was hers. -Then I saw her, dressed in black, and never in my life did I clasp her -in my arms as I did then, utterly forgetting that we were in a public -place, and why she had come, in the joy of feeling my horrible -imaginations vanish, melt away at the mere touch of the being whom I -loved so profoundly, the only one who was dear to me, notwithstanding -our differences, in the very depths of my heart, now that I had lost my -aunt Louise. After that first movement, which resembled the grasp in -which a drowning man seizes the swimmer who dives for him, I looked at -my mother without speaking, holding both her hands. She had thrown back -her veil, and in the flickering light of the station I saw that she was -very pale and had been weeping. I had only to meet her eyes, which were -still wet with tears, to know that I had been mad. I felt this, with the -first words she uttered, telling me so tenderly of her grief, and that -she had resolved to come at once, although my stepfather was ill. M. -Termonde had suffered of late from frequent attacks of illness. But -neither her grief nor her anxiety about her husband had prevented my -poor mother from providing herself, for this little excursion of a few -hours, with all her customary appliances of comfort and elegance. Her -maid stood behind her, accompanied by a porter, and both were laden with -three or four bags of different sizes, carefully buttoned up in their -waterproof covers; a dressing-case, writing-case, an elegant wallet to -hold the traveller's purse, handkerchief, book, and second veil; a -hot-water bottle for the feet, two cushions for her head, and a little -clock. -</p> - -<p> -"You see," said she, while I was pointing out the carriage to the maid, -so that she might get rid of her impedimenta, "I shall not have my right -mourning until to-morrow "—and now I perceived that her gown was -dark brown and only braided with black—"they could not have the -things ready in time, but will send them as early as possible." Then, as -I placed her in the carriage, she added: "There is still a trunk and a -bonnet-box." She half smiled in saying this, to make me smile too, for -the mass of luggage and the number of small parcels with which she -encumbered herself had been of old a subject of mild quarrel between us. -In any other state of mind I should have been pained to find the -unfailing evidence of her frivolity side by side with the mark of -affection she had given me by coming. Was not this one of the small -causes of my great misery? True, but her frivolity was delightful to me -at that moment. This then was the woman whom I had been picturing to -myself as coming to the house of death, with the sinister purpose of -searching my dead aunt's papers and stealing or destroying any accusing -pages which she might find among them! This was the woman whom I had -misrepresented to myself, that morning, as a criminal steeped in the -guilt of a cowardly murder! Yes! I had been mad! I had been like a -runaway horse galloping after its own shadow. But what a relief to make -sure that it was madness, what a blessed relief! It almost made me -forget the dear dead woman. I was very sad at heart in reality, and yet -I was happy, while we were rattling through the town in the old coupé, -past the long lines of lighted windows. I held my mother's hand; I -longed to beg her pardon, to kiss the hem of her dress, to tell her -again and again that I loved and revered her. She perceived my emotion -very plainly; but she attributed it to the affliction that had just -befallen me, and she condoled with me. She said, "My André," several -times. How rare it was for me to have her thus, all my own, and just in -that mood of feeling for which my sick heart pined! -</p> - -<p> -I had had the room on the ground floor, next to the salon, prepared for -my mother. I remembered that she had occupied it, when she came to -Compiègne with my father, a few days after her marriage, and I felt -sure that the impression which would be produced upon her by the sight -of the house in the first instance, and then by the sight of this room, -would help me to get rid of my dreadful suspicions. I was determined to -note minutely the slightest signs of agitation which she might betray at -the contact of a resuscitated past, rendered more striking by the aspect -of things that do not change so quickly as the heart of a woman. And -now, I blushed for that idea, worthy of a detective; for I felt it a -shameful thing to judge one's mother: one ought to make an Act of Faith -in her which would resist any evidence. I felt this, alas! all the more, -because the innocent woman was quite off her guard, as was perfectly -natural. She entered the room with a thoughtful look, seated herself -before the fire, and held her slender feet towards the flames, which -touched her pale cheeks with red; and, with her jet black hair, her -elegant figure, which still retained its youthful grace, she shed upon -the dim twilight of the old-fashioned room that refined and aristocratic -charm of which my father spoke in his letters. She looked slowly all -around her, recognising most of the things which my aunt's pious care -had preserved in their former place, and said, sorrowfully: "What -recollections!" But there was no bitterness in the emotion depicted on -her face. Ah! no; a woman who is brought, after twenty years, into the -room which she had occupied, as a bride, with the husband whose murder -she has contrived after having betrayed him, has not such eyes, such a -brow, such a mouth as hers. -</p> - -<p> -Every detail of all that passed that evening served to prove to me how -basely my puerile and disgraceful fancies had calumniated her who ought -to have been sacred in my sight. Julie had prepared a sort of supper, -and wished to attend at table herself. I observed the former mistress -and the old servant brought thus face to face, and, although I knew that -they had not got on well together in past days, I saw that they were -well pleased to meet again. Poor Julie especially, who was a simple -creature, incapable of deceit or dissimulation, was so glad that she -took me aside a few minutes before the meal, to tell me what a -consolation it was to her in her grief to see my mother so kind and -affectionate to me, and to wait on us both at the same table, as in the -bygone time. Had there been in my mother's past life any of those guilty -secrets which faithful servants are more quick than any others to -divine, the honest and true-hearted woman who had tended both my father -and myself would neither have been ignorant of it nor capable of -condoning it. I should have detected the trace of it in her wrinkled -face with the drawn-in lips, for its every wrinkle spoke eloquently to -me. Nor would my mother have been pleased and easy in the presence of -this witness of a sin of the past; her manner would have betrayed a -secret disturbance, were it only by the haughtiness with which, as it -were, one repels the silent censure of an inferior by anticipation. -</p> - -<p> -Julie's face made one among the many things which recalled her first -marriage to my mother's mind; and, either because the almost sudden -death of my aunt had deeply moved her, or because this sentimental -recurrence to the past was an indulgence of her taste for the romantic, -far from avoiding such recollections, she yielded to them fully, while I -silently blessed her for thus destroying the last vestiges of my mute -calumny. How fervent was my mental thanksgiving, when, later in the -night, she asked to see my dear dead aunt, so that she might take a last -farewell of her! We entered the room where the dying woman had striven -with the last earthly solicitude from which I had drawn such black -conclusions. Death had strengthened the resemblance that existed in her -lifetime between my aunt and my father. The motionless face forcibly -recalled that other face still living in my sad memory, and in whose -presence my mother had clasped me in so warm an embrace; and the -resemblance was made more striking by the chin-cloth which kept the -mouth closed. Once more we stood side by side before a funereal -spectacle; but I was no longer a child, and my mother was no longer a -young woman. -</p> - -<p> -How many years lay between those two deaths—and what years! The -comparison struck my mother too; she did not speak for a while—then -she whispered: "How like him she is!" She bent over the bed, pressed a -kiss on the ice-cold brow, and kneeling at the foot of the bed, she prayed. -This trying ordeal, of which I had hardly ventured to dream, she herself -had sought in so natural, so simple a way. . . . Since then I have had -many other tokens of the absolute blamelessness of my mother, I have -heard words uttered by him who had contrived and arranged the whole -crime, which fully exonerated the noble woman; but there was no need of -them. The sight of her kneeling beside the dead sister of my dear father -had sufficed to exorcise the phantom. -</p> - -<p> -After her prayer, she expressed a wish to remain in the room; but I -objected, fearing that the trial would be too severe for her strength, -and induced her to go downstairs with me. She was too much affected to -sleep, and she begged of me to stay with her for a while. I complied -with joy, so afraid was I that when out of her sight I might be -revisited by the hallucinations that had been so completely banished by -her demeanour. I felt myself once more so entirely her child for this -night, that I was in delight with her least actions, her slightest -gestures, just as I used to be in my real childhood. I admired the skill -with which she instantly transformed the chimney corner of the salon -into a quiet little retreat, just the place for a comfortable long talk. -She made me arrange the screen so as to shut in the sofa, and place a -little table within its shelter; on this she set out her travelling -cloak, her smelling-bottle, and my cigarettes. She put on a white -dressing-gown, wrapped round her head and shoulders a black-lace -mantilla, and when she was settled snugly on the sofa she tucked round -her a soft covering of pink wool decked with ribbons. She leaned her -cheek on one of the two little red silk cushions that she used in the -railway carriage, and inhaled some wood violets which Julie had placed -in a little vase. The scent of the flowers mingled with the perfume of -her garments and her hair, and I liked to see her thus, to revive my -earliest impressions of her by the aid of her refined luxuriousness. -Above all I liked her to talk as she now talked, showing her mind to me, -and letting so many recollections escape from it. She had begun by -questioning me about my aunt's illness, and then she went on to speak of -my father. This was very rare with her; it was also rare for her and me -to be so familiar and so united. It was a strange sensation to hear her -tell the story of her marriage in that salon, filled with the relics of -the dead, and with the ever present remembrance of the letters which I -had read that day in my mind. -</p> - -<p> -She told me—but this I already knew—how her marriage was -brought about. She met my father at a ball given by a great lawyer, who was -intimate with her family; their name was De Slane. She described her own -dress at this ball, and then sketched my father for me, in his black -coat, with an ill-tied white cravat and ill-fitting gloves. "A young -girl is always so foolish," she said. "He had himself introduced to us, -and he proposed for me twice over. I refused him each time, just because -I had those ill-fitting gloves in my mind. The third time he asked to -see me in private. Mamma wished very much for the marriage, -notwithstanding certain differences in station and education. Your -father was such a good man, so clever and hard-working, and then he -adored my mother with frank simplicity, just as if she were an idol. -Well, she consented to the interview. I received your father with the -firm intention of saying 'No' to him, and he spoke to me so nicely, with -so much eloquence and such perfect tact, I saw so plainly how much he -loved me, that I said 'Yes.' . . . ." -</p> - -<p> -What a commentary upon the whole of my father's correspondence was this -entry into marriage, what a symbol of the years that were to follow! -Yes, even until their last breakfast together before the murder, they -had lived thus; she allowing herself to be loved, with the indulgent -pride of a woman who knows herself to be the superior in refinement and -distinction, and he—the hard-working man of business, only a -little above the people—loving that refined and charming woman -with an idolatrous sense of her superiority, and a single-hearted -unconsciousness of his own. A fatal poison of the heart is silence; I -had already learned this too well, and I felt it on that of my father, -whose sombre and reserved nature I had inherited. And my mother -continued—how heart-rending it was to hear her—dwelling on -my father's qualities, on his uprightness, his perseverance, and also -certain points in his character which had always puzzled her. "Since he -died so sadly," she resumed, "I have often asked myself whether I made -him as happy as he might have been. I was very young then, and we had no -tastes in common. I have always liked society—that was born with -me—and he did not care about it, he did not feel at ease in it. I was -very pious, and he was of the school of Voltaire. He believed other men to -be as good as himself, and thought we could do without religion. . . . We -have seen since his time what that brings us to. He was not -jealous, he never once made a remark to me upon the few men friends I -had, but there was a restless tendency in him. When he was obliged to -leave Paris for a short time, if I chanced to send my daily letter to -the post too late, there would surely come a telegram urgently -requesting news of my health. If, in the evening, I came home a little -later than usual, I would find him in great anxiety, full of the notion -that an accident had happened. And then, he was subject to causeless -fits of depression, prolonged spells of silence. I did not venture to -question him. You take after him in this, my poor André." -</p> - -<p> -She continued to speak of his mysterious death: -</p> - -<p> -"I wept so much for it," she said, "and I have since thought so much of -it. Your father had not an enemy; his life was too upright for that. My -conviction is that the assassin reckoned on his taking a large sum of -money with him; bear in mind that we do not know what your father had in -his note-case. Ah, my André, you little know what I went through. That -was the time when I learned who were my true friends." She spoke of M. -Termonde, and the proofs of friendship he had given her. I was not angry -with her, because she did not understand that she could not say his name -at that moment without inflicting a wound upon me. Once set going upon -the road of reminiscence, what should check her? Why should she scruple -to speak to me of her second marriage and the consolation it had brought -her? Of course it was terribly sad for me to listen to these -confidences, which formed the cruel counterpart of those contained in my -father's letters to my aunt. But, sorrowful as it was to sound the -depths of the gulf which had separated those two beloved beings, what -was this in comparison with the tragic idea that had assailed me? -Throughout the long winter's evening I listened to my mother as she -talked to me, with the sweet, blessed certainty that never again could -my monstrous suspicions recur to my mind. My father's letters were fully -explained; he had been profoundly jealous of his wife, and he had never -dared to avow that jealousy. It arose from a moral influence of which -the person over whom it was exercised was probably ignorant. No, the -gentle creature who related all this past history to me with such frank -clear eyes, so sweet a voice, such ingenuousness in the acknowledgment -of her mistakes, such evident, all-pervading sincerity, must either have -been entirely innocent of the suffering she inflicted, or else she must -now be a monster of hypocrisy. At all events, I never thought that of -you, O my mother! weak but good woman as you were, capable indeed of -passing by pain unnoticed, but quite incapable of wilfully inflicting -it, and since that evening my faith in you has never been assailed. No -impious doubt crossed my mind from thenceforth, during the night which -followed this interview, or the day after, which was that of the -funeral, or when my mother had left me. -</p> - -<p> -It was, however, quite another thing with regard to my stepfather. When -suspicion is awakened upon a point of such tragic interest as the murder -of a father, that suspicion cannot be lulled to sleep again, without -having touched, handled, grasped a certainty. I had grasped this -certainty, at the moment when I clasped my mother in my arms, and heard -her speak; but, did my mother's innocence prove that of my stepfather -also? No sooner was I alone, and free to study the fatal letters, in -minute detail this time, than the new aspect of the problem presented -itself to my mind. Except in those moments when he was driven into -injustice by excess of pain, my father had always distinguished between -the responsibility of his wife and that of his friend, in the relation -that excited his jealousy. In his thoughts he had always acquitted my -mother; but, on the other hand, he had never treated Termonde's passion -for her as doubtful. There, then, was the positive, undeniable fact, of -which I had been ignorant until I read the letters—this man had an -immense interest in the "suppression" of my father. Before I read the -letters I was free to believe that his feelings towards my mother were -not awakened until she was free to marry him. Notwithstanding my -jealousy, I had never denied that it was most natural for a young, -beautiful, and grief-stricken woman to inspire a passionate desire to -console her, easily transformed into love, in even the most intimate -friend of her dead husband. Things now appeared to me in a different -light. In the solitude of the house at Compiègne, where I lingered on -instead of returning to Paris, professedly in order to regulate some -affairs, but in reality because I was like the wounded animals who creep -away to endure their pain, I read those letters over and over again. One -relic in particular, among all those in the house, aroused the desire -for vengeance and for justice that had been so strong in my childhood. -This was a calendar, one of those from which one tears off a leaf daily, -that lay beside the blotting-book formerly belonging to my father and -already mentioned, on a small bureau in his old room, now mine. The -calendar was for the year 1864, and my aunt had kept it, untouched, at -the date of the day that had brought her the terrible news of the -murder. Saturday, the 11th of June, was the day marked by the leaf which -lay uppermost upon the bulk of the others, and those others marked the -days of that year, days which my father never saw. The 11th of June, -1864! It was then, on Thursday, the 9th, that he had been killed. I was -nine years old at that time, I was now twenty-four, and his death was -still unavenged. Why? Because chance had not furnished me with any -indication; because I had not been able to form any hypothesis resting -upon a fact that was observed, verified, certain. Now that I had laid -hold of one of those indications, however doubtful, one of those -hypotheses, however improbable, I had no right to draw back, I was bound -to push my suspicions to their extreme. "If I were to go to M. Massol," -I reflected, "to place this correspondence in his hands and to consult -him, would he regard that revelation of our life, of the feelings of the -victim and of those of my mother's second husband, as a document to be -neglected?" No—a thousand times no—so strongly was I convinced -of this, that I would not have dared to take the letters to him. I should -have been afraid to set the bloodhounds of justice on this track. He and -I had pondered and studied so long that crucial question—who could -possibly have had an interest in the crime? If he had thought of my -stepfather, he had never spoken of him. What indication did he possess -which could have authorised him for a moment to raise so great a -disturbance in my mind? None; but I could now furnish him with such an -indication, and my instinct told me that it was very grave, and of -formidable significance. How could I have prevented myself from -fastening upon it, turning it over and over in my mind, and abandoning -myself completely to its absorbing suggestions? -</p> - -<p> -A strange contrast existed between the tempest within my breast and the -profound quiet of the house of the dead. My life glided on in apparent -monotony; but in reality it was one of torment and perplexity. I rose -late and took my breakfast alone, always waited on by Julie. I had, -however, as companions in the silent room, Don Juan, the watch-dog, and -two half-bred Angora cats, given by me to my aunt long ago, and named -respectively, Boule-de-Poil and Pierrot. I fed these creatures, each in -its turn, reminding myself of Robinson Crusoe, the beloved hero of my -childhood, and the scenes in which the solitary man is described as -sitting at his table surrounded by his private menagerie. The cats -hissed when Don Juan came near them, and if I neglected them they put -out their claws and tore the table-cloth, poking their prying little -noses up at me. The old clock ticked solemnly, as it had done for more -years than I knew of, and there I sat, amid these homely surroundings, -discussing with myself the arguments for and against my stepfather's -guilt. I put the matter to myself thus: "The great objection to be made -to an inquiry is the established alibi; the alibi attaches to the -physical data of the crime, and in every analysis of this kind the -series of moral data exists alongside of the series of physical data. If -these do not coincide, there is room for doubt, and the chief care of a -clever assassin is to create that doubt. If the appearance of material -impossibility were to prevent investigation, how many 'instructions' -would be abandoned?" When these thoughts pressed upon me too heavily, I -rose and walked towards the wood. Around me spread the vast silence of -the afternoon in winter. The dry leaves crackled under my feet, while my -mind still toiled over the argument for and against. Granted that M. -Termonde is guilty. He was, he is still passionate to the point of -violence; that is the first fact. He was madly in love with my mother; -that is a second fact. My father was painfully jealous of him; that was -a third fact. Here begins the uncertainty! Was M. Termonde aware of that -jealousy? Had he and my father had some of those silent scenes, after -which a man of the world is aware that the house of his friend, to whose -wife he is making love, is about to be closed to him? This supposition -would, I thought, be admitted without any difficulty. It was less easy -to understand the transition from that point to the fierce longing to be -rid of an obstacle which is felt to be for ever invincible; but yet the -thing is possible. At this stage of my analysis, I came in contact with -what I called the physical data of the crime. The false Rochdale -existed; this again was a fact. He had been seen by certain persons, who -had also heard him speak. He was waiting in a room at the Imperial -Hotel, while M. Termonde was at our table talking with us. For M. -Termonde to be guilty of the crime, it would be necessary to establish a -complicity between the two men; one of them, the false Rochdale, must -needs have been an instrument, a bravo hired to kill, for the advantage -of the other. -</p> - -<p> -The exceptional character of this fresh hypothesis was too evident for -me to yield to it immediately; indeed, the first time the idea occurred -to me, I ridiculed myself mercilessly. I remembered my childish terror -and the many proofs I had had of my readiness and ingenuity in -confounding the imaginary with the real. How like my former self I still -was, how incapable of chasing away the phantoms which suddenly appeared -before me! In vain did I urge this upon myself, because it was no more -than an improbability that the false Rochdale should be bribed by M. -Termonde to murder my father; it was not an absolute impossibility. The -least reflection shows that in the matter of crime everything happens. I -then set to work to recall all the extraordinary stories of the Cour -d'Assises which I could remember. My imagination turned blood-colour, -like the horizon where the sun was setting. I reentered the house, I -dined, as I had breakfasted, all alone, and then I passed the evening in -the salon, silting where my mother had sat. So afraid was I of thought -that I asked Julie to rejoin me after her supper. The old woman settled -herself on a low Breton chair, in a corner of the hearth, and went on -with her knitting. Her needles flashed as they moved in and out amid the -brown wool of which she was fabricating a stocking, and her spectacles -gleamed in the firelight. Sometimes she worked on the whole evening -without uttering a word, with Boule-de-Poil, her favourite, purring at -her feet, and Pierrot, who was of a jealous disposition, rubbing his -head against her, and standing on his hind paws. At other times she -talked, answering my questions about my aunt. She repeated what I -already knew so well; the solicitude of the dear old woman for me, her -dread of possible danger to me, her terrible anxiety on her death-bed. -She dwelt upon my aunt's inconsolable regret for my mother's second -marriage, and her unconquerable dislike to M. Termonde. -</p> - -<p> -"Each time that she made up her mind to go to your mother's house," said -Julie, "for your sake, André, she was ill from agitation beforehand, -and sunk in melancholy for a full week after she came back." These -particulars were not new to me, I had known them long before, but in my -present mood they threw me back upon my cruel suspicions. I resumed the -analysis of my thoughts concerning M. Termonde from another point of -view. Granted that he is guilty, I argued, is there a single fact since -the event which is not made clear by his culpability? My aunt's horror -is, moreover, an indication that I am not a madman, for she entertained -suspicions similar to my own. But she also suspected my mother, -otherwise she would have stedfastly opposed a marriage which she must -have regarded as a frightful sacrilege. Yes; but she may have been -mistaken about my mother, and right with respect to my stepfather. Is -not M. Termonde's antipathy to me also a sign? Has there not always been -something more in this than the not-uncommon antagonism between -stepfather and stepson? Is not that "something more" bitter detestation -of one who recalls his victim at every turn, sickening aversion to the -presence of the son of the murdered man? Again, I considered the -capricious humours of the man, his alternate craving for excitement and -for solitude, and the fits of silence and brooding to which my mother -told me he was subject. Hitherto I had explained these freaks by -attributing them to the liver complaint which had hollowed out his -cheeks, darkened his eyelids, and from time to time stretched hint on -his bed in such paroxysms of pain that the strong man cried aloud. But -these oddities, this malady itself, might not they be the effect of that -obscure but undeniable phenomenon which assumes such strange and various -shapes—remorse? Did I not know by experience the close relation -between the moral and the physical in man, the ravages which a fixed idea -makes in one's health, the killing and irresistible power of thought. I, -who could not go through strong emotion of any kind without being attacked -by neuralgia? Once more, suspicion took hold of me. How wretched is he -whom such dreadful doubts assail! Tossed upon a troubled sea, the sick -and weary mind knows no repose. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XI">XI</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -There was one remedy to be applied to this unbearable malady—that -remedy which had already been successful in the case of my suspicions of -my mother. I must proceed to place the realities in opposition to the -suggestions of imagination. I must seek the presence of the man whom I -suspected, look him straight in the face, and see him as he was, not as -my fancy, growing more feverish day by day, represented him. Then I -should discern whether I had or had not been the sport of a delusion; -and the sooner I resorted to this test the better, for my sufferings -were terribly increased by solitude. My head became confused; at last I -ceased even to doubt. That which ought to have been only a faint -indication, assumed to my mind the importance of an overwhelming proof. -In the interest of my inquiry itself it was full time to resist this, if -I were ever to pursue that inquiry farther, or else I should fall into -the nervous state which I knew so well, which rendered any kind of -action in cold blood impossible to me. I made up my mind to leave -Compiègne, see my stepfather, and form my judgment of whether there -was, or was not, anything in my suspicions, upon the first effect -produced on him by my sudden and unexpected appearance before him. I -founded this hope on an argument which I had already used in the case of -my mother, namely, that if M. Termonde had really been concerned in the -assassination of my father, he had dreaded my aunt's penetration beyond -all things. Their relations had been formal, with an undercurrent of -enmity on her part which had assuredly not escaped a man so astute as -he. If he were guilty, would he not have feared that my aunt would have -confided her thoughts to me on her death-bed? The attitude that he -should assume towards me, at and after our first interview, would be a -proof, complete in proportion to its suddenness, and he must have no -time for preparation. -</p> - -<p> -I returned to Paris, therefore, without having informed even my valet of -my intention, and proceeded almost immediately to my mother's hotel. I -arrived there at two o'clock in the afternoon—an hour at which I was -pretty sure of finding M. Termonde at home, and smoking his cigar in the -hall after the second breakfast. A little later he and my mother would -go their separate ways until dinner-time, which was seven o'clock. I had -come on foot in order to steady my nerves by exercise, and all the way -along I had been pouring contempt upon myself, for, as I drew near to -the reality, the phantoms which I had summoned up in my solitude seemed -like the dreams of a sick child. -</p> - -<p> -I remembered how the humiliating and the ridiculous were mingled in the -arrival of my mother at Compiègne. I went to meet her, as Orestes might -have gone to meet Clytemnestra, and I found a woman wholly occupied with -her mourning, her travelling bag, and her little cushions. Would the -same ironical contrast present itself in this first interview with my -stepfather? Very likely, and I should be convinced once more of my -readiness to be intoxicated with my own ideas. It was always painful to -me to be convicted of that weakness, and also of my abiding inability to -form clear, precise, and definite views. I mentally compared myself with -the bulls which I had seen in the bull-ring at San Sebastian—stupid -animals; they foamed and stamped at a red rag instead of rushing -straight upon the alert toreador, who mocked their rage. In this -disheartened mood I rang the bell. The door was opened, and the narrow -court, the glass porch, the red carpet of the staircase, were before me. -The concierge, who saluted me, was not he by whom I had fancied myself -slighted in my childhood; but the old valet-de-chambre who opened the -door to me was the same. His close-shaven face wore its former impassive -expression, the look that used to convey to me such an impression of -insult and insolence when I came home from school. What childish -absurdity! To my question the man replied that my mother was in, also M. -Termonde, and Madame Bernard, a friend of theirs. The latter name -brought me back at once to the reality of the situation. Madame Bernard -was a rather pretty woman, very slight and dark, with a tip-tilted nose, -hair worn low upon her forehead, very white teeth which were continually -shown by a constant smile, a short upper lip, and all the manners and -ways of a woman of society well up in its latest gossip. -</p> - -<p> -I fell at once from my fancied height as an imaginary Grand Justiciary -into the shallows of Parisian frivolity. I was about to hear chatter -upon the last play, the latest suit for separation, the latest love -affairs, and the newest bonnet. It was for this that I had eaten my -heart out all these days! The servant preceded me to the hall I knew so -well, with its Oriental divan, its green plants, its strange furniture, -its slightly faded carpet, its Meissonier on a draped easel, in the -place formerly occupied by my father's portrait, its crowd of ornamental -trifles, and the wide-spreading Japanese parasol open in the middle of -the ceiling. The walls were hung with large pieces of Chinese stuff -embroidered in black and white silk. My mother was half-reclining in an -American rocking-chair, and shading her face from the fire with a -hand-screen; Madame Bernard, who sat opposite to her, was holding her -muff with one hand and gesticulating with the other; M. Termonde, in -walking-dress, was standing with his back to the chimney, smoking a -cigar, and warming the sole of one of his boots. On my appearance, my -mother uttered a little cry of glad surprise, and rose to welcome me. -Madame Bernard instantly assumed the air with which a well-bred woman -prepares to condole with a person of her acquaintance upon a -bereavement. All these little details I perceived in a moment, and also -the shrug of M. Termonde's shoulders, the quick flutter of his eyelids, -the rapidly dismissed expression of disagreeable surprise which my -sudden appearance called forth. But what then? Was it not the same with -myself? I could have sworn that at the same moment he experienced -sensations exactly similar to those which were catching me at the chest -and by the throat. What did this prove but that a current of antipathy -existed between him and me? Was it a reason for the man's being a -murderer? He was simply my stepfather, and a stepfather who did not like -his stepson. . . . -</p> - -<p> -Matters had stood thus for years, and yet, after the week of miserable -suspicion I had lived through, the quick look and shrug struck me -strangely, even while I took his hand after I had kissed my mother, and -saluted Madame Bernard. His hand? No, only his finger tips as usual, and -they trembled a little as I touched them. How often had my own hand -shrunk with unconquerable repugnance from that contact! I listened while -he repeated the same phrases of sympathy with my sorrow which he had -already written to me while I was at Compiègne. I listened while Madame -Bernard uttered other phrases to the same effect; and then the -conversation resumed its course, and, during the half-hour that ensued, -I looked on, speaking hardly at all, but mentally comparing the -physiognomy of my stepfather with that of the visitor, and that of my -mother. The contemplation of those three faces produced a curious -impression upon me; it was that of their difference, not only of age, -but of intensity, of depth. There was no mystery in my mother's face, it -was as easy to read as a page in clear handwriting! The mind of Madame -Bernard, a worldly, trumpery mind, but harmless enough, was readily to -be discerned in her features, which were at once refined and -commonplace. How little there was of reflection, of decision, of -exercise of will, in short of individuality, behind the poetic grace of -the one and the pretty affectations of the other! What a face, on the -contrary, was that of my stepfather, with its strong individuality and -its vivid expression! In this man of the world, as he stood there -talking with two women of the world, in his blue, furtive eyes, too wide -apart, and always seeming to shun observation, in his prematurely gray -hair, his mouth set round with deep wrinkles, in his dark, blotched -complexion, there seemed to be a creature of another race. What passions -had worn those furrows? what vigils had hollowed those eyeballs? Was -this the face of a happy man, with whom everything had succeeded, who, -having been born to wealth and of an excellent family, had married the -woman he loved; who had known neither the wearing cares of ambition, the -toil of money-getting, nor the stings of wounded self-love? It is true, -he suffered from some complaint; but why was it that, although I had -hitherto been satisfied with this answer, it now appeared to me childish -and even foolish? Why did all these marks of trouble and exhaustion -suddenly strike me as effects of a secret cause, and why was I -astonished that I had not sooner sought for it? Why was it that in his -presence, contrary to my expectations, contrary to what had happened -about my mother, I was wrong to think thus, and harbour suspicion from -which I had hoped to emerge with a free mind? Why, when our eyes met for -just one second, was I afraid that he might read my thoughts in my -glance, and why did I shift them with a pang of shame and terror? Ah! -coward that I was, triple coward! Either I was wrong to think thus, and -at any price I must know that I was wrong; or, I was right and I must -know that too. The sole resource henceforth remaining to me for the -preservation of my self-respect was ardent and ceaseless search after -certainty. -</p> - -<p> -That such a search was beset with difficulty I was well aware. Mow was I -to get at facts? The very position of the problem which I had before me -forbade all hope of discovering anything whatsoever by a formal inquiry. -What, in fact, was the matter in question? It was to make myself certain -whether M. Termonde was or was not the accomplice of the man who had led -my father into the trap in which he had lost his life. But I did not -know that man himself; I had no data to go upon except the particulars -of his disguise and the vague speculations of a Judge of Instruction. If -I could only have consulted that Judge, and availed myself of his -experience? How often since have I taken out the packet containing the -denunciatory letters, with the intention of showing them to him and -imploring advice, support, suggestions, from him. But I have always -stopped short before the door of his house; the thought of my mother -barred its entrance against me. What if he, the Judge of Instruction in -the case, were to suspect her as my aunt had done? Then I would go back -to my own abode, and shut myself up for hours, lying on the divan in my -smoking-room and drugging my senses with tobacco. During that time I -read and re-read the fatal letters, although I knew them by heart, in -order to verify my first impression with the hope of dispelling it. It -was, on the contrary, deepened. The only gain I obtained from my -repeated perusals was the knowledge that this certainty, of which I had -made a point of honour to myself, could only be psychological. In short, -all my fancies started from the moral data of the crime, apart from -physical data which I could not obtain. I was therefore obliged to rely -entirely, absolutely, upon those moral data, and I began again to reason -as I had done at Compiègne. "Supposing," said I to myself, "that M. -Termonde is guilty, what state of mind must he be in? This state of mind -being once ascertained, how can I act so as to wrest some sign of his -guilt from him?" As to his state of mind I had no doubt. Ill and -depressed as I knew him to be, his mind troubled to the point of -torment, if that suffering, that gloom, that misery were accompanied by -the recollection of a murder committed in the past, the man was the -victim of secret remorse. The point was then to invent a plan which -should give, as it were, a form to his remorse, to raise the spectre of -the deed he had done roughly and suddenly before him. If guilty, it was -impossible but that he would tremble; if innocent, he would not even be -aware of the experiment. But how was this sudden summoning-up of his -crime before the man whom I suspected to be accomplished? On the stage -and in novels one confronts an assassin with the spectacle of his crime, -and keeps watch upon his face for the one second during which he loses -his self-possession; but in reality there is no instrument except -unwieldy, unmanageable speech wherewith to probe a human conscience. I -could not, however, go straight to M. Termonde and say to his face: "You -had my father killed!" Innocent or guilty, he would have had me turned -from the door as a madman! -</p> - -<p> -After several hours of reflection, I came to the conclusion that only -one plan was reasonable, and available: this was to have a private talk -with my stepfather at a moment when he would least expect it, an -interview in which all should be hints, shades, double meanings, in -which each word should be like the laying of a finger upon the sorest -spots in his breast, if indeed his reflections were those of a murderer. -Every sentence of mine must be so contrived as to force him to ask -himself: "Why does he say this to me if he knows nothing? He does know -something. How much does he know?" So well acquainted was I with every -physical trait of his, the slightest variations of his countenance, his -simplest gestures, that no sign of disturbance on his part, however -slight, could escape me. If I did not succeed in discovering the seat of -the malady by this process, I should be convinced of the baselessness of -those suspicions which were constantly springing up afresh in my mind -since the death of my aunt. I would then admit the simple and probable -explanation—nothing in my father's letters discredited it—that -M. Termonde had loved my mother without hope in the lifetime of her first -husband, and had then profited by her widowhood, of which he had not -even ventured to think. If, on the contrary, I observed during our -interview, that he was alive to my suspicions, that he divined them, and -anxiously followed my words; if I surprised that swift gleam in his eye -which reveals the instinctive terror of an animal, attacked at the -moment of its fancied security, if the experiment succeeded, -then—then—I dared not think of what then? The mere possibility -was too overwhelming. But should I have the strength to carry on such a -conversation? At the mere thought of it, my heart-beats were quickened, -and my nerves thrilled. What! this was the first opportunity that had -been offered to me of action, of devoting myself to the task of -vengeance, so coveted, so fully accepted during all my early years, and -I could hesitate? Happily, or unhappily, I had near me a counsellor -stronger than my doubts, my father's portrait, which was hung in my -smoking-room. When I awoke in the night and plunged into these thoughts, -I would light my candle and go to look at the picture. How like we were -to each other, my father and I, although I was more slightly built! How -exactly the same we were! How near to me I felt him, and how dearly I -loved him! With what emotion I studied those features, the lofty -forehead, the brown eyes, the rather large mouth, the rather long chin, -the mouth especially, half-hidden by a black moustache cut like my own; -it had no need to open, and cry out: "André, André, remember me!" Ah, -no, my dear dead father, I could not leave you thus, without having done -my utmost to avenge you, and it was only an interview to be faced, only -an interview! -</p> - -<p> -My nervousness gave way to determination at once feverish and -fixed—yes, it was both—and it was in a mood of perfect -self-mastery, that, after a long period of mental conflict, I repaired -to the hotel on the boulevard, with the plan of my discourse clearly -laid out. I felt almost sure of finding my stepfather alone; for my -mother was to breakfast on that day with Madame Bernard. M. Termonde was -at home, and, as I expected, alone in his study. When I entered the -room, he was sitting in a low chair, close to the fire, looking chilly, -and smoking. Like myself in my dark hours, he drugged himself with -tobacco. The room was a large one, and both luxurious and ordinary. A -handsome bookcase lined one of the walls. Its contents were various, -ranging from grave works on history and political economy to the -lightest novels of the day. A large, flat writing-table, on which every -kind of writing-material was carefully arranged, occupied the middle of -the room, and was adorned with photographs in leather cases. These were -portraits of my mother and M. Termonde's father and mother. At least one -prominent trait of its owner's character, his scrupulous attention to -order and correctness of detail, was revealed by the aspect of my -stepfather's study; but this quality, which is common to so many persons -of his position in the world, may belong to the most commonplace -character as well as to the most refined hypocrite. It was not only in -the external order and bearing of his life that my stepfather was -impenetrable, none could tell whether profound thoughts were or were not -hidden behind his politeness and elegance of manner. I had often -reflected on this, at a period when as yet I had no stronger motive for -examining into the recesses of the man's character than curiosity, and -the impression came to me with extreme intensity at the moment when I -entered his presence with a firm resolve to read in the book of his past -life. -</p> - -<p> -We shook hands, I took a seat opposite to his on the other side of the -hearth, lighted a cigar, and said, as if to explain my unaccustomed -presence: -</p> - -<p> -"Mamma is not here?" -</p> - -<p> -"Did she not tell you, the other day, that she was to breakfast with -Madame Bernard? There's an expedition to Lozano's studio,"—Lozano -was a Spanish painter much in vogue just then—"to see a portrait he -is painting of Madame Bernard. Is there anything you want to have told to -your mother?" he added, simply. -</p> - -<p> -These few words were sufficient to show me that he had remarked the -singularity of my visit. Ought I to regret or to rejoice at this? He -was, then, already aware that I had some particular motive for coming; -but this very fact would give all their intended weight to my words. I -began by turning the conversation on an indifferent matter, talking of -the painter Lozano and a good picture of his which I knew, "A -Gipsy-dance in a Tavern-yard at Grenada." I described the bold -attitudes, the pale complexions, the Moorish faces of the gitanas, and -the red carnations stuck into the heavy braids of their black hair, and -I questioned him about Spain. He answered me, but evidently out of mere -politeness. While continuing to smoke his cigar, he raked the fire with -the tongs, and taking up one small piece of charred wood after another -between their points. By the quivering of his fingers, the only sign of -his nervous sensitiveness which he was unable entirely to keep down, I -could observe that my presence was then, as it always was, disagreeable -to him. Nevertheless he talked on with his habitual courtesy, in his low -voice, almost without tone or accent, as though he had trained himself -to talk thus. His eyes were fixed on the flame, and his face, which I -saw in profile, wore the expression of infinite weariness that I knew -well, an indescribable sadness, with long deep lines, and the mouth was -contracted as though by some bitter thought ever present. Suddenly, I -looked straight at that detested profile, concentrating all the -attention I had in me upon it, and, passing from one subject to another -without transition, I said: -</p> - -<p> -"I paid a very interesting visit this morning." -</p> - -<p> -"In that you are agreeably distinguished from me," was his reply, made -in a tone of utter indifference, "for I wasted my morning in putting my -correspondence in order." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes," I continued, "very interesting. I passed two hours with M. -Massol." -</p> - -<p> -I had reckoned a good deal on the effect of this name, which must have -instantly recalled the inquiry into the mystery of the Imperial Hotel to -his memory. The muscles of his face did not move. He laid down the -tongs, leaned back in his chair, and said in an absent manner: -</p> - -<p> -"The former Judge of Instruction? What is he doing now?" -</p> - -<p> -Was it possible that he really did not know where the man, whom, if he -were guilty, he ought to have dreaded most of all men, was then living? -How was I to know whether this indifference was feigned? The trap I had -set appeared to me all at once a childish notion. Admitting that my -stepfather's pulses were even now throbbing with fever, and that he was -saying to himself with dread: "What is he coming to? What does he mean?" -why, this was a reason why he should conceal his emotion all the more -carefully. No matter. I had begun; I was bound to go on, and to hit -hard—or cease to hit at all. -</p> - -<p> -"M. Massol is Counsellor to the Court," I replied, and I -added—although this was not true—"I see him often. We were -talking this morning of criminals who have escaped punishment. Only -fancy his being convinced that Troppmann had an accomplice. He founds -his belief on the details of the crime, which presupposes two men, he -says. If this be true it must be admitted that 'Messieurs The Assassins' -have a kind of honour of their own, however odd that may appear, since -the child-killing monster let his own head be cut off without denouncing -the other. Nevertheless, the accomplice must have had some bad times -before him, after the discovery of the bodies and the arrest of his -comrade. I, for my part, would not trust to that honour, and if the -humour took me to commit a crime, I should do it by myself. Would you?" -I asked jestingly. -</p> - -<p> -These two little words meant nothing, were merely an insignificant jest, -if the man to whom I put my odd question was innocent. But, if he were -guilty, those two little words were enough to freeze the marrow in his -bones. He surrounded himself with smoke while listening to me, his -eyelids half veiled his eyes; I could no longer see his left hand, which -hung over the far side of his chair, and he had put the right into the -pocket of his morning-coat. There was a short pause before he answered -me—very short—but the interval, perhaps a minute, that divided -his reply from my question was a burning one for me. But what of this? It -was not his way to speak in a hurry; and besides, my question had -nothing interesting in it if he were not guilty, and if he were, would -he not have to calculate the bearing of the phrase which he was -about to utter with the quickness of thought? He closed his eyes -completely—his constant habit—and said, in the unconcerned -tone of a man who is talking generalities: -</p> - -<p> -"It is a fact that scraps of conscience do remain intact in very -depraved individuals. One sees instances of this especially in countries -where habits and morals are more genuine and true to nature than ours. -There's Spain, for instance, the country that interests you so much; -when I lived in Spain, it was still infested by brigands. One had to -make treaties with them in order to cross the Sierras in safety; there -was no case known in which they broke the contract. The history of -celebrated criminal cases swarms with scoundrels who have been excellent -friends, devoted sons, and constant lovers. But I am of your opinion, -and I think it is best not to count too much upon them." -</p> - -<p> -He smiled as he uttered the last words, and now he looked full at me -with those light blue eyes which were so mysterious and impassible. No, -I was not of a stature to cope with him, to read his heart by force. It -needed capacity of another kind than mine to play in the case of this -personage the part of the magnate of police who magnetises a criminal. -And yet, why did my suspicions gather force as I felt the masked, -dissimulating, guarded nature of the man in all its strength? Are there -not natures so constituted that they shut themselves up without cause, -just as others reveal themselves; are there not souls that love darkness -as others love daylight? Courage, then, let me strike again. -</p> - -<p> -"M. Massol and I," I resumed, "have been talking about what kind of life -Troppmann's accomplice must be leading, and also Rochdale's, for neither -of us has relinquished the intention of finding him. Before M. Massol's -retirement he took the precaution to bar the limitation by a formal -notice, and we have several years before us in which to search for the -man. Do these criminals sleep in peace? Are they punished by remorse, or -by the apprehension of danger, even in their momentary security? It -would be strange if they were both at this moment good, quiet citizens, -smoking their cigars like you and me, loved and loving. Do you believe -in remorse?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, I do believe in remorse," he answered. Was it the contrast between -the affected levity of my speech, and the seriousness with which he had -spoken, that caused his voice to sound grave and deep to my ears? No, -no; I was deceiving myself, for without a thrill he had heard the news -that the limitation had been barred, that the case might be re-opened -any day—terrible news for him if he were mixed up with the -murder—and he added, calmly, referring to the philosophic side of -my question only: -</p> - -<p> -"And does M. Massol believe in remorse?" "M. Massol," said I, "is a -cynic. He has seen too much wickedness, known too many terrible stories. -He says that remorse is ay question of stomach and religious education, -and that a man with a sound digestion, who had never heard anything -about hell in his childhood, might rob and kill from morning to night -without feeling any other remorse than fear of the police. He also -maintains, being a sceptic, that we do not know what part that question -of the other life plays in solitude; and I think he is right, for I -often begin to think of death, at night, and I am afraid;—yes, I, who -don't believe in anything very much, am afraid. And you," I continued, -"do you believe in another world?" -</p> - -<p> -"Yes." This time I was sure that there was an alteration in his voice. -</p> - -<p> -"And in the justice of God?" -</p> - -<p> -"In His justice and His mercy," he answered, in a strange tone. -</p> - -<p> -"Singular justice," I said vehemently, "which is able to do everything, -and yet delays to punish! My poor aunt used always to say to me when I -talked to her about avenging my father: 'I leave it to God to punish,' -but, for my part, if I had got hold of the murderer, and he was there -before me—if I were sure—no, I would not wait for the hour of -that tardy justice of God." -</p> - -<p> -I had risen while uttering these words, carried away by involuntary -excitement which I knew to be unwise. M. Termonde had bent over the fire -again, and once more taken up the tongs. He made no answer to my -outburst. Had he really felt some slight disturbance, as I believed for -an instant, at hearing me speak of that inevitable and dreadful morrow -of the grave which fills myself with such fear now that there is blood -upon my hands? I could not tell. His profile was, as usual, calm and -sad. The restlessness of his hands—recalling to my mind the gesture -with which he turned and returned his cane while my mother was telling -him of the disappearance of my father—yes, the restlessness of his -hands was extreme; but he had been working at the fire with the same -feverish eagerness just before. Silence had fallen between us suddenly; -but how often had the same thing happened? Did it ever fail to happen -when he and I were in each other's company? And then, what could he have -to say against the outburst of my grief and wrath, orphan that I was? -Guilty, or innocent, it was for him to be silent, and he held his peace. -My heart sank; but, at the same time, a senseless rage seized upon me. -At that moment I would have given my remaining life for the power of -forcing their secret from those shut lips, by any mode of torture. -</p> - -<p> -My stepfather looked at the clock—he, too, had risen now—and -said: "Shall I put you down anywhere? I have ordered the carriage for three -o'clock, as I have to be at the club at half-past. There's a ballot -coming off to-morrow." Instead of the down-stricken criminal I had -dreamed of, there stood before me a man of society thinking about the -affairs of his club. He came with me so far as the hall, and took leave -of me with a smile. -</p> - -<p> -Why, then, a quarter of an hour afterwards, when we passed each other on -the quay, I, going homewards on foot, he in his coupé—yes—why -was his face so transformed, so dark and tragic? He did not see me. He was -sitting back in the corner, and his clay-coloured face was thrown out by -the green leather behind his head. His eyes were looking—where, and -at what? The vision of distress that passed before me was so different -from the smiling countenance of a while ago that it shook me from head to -foot with an extraordinary emotion. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XII">XII</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -This impression of dread kept hold of me during the whole of that -evening, and for several days afterwards. There is infinite distance -between our fancies, however precise they may be, and the least bit of -reality. My father's letters had stirred my being to its utmost depths, -had summoned up tragic pictures before my eyes; but the simple fact of -my having seen the agonised look in my stepfather's face, after my -interview with him, gave me a shock of an entirely different kind. Even -after I had read the letters repeatedly, I had cherished a secret hope -that I was mistaken, that some slight proof would arise and dispel -suspicions which I denounced as senseless, perhaps because I had a -foreknowledge of the dreadful duty that would devolve upon me when the -hour of certainty had come. Then I should be obliged to act on a -resolution, and I dared not look the necessity in the face. No, I had -not so regarded it, previous to my meeting with my enemy, when I saw him -cowering in anguish upon the cushions of his carriage. Now I would force -myself to contemplate it. What should my course be, if he were guilty? -I put this question to myself plainly t and I perceived all the horror -of the situation. On whatever side I turned I was confronted with -intolerable misery. That things should remain as they were I could not -endure. I saw my mother approach M. Termonde, as she often did, and -touch his forehead caressingly with her hand or her lips. That she -should do this to the murderer of my father! My very bones burned at the -mere thought of it, and I felt as though an arrow pierced my breast. So -be it! I would act; I would find strength to go to my mother and say: -"This man is an assassin," and prove it to her—and lo! I was already -shrinking from the pain that my words must inflict on her. It seemed to -me that while I was speaking I should see her eyes open wide, and, -through the distended pupils, discern the rending asunder of her being, -even to her heart, and that she would go mad or fall down dead on the -spot, before my eyes. No, I would speak to her myself. If I held the -convincing proof in my hands I would appeal to justice. But then a new -scene arose before me. I pictured my mother at the moment of her -husband's arrest. She would be there, in the room, close to him. "Of -what crime is he accused?" she would ask, and she would have to hear the -inevitable answer. And I should be the voluntary cause of this, I, who, -since my childhood, and to spare her a pang, had stifled all my -complaints at the time when my heart was laden with so many sighs, so -many tears, so much sorrow, that it would have been a supreme relief to -have poured them out to her. I had not done so then, because I knew that -she was happy in her life, and that it was her happiness only that -blinded her to my pain. I preferred that she should be blind and happy. -And now? Ah! how could I strike her such a cruel blow, dear and fragile -being that she was? The first glimpse of the double prospect of misery -which my future offered if my suspicions proved just, was too terrible -for endurance, and I summoned all my strength of will to shut out a -vision which must bring about such consequences. Contrary to my habit, I -persuaded myself into a happy solution. My stepfather looked sad when he -passed me in his coupé; true, but what did this prove? Had he not many -causes of care and trouble, beginning with his health, which was failing -from day to day? One fact only would have furnished me with absolute, -indisputable proof; if he had been shaken by a nervous convulsion while -we were talking, if I had seen him (as Hamlet, my brother in anguish, -saw his uncle) start up with distorted face, before the suddenly-evoked -spectre of his crime. Not a muscle of his face had moved, not an eyelash -had quivered;—why, then, should I set down this untroubled calm to -amazing hypocrisy, and take the discomposure of his countenance half an -hour later for a revelation of the truth? This was just reasoning, or at -least it appears so to me, now that I am writing down my recollections -in cold blood. They did not prevail against the sort of fatal instinct -which forced me to follow this trail. Yes, it was absurd, it was mad, -gratuitously to imagine that M. Termonde had employed another person to -murder my father; yet I could not prevent myself from constantly -admitting that this most unlikely suggestion of my fancy was possible, -and sometimes that it was certain. When a man has given place in his -mind to ideas of this kind he is no longer his own master; either he is -a coward, or the thing must be fought out. It was due to my father, my -mother, and myself that I should <i>know</i>. I walked about my rooms for -hours, thinking these thoughts, and more than once I took up a pistol, -saying to myself: "Just a touch, a slight movement like this and I am -cured for ever of mortal pain." But the handling of the weapon, the -touch of the smooth barrel, reminded me of the mysterious scene of my -father's death. It called up before me the sitting-room in the Imperial -Hotel, the disguised man waiting, my father coming in, taking a seat at -the table, turning over the papers laid before him, while a pistol, like -this one in my hand, was levelled at him, close to the back of his neck; -and then the fatal crack of the weapon, the head dropping down upon the -table, the murderer wrapping the bleeding neck in towels and washing his -hands, coolly, leisurely, as though he had just completed some ordinary -task. The picture roused in me a raging thirst for vengeance. I -approached the portrait of the dead man, which looked at me with its -motionless eyes. What! I had my suspicions of the instigator of this -murder, and I would leave them unverified because I was afraid of what I -should have to do afterwards! No, no; at any price, I must in the first -place know! -</p> - -<p> -Three days passed. I was suffering tortures of irresolution, mingled -with incoherent projects no sooner formed than they were rejected as -impracticable. To know?—this was easily said, but I, who was so -eager, nervous, and excitable, so little able to restrain my -quickly-varying emotions, would never be able to extort his secret from -so resolute a man, one so completely master of himself as my stepfather. -My consciousness of his strength and my weakness made me dread his -presence as much as I desired it. I was like a novice in arms who was -about to fight a duel with a very skilful adversary; he desires to -defend himself and to be victorious, but he is doubtful of his own -coolness. What was I to do now, when I had struck a first blow and it -had not been decisive? If our interview had really told upon his -conscience, how was I to proceed to the redoubling of the first effect, -to the final reduction of that proud spirit? My reflections had arrived -and stopped at this point, I was forming and re-forming plans only to -abandon them, when a note reached me from my mother, complaining; that I -had not gone to her house since the day on which I had missed seeing -her, and telling me that my stepfather had been very ill indeed two days -previously with his customary liver complaint. Two days previously, that -was on the day after my conversation with him. Here again it might be -said that fate was making sport of me, redoubling the ambiguity of the -signs, the chief cause of my despair. Was the imminence of this attack -explanatory of the agonised expression of my stepfather's face when he -passed me in his carriage? Was it a cause, or merely the effect of the -terror by which he had been assailed, if he was guilty, under his mask -of indifference, while I flung my menacing words in his face? Oh, how -intolerable was this uncertainty, and my mother increased it, when I -went to her, by her first words. -</p> - -<p> -"This," she said, "is the second attack he has had in two months; they -have never come so near together until now. What alarms me most is the -strength of the doses of morphine he takes to lull the pain. He has -never been a sound sleeper, and for some years he has not slept one -single night without having recourse to narcotics; but he used to be -moderate—whereas, now——" -</p> - -<p> -She shook her head dejectedly, poor woman, and I, instead of -compassionating her sorrow, was conjecturing whether this, too, was not -a sign, whether the man's sleeplessness did not arise from terrible, -invincible remorse, or whether it also could be merely the result of -illness. -</p> - -<p> -"Would you like to see him?" asked my mother, almost timidly, and as I -hesitated she added, under the impression that I was afraid of fatiguing -him, whereas I was much surprised by the proposal, "he asked to see you -himself; he wants to hear the news from you about yesterday's ballot at -the club." Was this the real motive of a desire to see me, which I could -not but regard as singular, or did he want to prove that our interview -had left him wholly unmoved? Was I to interpret the message which he had -sent me by my mother as an additional sign of the extreme importance -that he attached to the details of "society" life, or was he, -apprehending my suspicions, forestalling them? Or, yet again, was he, -too, tortured by the desire to know, by the urgent need of satisfying -his curiosity by the sight of my face, whereon he might decipher my -thoughts? -</p> - -<p> -I entered the room—it was the same that had been mine when I was a -child, but I had not been inside its door for years—in a state of -mind similar to that in which I had gone to my former interview with him. I -had, however, no hope now that M. Termonde would be brought to his knees -by my direct allusion to the hideous crime of which I imagined him to be -guilty. My stepfather occupied the room as a sleeping-apartment when he -was ill, ordinarily he only dressed there. The walls, hung with dark -green damask, ill-lighted by one lamp, with a pink shade, placed upon a -pedestal at some distance from the bed, to avoid fatigue to the sick -man's eyes, had for their only ornament a likeness of my mother by -Bonnat, one of his first female portraits. The picture was hung between -the two windows, facing the bed, so that M. Termonde, when he slept in -that room, might turn his last look at night and his first look in the -morning upon the face whose long-descended beauty the painter had very -finely rendered. No less finely had he conveyed the something -half-theatrical which characterised that face, the slightly affected set -of the mouth, the far-off look in the eyes, the elaborate arrangement of -the hair. First, I looked at this portrait; it confronted me on entering -the room; then my glance fell on my stepfather in the bed. His head, -with its white hair, and his thin yellow face were supported by the -large pillows, round his neck was tied a handkerchief of pale blue silk -which I recognised, for I had seen it on my mother's neck, and I also -recognised the red woollen coverlet that she had knitted for him; it was -exactly the same as one she had made for me; a pretty bit of woman's -work on which I had seen her occupied for hours, ornamented with ribbons -and lined with silk. Ever and always the smallest details were destined -to renew that impression of a shared interest in my mother's life from -which I suffered so much, and more cruelly than ever now, by reason of -my suspicion. I felt that my looks must betray the tumult of such -feelings, and, while I seated myself by the side of the bed, and asked -my stepfather how he was, in a voice that sounded to me like that of -another person, I avoided meeting his eyes. My mother had gone out -immediately after announcing me, to attend to some small matters -relative to the well-being of her dear invalid. My stepfather questioned -me upon the ballot at the club which he had assigned as a pretext for -his wish to see me. I sat with my elbow on the marble top of the table -and my forehead resting in my hand; although I did not catch his eye I -felt that he was studying my face, and I persisted in looking fixedly -into the half-open drawer where a small pocket-pistol, of English make, -lay side by side with his watch, and a brown silk purse, also made for -him by my mother. What were the dark misgivings revealed by the presence -of this weapon placed within reach of his hand and probably habitually -placed there? Did he interpret my thoughts from my steady observation? -Or had he, too, let his glance fall by chance upon the pistol, and was -he pursuing the ideas that it suggested in order to keep up the talk it -was always so difficult to maintain between us? The fact is that he -said, as though replying to the question in my mind: "You are looking at -that pistol, it is a pretty thing, is it not?" He took it up, turned it -about in his hand, and then replaced it in the drawer, which he closed. -"I have a strange fancy, quite a mania; I could not sleep unless I had a -loaded pistol, there, quite close to me. After all it is a habit which -does no harm to any one, and might have its advantages. If your poor -father had carried a weapon like that upon him when he went to the -Imperial Hotel, things would not have gone so easily with the assassin." -</p> - -<p> -This time I could not refrain from raising my eyes and seeking his. How, -if he were guilty, did he dare to recall this remembrance? Why, if he -were not, did his glance sink before mine? Was it merely in following -out an association of ideas that he referred thus to the death of my -father; was it for the purpose of displaying his entire unconcern -respecting the subject-matter of our last interview; or was he using a -probe to discover the depth of my suspicion? After this allusion to the -mysterious murder which had made me fatherless, he went on to say: -</p> - -<p> -"And, by-the-bye, have you seen M. Massol again?" -</p> - -<p> -"No," said I, "not since the other day." -</p> - -<p> -"He is a very intelligent man. At the time of that terrible affair, I -had a great deal of talk with him, in my capacity as the intimate friend -of both your father and mother. If I had known that you were in the -habit of seeing him latterly, I should have asked you to convey my kind -regards." -</p> - -<p> -"He has not forgotten you," I answered. In this I lied; for M. Massol -had never spoken of my stepfather to me; but that frenzy which had made -me attack him almost madly in the conversation of the other evening had -seized upon me again. Should I never find the vulnerable spot in that -dark soul for which I was always looking? This time his eyes did not -falter, and whatever there was of the enigmatical in what I had said, -did not lead him to question me farther. On the contrary, he put his -finger on his lips. Used as he was to all the sounds of the house, he -had heard a step approaching, and knew it was my mother's. Did I deceive -myself, or was there an entreaty that I would respect the unsuspecting -security of an innocent woman in the gesture by which he enjoined -silence? Was I to translate the look that accompanied the sign into: "Do -not awaken suspicion in your mother's mind, she would suffer too much;" -and was his motive merely the solicitude of a man who desires to save -his wife from the revival of a sad remembrance? She came in; with the -same glance she saw us both, lighted by the same ray from the lamp, and -she gave us a smile, meant for both of us in common, and fraught with -the same tenderness for each. It had been the dream of her life that we -should be together thus, and both of us with her, and, as she had told -me at Compiègne, she imputed the obstacles which had hindered the -realisation of her dream to my moody disposition. She came towards us, -smiling, and carrying a silver tray with a glass of Vichy water upon it; -this she held out to my stepfather, who drank the water eagerly, and, -returning the glass to her, kissed her hand. -</p> - -<p> -"Let us leave him to rest," she said, "his head is burning." Indeed, in -merely touching the tips of his fingers, which he placed in mine, I -could feel that he was highly feverish; but how was I to interpret this -symptom, which was ambiguous like all the others, and might, like them, -signify either moral or physical distress? I had sworn to myself that I -would know; but how?—how? -</p> - -<p> -I had been surprised by my stepfather's having expressed a wish to see -me during his illness; but I was far more surprised when, a fortnight -later, my servant announced M. Termonde in person, at my abode. I was in -my study, and occupied in arranging some papers of my father's which I -had brought up from Compiègne. I had passed these two weeks at my poor -aunt's house, making a pretext of a final settlement of affairs, but in -reality because I needed to reflect at leisure upon the course to be -taken with respect to M. Termonde, and my reflections had increased my -doubts. At my request, my mother had written to me three times, giving -me news of the patient, so that I was aware he was now better and able -to go out. On my return, the day before, I had selected a time at which -I was almost sure not to see any one for my visit to my mother's house. -And now, here was my stepfather, who had not been inside my door ten -times since I had been installed in an apartment of my own, paying me a -visit without the loss of an hour. My mother, he said, had sent him with -a message to me. She had lent me two numbers of a review, and she now -wanted them back as she was sending the yearly volume to be bound; so, -as he was passing the door, he had stepped in to ask me for them. I -examined him closely while he was giving this simple explanation of his -visit, without being able to decide whether the pretext did or did not -conceal his real motive. His complexion was more sallow than usual, the -look in his eyes was more glittering, he handled his hat nervously. -</p> - -<p> -"The reviews are not there," I answered; "we shall probably find them in -the smoking-room." -</p> - -<p> -It was not true that the two numbers were not there; I knew their exact -place on the table in my study; but my father's portrait hung in the -smoking-room, and the notion of bringing M. Termonde face to face with -the picture, to see how he would bear the confrontation, had occurred to -me. At first he did not observe the portrait at all; but I went to the -side of the room on which the easel supporting it stood, and his eyes, -following all my movements, encountered it. His eyelids opened and -closed rapidly, and a sort of dark thrill passed over his face; then he -turned his eyes carelessly upon another little picture hanging upon the -wall. I did not give him time to recover from the shock; but, in -pursuance of the almost brutal method from which I had hitherto gained -so little, I persisted: -</p> - -<p> -"Do you not think," said I, "that my father's portrait is strikingly -like me? A friend of mine was saying the other day that if I had my hair -arranged in the same way, my head would be exactly like——" -</p> - -<p> -He looked first at me, and then at the picture, in the most leisurely -way, like an expert in painting examining a work of art, without any -other motive than that of establishing its authenticity. If this man had -procured the death of him whose portrait he studied thus, his power over -himself was indeed wonderful. But—was not the experiment a crucial -one for him? To betray his trouble would be to avow all? How ardently I -longed to place my hand upon his heart at that moment and to count its -beats. -</p> - -<p> -"You do resemble him," he said at length, "but not to that degree. The -lower part of the chin especially, the nose and the mouth, are alike, -but you have not the same look in the eyes, and the brows, forehead, and -cheeks are not of the same shape." -</p> - -<p> -"Do you think," said I, "that the resemblance is strong enough for me to -startle the murderer if he were to meet me suddenly here, and -thus?"—I advanced upon him, looking into the depths of his eyes as -though I were imitating a dramatic scene. "Yes," I continued, "would the -likeness of feature enable me to produce the effect of a spectre, on -saying to the man, 'Do you recognise the son of him whom you killed?'" -</p> - -<p> -"Now we are returning to our former discussion," he replied, without any -farther alteration of his countenance; "that would depend upon the man's -remorse, if he had any, and on his nervous system." -</p> - -<p> -Again we were silent. His pale and sickly but motionless face -exasperated me by its complete absence of expression. In those -minutes—and how many such scenes have we not acted together since my -suspicion was first conceived—I felt myself as bold and resolute as -I was the reverse when alone with my own thoughts. His impassive manner -drove me wild again; I did not limit myself to this second experiment, -but immediately devised a third, which ought to make him suffer as much -as the two others, if he were guilty. I was like a man who strikes his -enemy with a broken-handled knife, holding it by the blade in his shut -hand; the blow draws his own blood also. But no, no; I was not exactly -that man; I could not doubt or deny the harm that I was doing to myself -by these cruel experiments, while he, my adversary, hid his wound so -well that I saw it not. No matter, the mad desire to know overcame my -pain. -</p> - -<p> -"How strange those resemblances are," I said, "my father's handwriting -and mine are exactly the same. Look here." -</p> - -<p> -I opened an iron safe built into the wall, in which I kept papers which -I especially valued, and took out first the letters from my father to my -aunt which I had selected and placed on top of the packet. These were -the latest in date, and I held them out to him, just as I had arranged -them in their envelopes. The letters were addressed to "Mademoiselle -Louise Cornélis, Compiègne;" they bore the post-mark and the quite -legible stamp of the days on which they were posted in the April and May -of 1864. It was the former process over again. If M. Termonde were -guilty, he would be conscious that the sudden change of my attitude -towards himself, the boldness of my allusions, the vigour of my attacks -were all explained by these letters, and also that I had found the -documents among my dead aunt's papers. It was impossible that he should -not seek with intense anxiety to ascertain what was contained in those -letters that had aroused such suspicions in me? When he had the -envelopes in his hands I saw him bend his brows, and I had a momentary -hope that I had shattered the mask that hid his true face, that face in -which the inner workings of the soul are reflected. The bent brow was, -however, merely a contraction of the muscles of the eye, caused by -regarding an object closely, and it cleared immediately. He handed me -back the letters without any question as to their contents. -</p> - -<p> -"This time," said he, simply, "there really is an astonishing -resemblance." Then, returning to the ostensible object of his -visit—"And the reviews?" he asked. -</p> - -<p> -I could have shed tears of rage. Once more I was conscious that I was a -nervous youth engaged in a struggle with a resolutely self-possessed -man. I locked up the letters in the safe, and I now rummaged the small -bookcase in the smoking-room, then the large one in my study, and -finally pretended to be greatly astonished at finding the two reviews -under a heap of newspapers on my table. What a silly farce! Was my -stepfather taken in by it? When I had handed him the two numbers, he -rose from the chair that he had sat in during my pretended search in the -chimney-corner of the smoking-room, with his back to my father's -portrait. But, again, what did this attitude prove? Why should he care -to contemplate an image which could not be anything but painful to him, -even if he were innocent? -</p> - -<p> -"I am going to take advantage of the sunshine to have a turn in the -Bois," said he. "I have my coupé; will you come with me?" -</p> - -<p> -Was he sincere in proposing this tête-à-tête drive which was so -contrary to our habits? What was his motive: the wish to show me that he -had not even understood my attack, or the yearning of the sick man who -dreads to be alone? I accepted the offer at all hazards, in order to -continue my observation of him, and a quarter of an hour afterwards we -were speeding towards the Arc de Triomphe in that same carriage in which -I had seen him pass by me, beaten, broken, almost killed, after our -first interview. This time, he looked like another man. Warmly wrapped -in an overcoat lined with seal fur, smoking a cigar, waving his hand to -this person or that through the open window, he talked on and on, -telling me anecdotes of all sorts, which I had either heard or not heard -previously, about people whose carriages crossed ours. He seemed to be -talking before me and not with me, so little heed did he take of whether -he was telling what I might know, or apprising me of what I did not know. -I concluded from this—for, in certain states of mind, every mood -is significant—that he was talking thus in order to ward off some -fresh attempt on my part. But I had not the courage to recommence my -efforts to open the wound in his heart and set it bleeding afresh so soon. -I merely listened to him, and once again I remarked the strange contrast -between his private thoughts and the rigid doctrines which he generally -professed. One would have said that in his eyes the high society, whose -principles he habitually defended, was a brigand's cave. It was the hour -at which women of fashion go out for their shopping and their calls, and -he related all the scandals of their conduct, false or true. According -to him, one of these great ladies was the mistress of her husband's -brother, another was notoriously under the protection of an old -diplomatist who had enriched himself by a disgraceful marriage, a third -had married an imbecile widower, and, in order that she might inherit -the whole of his fortune, had incited the man's son to so vicious a life -that it had killed him at nineteen. He dwelt on all these stories and -calumnies with a horrid pleasure, as though he rejoiced in the vileness -of humanity. Did this mean the facile misanthropy of a profligate, -accustomed to such conversations at the club, or in sporting circles, -during which each man lays bare his brutal egotism, and voluntarily -exaggerates the depth of his own disenchantment that he may boast more -largely of his experience? Was this the cynicism of a villain, guilty of -the most hideous of crimes, and glad to demonstrate that others were -less worthy than he? To hear him laugh and talk thus threw me into a -singular state of dejection. We had passed the last houses in the Avenue -de Bois, and were driving along an alley on the right in which there -were but few carriages. On the bare hedgerows a beautiful light shone, -coming from that lofty, pale blue sky which is seen only over Paris. He -continued to sneer and chuckle, and I reflected that perhaps he was -right, that the seamy side of the world was what he depicted it. Why -not? Was not I there, in the same carriage with this man, and I -suspected him of having had my father murdered! All the bitterness of -life filled my heart with a rush. Did my stepfather perceive, by my -silence and my face, that his gay talk was torturing me? Was he weary of -his own effort? He suddenly left off talking, and as we had reached a -forsaken corner of the Bois, we got out of the carriage to walk a -little. How strongly present to my mind is that by-path, a gray line -between the poor spare grass and the bare trees, the cold winter sky, -the wide road at a little distance with the carriage advancing slowly, -drawn by the bay horse, shaking its head and its bit, and driven by a -wooden-faced coachman—then, the man. He walked by my side, a tall -figure in a long overcoat. The collar of dark brown fur brought out the -premature whiteness of his hair. He held a cane in his gloved hand, and -struck away the pebbles with it impatiently. Why does his image return -to me at this hour with an unendurable exactness? It is because, as I -observed him walking along the wintry road, with his head bent forward, -I was struck as I had never been before with the sense of his absolute -unremitting wretchedness. Was this due to the influence of our -conversation of that afternoon, to the dejection which his sneering, -sniggering talk had produced in me, or to the death of nature all around -us? For the first time since I knew him, a pang of pity mingled with my -hatred of him, while he walked by my side, trying to warm himself in the -pale sunshine, a shrunken, weary, lamentable creature. Suddenly he -turned his face, which was contracted with pain, to me, and said: -</p> - -<p> -"I do not feel well. Let us go home." When we were in the carriage, he -said, putting his sudden seizure upon the pretext of his health: -</p> - -<p> -"I have not long to live, and I suffer so much that I should have made -an end of it all years ago, had it not been for your mother." Then he -went on talking of her with the blindness that I had already remarked in -him. Never, in my most hostile hours, had I doubted that his worship of -his wife was perfectly sincere, and once again I listened to him, as we -drove rapidly into Paris in the gathering twilight, and all that he said -proved how much he loved her. Alas! his passion rated her more highly -than my tenderness. He praised the exquisite tact with which my mother -discerned the things of the heart, to me, who knew so well her want of -feeling! He lauded the keenness of her intelligence to me, whom she had -so little understood! And he added, he who had so largely contributed to -our separation: -</p> - -<p> -"Love her dearly, you will soon be the only one to love her." -</p> - -<p> -If he were the criminal I believed him to be, he was certainly aware -that in thus placing my mother between himself and me, he was putting in -my way the only barrier which I could never, never break down, and I on -my side understood clearly, and with bitterness of soul, that the -obstacles so placed would be stronger than even the most fatal -certainty. What, then, was the good of seeking any further? Why not -renounce my useless quest at once? But it was already too late. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XIII">XIII</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -Have I been a coward? When I think of what I have accomplished with the -same hand that holds my pen, I am forced to answer: "No." How then shall -I explain that these first scenes, that in which I had tried to torture -my stepfather by talking to him of crimes committed by confederates, and -the danger of complicity; that in which I said to him as I sat by his -bedside and looked him full in the face: "No, M. Massol has not -forgotten you;" that in my room, when I placed the accusing letters in -his hands;—yes, how shall I explain that these three scenes were -succeeded by so many days of inaction? The proof that lies to one's -hand, that stares one in the face like a living thing, was furnished to -me by chance. It was not I who dragged it out of the darkness where it -lurked into the light. But was this my fault? From the moment when my -stepfather had the courage to resist my first attack, the most sudden -and unexpected of the three, what was there for me to do beyond watching -for the slightest indications, and probing the deepest recesses of his -character? I recurred to my first course of reasoning: since material -proofs were not to be had, let me at least collect all the moral reasons -that existed for believing more or believing less in the probability of -the complicated crime of which I accused the man in my thoughts. To do -this I had to depart from my usual custom, and live much at my mother's -house. Our association was necessarily an intolerable torment to M. -Termonde and to myself. How did he endure me, feeling himself suspected -in this way? How did I bear his presence, suspecting him as I did? Ah, -well, it was like a serpent's tooth at my heart when I saw him by my -mother's side, in all the security of love and luxury, loving his wife, -beloved by her, respected by all, and when I said to myself: -</p> - -<p> -"And yet, this man is an assassin, a base, cowardly assassin." -</p> - -<p> -Then I saw him, in my mind's eye, as he ought to have been, approaching -the scaffold in the dawn, livid, with cropped hair, and bound hands, -with the agony of expiation in his eyes, and in front of him the -guillotine, black against the pale sky. Instead of this, it was: "Are -you in any pain, dearest? At what hour do you want the carriage, -Jacques? Mind you wrap yourself up well. Whom shall we ask to dinner on -Wednesday?" It was on Wednesday they received their friends that winter -and until the spring. Thus spoke the soft voice of my mother, and the -evidence of their perfect union tortured me; but the thirst to know was -stronger and fiercer than that pain. My suspicions rose to fever heat, -and produced in me an irresistible craving to keep him always under my -eyes, to inflict the torment of my constant presence upon him. He -yielded to this with a facility which always surprised me. Had he -sensations analogous to mine? Now, when the whole mystery is unveiled, -and I know the part he took in the horrible plot, I understand the -torturing kind of attraction which I had for him. He was wholly -possessed by the fixed idea of his accomplished crime, and I formed a -living portion of that fixed idea, just as he formed a living portion of -my dark and continuous reflections. Henceforth he could think only of -me, just as I could think of none but him. Our mutual hate drew us -together like a mutual love. When we were apart the tempest of wild -fancies broke out with too great fury. At least, this was so in my case; -and although his presence was painful to me, it stilled at the same time -the kind of internal hurricane which hurled me from one extremity of the -possible to the other, when he was out of my sight. No sooner was I -alone than the wildest projects suggested themselves to me. I had a -vision of myself, seizing him by the throat, with the cry of "Assassin! -assassin!" and forcing him to confession by violence. I fancied myself -inducing M. Massol to resume the abandoned <i>Instruction</i> on my -account, and pictured his coming to my mother's house with the new data -supplied by me. I fancied myself bribing two or three rascals, carrying -off my stepfather and shutting him up in some lonely house in the -suburbs of Paris, until he should have confessed the crime. My reason -staggered under these vagaries into which the excess of my desire, still -further stimulated by the sense of my powerlessness, drove me. And he -too must have lived through hours like these; when I was not there, he -must have formed and renounced a hundred plans. He asked of himself, -"What does he know?" he answered, according to the hours, "He knows -all—he knows nothing. What will he do?" and concluded, by turns, -either that I would do all, or that I would do nothing. But, when we -were together, face to face, the reality asserted itself, and put fancy -to flight. We remained together, studying each other, like two animals -about to attack each other presently; but each of us was perfectly aware -of how it was with the other. He could not fully manifest his distrust, -nor I my suspicions, we merely made it evident to one another that we -had not advanced one step since our first conversation on my return from -Compiègne. And, on my part, the evidence of this, while it discouraged -me, somewhat tranquillised; it eased my conscience of the reproach of -inaction. I did nothing, true; but what could I do? -</p> - -<p> -Until the month of May of that year, 1879, I lived this strange life, -seeing my stepfather almost every day; a prey, when he was not there, to -the torments of my fancy, and when he was there suffering agonies from -his presence. My field of action was restricted to the closest study of -his character, and I devoted myself to the anatomy of his moral being -with ardent curiosity, which was sometimes gratified and sometimes -defeated, in proportion as I caught certain significant points, or -failed to catch them. I observed the least of these, purposely, for they -were more involuntary, less likely to deceive, and more useful in aiding -my search into the innermost recesses of his nature. We rode in the -Bois, in the morning, several times a week, and, contrary to our usual -custom, together. He came for me, or met me, without having made any -appointment: we were drawn towards each other by the force of our common -obsession. While we were riding side by side, talking of indifferent -matters, I observed him handling his horse so roughly that several times -he narrowly escaped being thrown, although he was a good horseman. He -preferred restive horses, and displayed a cold ferocity in his treatment -of the animals. What he did with his horses, unjust, despotic, and -implacable as he was, I thought within myself he had done with life, -bending all things and all persons about him to his will. He was -excessively vindictive, to the point indeed of asserting that he did not -attach any meaning to the word "forgiveness," and he had made for -himself a place apart in the world, being little liked, much feared, and -yet received by the most exclusive section of society. Under the perfect -elegance and correct style of his exterior, he hid the daring courage -which had been proved during the war, when he had fought with great -gallantry under the walls of Paris. From his bearing on horseback, I -arrived at far other conclusions; his innate violence convinced me that -he was capable of anything to gratify his passions. In the courage which -he displayed in 1870, I thought I could discern a kind of bargain made -with himself, a rehabilitation of himself in his own eyes, if indeed he -had committed the crime. Again, I wondered whether it was merely an -outcome of his innate ferocity, only a vent for the pent-up despair in -which he lived, for all his outside show of happiness. But whence this -despair? Was it only the moral effect of his bad health? Then, as I rode -by his side, I set myself to examine the physiology of the man, -searching for a correspondence between the construction of his frame, -and the signs and tokens given in specialist books upon the subject, as -those which indicate criminals; the upper part of his body was too heavy -for his legs, his arms were too strongly developed, the expression of -the lower jaw was hard, and his thumb too long. The latter peculiarity -assumed additional importance to my mind from the fact that my -stepfather had a habit of closing his hand with the thumb inwards as -though to hide it. I was well aware that I must not set any real store -by observations of this kind; I rejected them as puerile, but I returned -to them again, in order to supplement them by others which gave value -and importance to the former. -</p> - -<p> -I reflected deeply upon the hereditary probabilities of M. Termonde's -character, during our rides in the Bois. His maternal grandfather had -shot himself with a pistol; his own brother had drowned himself, after -having dissipated hip fortune, taken service in the army, and deserted -under disgraceful circumstances. There were tragic elements in the -family history. How often as we rode together, boot almost touching -boot, have I turned those mad, sad, bad fancies in my head, and worse -ones still! -</p> - -<p> -We would return, and sometimes I would go in to breakfast with my -mother, or call at her hotel after my solitary meal taken in my little -dining-room in the Avenue Montaigne. M. Termonde and I were very rarely -alone together during my visits to the hotel on the Boulevard -Latour-Marbourg. What did it matter to me now? If he was the criminal -whom I was bent on running down, he was forewarned; I had no longer any -chance of wresting his secret from him by surprise. I much preferred to -study him while he was talking, and in the course of his conversation -with one person or another, in my presence, I learned how perfect was -his self-control. In my childhood and my early youth, I had hated that -power of mastering himself completely, which he possessed to a supreme -degree, while I was so foolish, so helpless a victim to my nervous -sensibility, so incapable of the cold-bloodedness that hides violent -emotion with the mask of calmness. Now, it gave me a sort of pleasure to -contemplate the depth of his hypocrisy. He had such an inveterate habit -of dissimulation, such a mania for it, indeed, that he kept silence -respecting the smallest events of his life, even to his wife. He never -spoke of the visits he made, the people he met, the plans he formed, or -the books he read. He had evidently trained himself to forecast the most -remote consequences of every sentence that he uttered. This unremitting -watch kept upon himself in a life apparently so easy, prosperous, and -happy, could not fail to impress even the least observant people with an -idea that the man was an enigmatical personage. On putting together the -various pieces of his strange character and connecting his dissimulation -with the passionate frenzy which I had observed in him, he appeared to -me in the light of an infinitely dangerous being. He asked a great many -questions, and he spoke very deliberately, very temperately, unless he -were in a certain singular mood like that in which he had intoxicated -himself with his own words, on the occasion of our drive in his coupé. -Then he would talk on and on, with a nervous, sneering laugh, and give -utterance to theories so cynical, and to ideas and conceits so peculiar -that the whole thing made me shudder. He had, for instance, an -extraordinary knowledge of all questions relating to medical -jurisprudence. A case, which made a great sensation, was tried during -that winter, and in the course of an animated discussion in which -several persons took part, my stepfather chanced to mention the date of -the arrest of the notorious criminal Conty de la Pommerais. I verified -the statement; it was correct. How strangely full of things connected -with crime his mind must have been, and how strongly this bore upon -certain data, for which I was indebted to my interviews with M. Massol! -For, was it not an instance of the all-absorbing, single thought which -the old judge declared he had discerned in the great majority of -murderers, that which leads them to return to the scene of murder, to -approach the body of their victim when it is exposed in a public place, -to read every line of the newspapers, in which details of their crimes -are to be found, to follow the record of deeds similar to their own with -eager attention? At other times, my stepfather fell into a deep silence -from which it was impossible to rouse him, and he smoked cigar after -cigar while the silent mood was upon him, notwithstanding the reiterated -prohibition of the doctors. Tobacco by day, morphine by night—what -suffering was it he tried to baffle by such an abuse of narcotics? Was -it the pain of his malady, or torture of another kind, such as I -imagined when I gave myself up to my tragic conjectures? Again, he had -intervals of lassitude so great that even my presence could not rouse -him—the lassitude of a man who has reached the limit of what he can -suffer, and who can feel no more, because he has felt too much. I found -him in this condition two or three times, alone in the twilight, so -utterly sunk in weariness that he took no notice of me when I seated -myself opposite to him and gazed at him, also in silence. I was tempted -to cry out to him: "Confess, confess, confess at once!" And I should not -have been surprised had he surrendered, allowed his secret to escape -him, and answered: "It is true." On these occasions I felt the inanity -of the small facts I had so carefully collected. What if he were not -guilty? I kept silence, a prey to the fever of doubt which had been -devouring me for weeks, and at last he emerged from his taciturnity to -talk to me of my mother. Why? Was he thinking of her so intently just -then because he was very ill and believed that he was on the eve of an -eternal parting? Or was he merely striving to defend himself against me -with that buckler before which I always must retreat? Was this a -supplication to me to spare her a supreme grief? Yes; the latter was the -true explanation. With his inborn courage and his natural violence, he -would not have endured the outrage of my steady immovable gaze, the -menacing allusions I frequently made, the continuous threat of my -presence, but for his desire to spare my mother a scene between us, at -any cost, although he might be ever so sure that no solidly certain proof -could spring up accidentally in the course of it. But—rather than -be accused of this thing in her presence—he preferred to suffer as -he was suffering. For he loved her. However intolerable that sentiment -might appear to me, it was indispensable that I should admit it, even in -the hypothesis of the crime, in that case above all indeed. And then I -knew that notwithstanding our mutual enmity we felt ourselves obliged to -act in common so as not to endanger the happiness of the being who was -so dear to both of us. Nevertheless, the difference between us was -great. He might have a feeling of sullen jealousy because of my -attachment to my mother, but it could not give him the shudder of horror -that passed over me with the thought that he loved her as much as I did, -and was beloved by her, and yet had my father's blood upon his -conscience! -</p> - -<p> -He loved her! It was for her that he had bought the assassin's hand, and -caused that blood to be shed, and it was she who brought him to -destruction at last, she who moved about between us with the same look -of happy tenderness she had cast upon us both, on the evening when she -found me by her ailing husband's bedside, and when her smile had beamed -so softly upon him and me—the very same smile! The efforts he made to -preserve the tranquillity of that woman's heart of hers were destined to -destroy him. Yes, all the precautions he had taken with a view to -warding off eventualities which he thought possible, were the cause of -his ultimate ruin, from the cunning disclosures he made to the gentle -unsuspecting creature, even to the false affection which he pretended -for me in her presence. If he and I had not made a pretence of mutual -regard, she would never have spoken to me as she did speak, I should -never have learned from her what I did learn, with the result that the -silent duel in which my useless energies were being exhausted was -brought to a sudden end. Is there then an overruling fate, as certain -men have believed, ay, even those who, like Bonaparte, have striven most -vigorously with stern realities? What I gather from the contemplation of -my life, from beyond the accomplished events of it, is that there is a -logical law of situation and character, which develops all the -consequences of our actions even to their end, so inexorably that the -very success of our criminal projects contains that which will crush us -some day. When I think this out for a little while, remembering how it -was she, the woman whom he so loved, who put the effectual clue for -which I had ceased to hope into my hand, and that it led to the -certainty from which there was no drawing back, a vertigo of terror -seizes upon me, as though the awful breath of destiny swept over my -brow. Yes, I am terrified, because I too have blood upon my hands; but -at the same time it comforts me because I can say to myself that I have -but been the instrument of an inevitable deed, the necessary slave of an -invisible master. Poor mother! If you had known? You also were the -deadly weapon in the hand of fate, blind, like the knife that kills and -knows it not. Whereas I—I have seen, I have known, I have willed. -Ah! Until now I have been strong enough to keep the compact made with -myself, that I would confess my story simply, detail by detail, passing -no judgment on myself. And now, as the scene approaches which determined -the new and last period of the drama of my life, my spirit shrinks. -Coward! Once more I yield to a kind of stupefaction at the thought that -it is really my own story I am setting down, that thus I acted, that there -is in my memory——No, I have pledged my word; I will go on. Yes, -with this hand that holds my pen I have done the deed. Yes, I have -blood, blood, an indelible stain upon these fingers. They falter, but -they must needs obey me and write out the story to its end. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XIV">XIV</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -At the beginning of the summer, six months after my aunt's death, I was -in exactly the same position with respect to my stepfather as on that -already distant day when, maddened with suspicion by my father's -letters, I entered his study, to play the part of the physician who -examines a man's body, searching with his finger for the tender spot -that is probably a symptom of a hidden abscess. I was full of intuitions -now, just as I was at the moment when he passed me in his carriage with -his terrible face, but I did not grasp a single certainty. Would I have -persisted in a struggle in which I felt beforehand that I must be -beaten? I cannot tell; for, when I no longer expected any solution to -the problem set before me for my grief, a grief, too, that was both -sterile and mortal, a day came on which I had a conversation with my -mother so startling and appalling that to this hour my heart stands -still when I think of it. I have spoken of never-to-be-forgotten dates; -among them is the 25th of May, 1879. -</p> - -<p> -My stepfather, who was on the eve of his departure for Vichy, had just -had a severe attack of liver complaint, the first since his illness -after our terrible conversation in the month of January. I know that I -counted for nothing—at least in any direct or positive -way—in this acute revival of his malady. The fight between us, -which went on without the utterance of a word on either side, and with -no witnesses except ourselves, had not been marked by any fresh episode; -I therefore attributed this complication to the natural development of -the disease under which he laboured. I can exactly recall what I was -thinking of on the 25th of May, at five o'clock in the evening, as I -walked up the stairs in the hotel on the Boulevard de Latour-Marbourg. I -hoped to learn that my stepfather was better, because I had been -witnessing my mother's distress for a whole week, and also—I must -tell all—because to know he was going to this watering-place was a -great relief to me, on account of the separation it would bring about. I -was so tired of my unprofitable pain! My wretched nerves were in such a -state of tension that the slightest disagreeable impression became a -torment. I could not sleep without the aid of narcotics, and such sleep -as these procured was full of cruel dreams in which I walked by my -father's side, while knowing and feeling that he was dead. One -particular nightmare used to recur so regularly that it rendered my -dread of the night almost unbearable. I stood in a street crowded with -people, and was looking into a shop window; on a sudden I heard a man's -step approaching, that of M. Termonde. I did not see him, and yet I was -certain it was he. I tried to move on, but my feet were leaden; to turn -my head, but my neck was immovable. The step drew nearer, my enemy was -behind me, I heard his breathing, and knew that he was about to strike -me. He passed his arm over my shoulder. I saw his hand, it grasped a -knife, and sought for the spot where my heart lay; then it drove the -blade in, slowly, slowly, and I awoke in unspeakable agony. So often had -this nightmare recurred within a few weeks, that I had taken to counting -the days until my stepfather's departure, which had been at first fixed -for the 21st, and then put off until he should be stronger. I hoped that -when he was absent I should be at rest at least for a time. I had not -the courage to go away myself, attracted as I was every day by that -presence which I hated, and yet sought with feverish eagerness; but I -secretly rejoiced that the obstacle was of his raising, that his absence -gave me breathing-time, without my being obliged to reproach myself with -weakness. Such were my reflections as I mounted the wooden staircase, -covered with a red carpet, and lighted by stained-glass windows, that -led to my mother's favourite hall. The servant who opened the door -informed me in answer to my question that my stepfather was better, and -I entered the room with which my saddest recollections were connected, -more cheerfully than usual. Little did I think that the dial hung upon -one of the walls was ticking off in minutes one of the most solemn hours -of my life! My mother was seated before a small writing-table, placed in -a corner of the deep glazed projection which formed the garden-end of -the hall. Her left hand supported her head, and in the right, instead of -going on with the letter she had begun to write, she held her idle pen, -in a golden holder with a fine pearl set in the top of it (the latter -small detail was itself a revelation of her luxurious habits). She was -so lost in reverie that she did not hear me enter the room, and I looked -at her for some time without moving, startled by the expression of -misery in her refined and lovely face. What dark thought was it that -closed her mouth, furrowed her brow, and transformed her features? The -alteration in her looks and the evident absorption of her mind -contrasted so strongly with the habitual serenity of her countenance -that it at once alarmed me. But, what was the matter? Her husband was -better; why, then, should the anxiety of the last few days have -developed into this acute trouble? Did she suspect what had been going -on close to her, in her own house, for months past? Had M. Termonde made -up his mind to complain to her, in order to procure the cessation of the -torture inflicted upon him by my assiduity? No. If he had divined my -meaning from the very first day, as I thought he had, unless he were -sure he could not have said to her: "André suspects me of having had -his father killed." Or had the doctor discerned dangerous symptoms -behind this seeming improvement in the invalid? Was my stepfather in -danger of death? At the idea, my first feeling was joy, my second was -rage—joy that he should disappear from my life, and for ever; rage -that being guilty he should die without having felt my full vengeance. -Beneath all my hesitation, my scruples, my doubts, there lurked that -savage appetite for revenge which I had allowed to grow up in me, -revenge that is not satisfied with the death of the hated object unless -it be caused by one's self. I thirsted for revenge as a dog thirsts for -water after running in the sun on a summer day. I wanted to roll myself -in it, as the dog in question rolls himself in the water when he comes -to it, were it the sludge of a swamp. I continued to gaze at my mother -without moving. Presently she heaved a deep sigh and said aloud: "Oh, -me, oh, me! what misery it is!" Then lifting up her tear-stained face, -she saw me, and uttered a cry of surprise. I hastened towards her. -</p> - -<p> -"You are in trouble, mother," I said. "What ails you?" -</p> - -<p> -Dread of her answer made my voice falter; I knelt down before her as I -used to do when a child, and, taking both her hands, I covered them with -kisses. Again, at this solemn hour, my lips were met by that golden -wedding-ring which I hated like a living person; yet the feeling did not -hinder me from speaking to her almost childishly. "Ah," I said, "you -have troubles, and to whom should you tell them if not to me? Where will -you find any one to love you more? Be good to me," I went on; "do you -not feel how dear you are to me?" She bent her head twice, made a sign -that she could not speak, and burst into painful sobs. -</p> - -<p> -"Has your trouble anything to do with me?" I asked. -</p> - -<p> -She shook her head as an emphatic negative, and then said in a half -stifled voice, while she smoothed my hair with her hands, as she used to -do in the old times: -</p> - -<p> -"You are very nice to me, my André." -</p> - -<p> -How simple those few words were, and yet they caught my heart and -gripped it as a hand might do. How had I longed for some of those little -words which she had never uttered, some of those gracious phrases which -are like the gestures of the mind, some of her involuntary tender -caresses. Now I had what I had so earnestly desired, but at what a -moment and by what means! It was, nevertheless, very sweet to feel that -she loved me. I told her so, employing words which scorched my lips, so -that I might be kind to her. -</p> - -<p> -"Is our dear invalid worse?" -</p> - -<p> -"No, he is better. He is resting now," she answered, pointing in the -direction of my stepfather's room. -</p> - -<p> -"Mother, speak to me," I urged, "trust yourself to me; let me grieve -with you, perhaps I may help you. It is so cruel for me that I must take -you by surprise in order to see your tears." -</p> - -<p> -I went on, pressing her by my questions and my complaining. What then -did I hope to tear from those lips which quivered but yet kept silence? -At any price I would know; I was in no state to endure fresh mysteries, -and I was certain that my stepfather was somehow concerned in this -inexplicable trouble, for it was only he and I who so deeply moved that -woman's heart of hers. She was not thus troubled on account of me, she -had just told me so; the cause of her grief must have reference to him, -and it was not his health. Had she too made any discovery? Had the -terrible suspicion crossed her mind also? At the mere idea a burning -fever seized upon me; I insisted and insisted again. I felt that she was -yielding, if it were only by the leaning of her head towards me, the -passing of her trembling hand over my hair, and the quickening of her -breath. -</p> - -<p> -"If I were sure," said she at length, "that this secret would die with -you and me." -</p> - -<p> -"Oh! mother!" I exclaimed, in so reproachful a tone that the blood flew -to her cheeks. Perhaps this little betrayal of shame decided her, she -pressed a lingering kiss on my forehead, as though she would have -effaced the frown which her unjust distrust had set there. -</p> - -<p> -"Forgive me, my André," she said, "I was wrong. In whom should I trust, -to whom confide this thing, except to you? From whom ask counsel?" And -then she went on as though she were speaking to herself, "If he were -ever to apply to him?" -</p> - -<p> -"He! Whom?" -</p> - -<p> -"André, will you swear to me by your love for me, that you will never, -you understand me, never, make the least allusion to what I am going to -tell you?" -</p> - -<p> -"Mother!" I replied, in the same tone of reproach, and then added at -once, to draw her on, "I give you my word of honour!" -</p> - -<p> -"Nor——" she did not pronounce a name, but she pointed anew to -the door of the sick man's room. -</p> - -<p> -"Never." -</p> - -<p> -"You have heard of Edmond Termonde, his brother?" Her voice was lowered, -as though she were afraid of the words she uttered, and now her eyes -only were turned towards the closed door, indicating that she meant the -brother of her husband. I had a vague knowledge of the story; it was of -this brother I had thought when I was reviewing the mental history of my -stepfather's family. I knew that Edmond Termonde had dissipated his -share of the family fortune, no less than 1,200,000 francs, in a few -years; that he had then enlisted, that he had gone on leading a -debauched life in his regiment; that, having no money to come into from -any quarter, and after a heavy loss at cards, he had been tempted into -committing both theft and forgery. Then, finding himself on the brink of -being detected, he had deserted. The end was that he did justice on -himself by drowning himself in the Seine, after he had implored his -brother's forgiveness in terms which proved that some sense of moral -decency still lingered in him. The stolen money was made good by my -stepfather; the scandal was hushed up, thanks to the scoundrel's -disappearance. I had reconstructed the whole story in my mind from the -gossip of my good old nurse, and also from certain traces of it which I -had found in some passages of my father's correspondence. Thus, when my -mother put her question to me in so agitated a way, I supposed she was -about to tell me of family grievances on the part of her husband which -were totally indifferent to me, and it was with a feeling of -disappointment that I asked her: -</p> - -<p> -"Edmond Termonde? The man who killed himself?" -</p> - -<p> -She bent her head to answer, yes, to the first part of my question; -then, in a still lower voice, she said: -</p> - -<p> -"He did not kill himself, he is still alive." -</p> - -<p> -"He is still alive," I repeated, mechanically, and without a notion of -what could be the relation between the existence of this brother and the -tears which I had seen her shed. -</p> - -<p> -"Now you know the secret of my sorrow," she resumed, in a firmer, almost -a relieved tone. "This infamous brother is the tormentor of my Jacques; -he puts him to death daily by the agonies which he inflicts upon him. -No; the suicide never took place. Such men as he have not the courage to -kill themselves. Jacques dictated that letter to save him from penal -servitude after he had arranged everything for his flight, and given him -the wherewithal to lead a new life, if he would have done so. My poor -love, he hoped at least to save the integrity of his name out of all the -terrible wreck. Edmond had, of course, to renounce the name of Termonde, -to escape pursuit, and he went to America. There he lived—as he had -lived here. The money he took with him was soon exhausted, and again he -had recourse to his brother. Ah! the wretch knew well that Jacques had -made all these sacrifices to the honour of his name, and when my husband -refused him the money he demanded, he made use of the weapon which he -knew would avail. Then began the vilest persecution, the most atrocious -levying of blackmail. Edmond threatened to return to France; between -going to the galleys here or starving in America, he said, he preferred -the galleys here, and Jacques yielded the first time—he loved him, -after all, he was his only brother. You know when you have once shown -weakness in dealing with people of this sort you are lost. The threat to -return had succeeded, and the other has since used it to extort sums of -which you have no idea. This abominable persecution has been going on -for years, but I have only been aware of it since the war. I saw that my -husband was utterly miserable about something; I knew that a hidden -trouble was preying on him, and then, one day, he told me all. Would you -believe it? It was for me that he was afraid. 'What can he possibly do -to me?' I asked my Jacques. 'Ah,' he said, 'he is capable of anything -for the sake of revenge.' And then he saw me so overwhelmed by distress -at his fits of melancholy, and I so earnestly entreated him, that at -length he made a stand. He positively refused to give any more money. We -have not heard of the wretch for some time—he has kept his -word—André, he is in Paris!" -</p> - -<p> -I had listened to my mother with growing attention. At any period of my -life, I, who had not the same notions of my stepfather's sensitiveness -of feeling which my dear mother entertained, would have been astonished -at the influence exercised by this disgraced brother. There are similar -pests in so many families, that it is plainly to the interest of society -to separate the various representatives of the same name from each -other. At any time I should have doubted whether M. Termonde, a bold and -violent man as I knew him to be, had yielded under the menace of a -scandal whose real importance he would have estimated quite correctly. -Then I would have explained this weakness by the recollections of his -childhood, by a promise made to his dying parents; but now, in the -actual state of my mind, full as I was of the suspicions which had been -occupying my thoughts for weeks, it was inevitable that another idea -should occur to me. And that idea grew, and grew, taking form as my -mother went on speaking. No doubt my face betrayed the dread with which -the notion inspired me, for she interrupted her narrative to ask me: -</p> - -<p> -"Are you feeling ill, André?" -</p> - -<p> -I found strength to answer, "No; I am upset by having found you in -tears. It is nothing." -</p> - -<p> -She believed me; she had just seen me overcome by her emotion; she -kissed me tenderly, and I begged her to continue. She then told me that -one day in the previous week a stranger, coming ostensibly from one of -their friends in London, had asked to see my stepfather. He was ushered -into the hall, and into her presence, and she guessed at once by the -extraordinary agitation which M. Termonde displayed that the man was -Edmond. The two brothers went into my stepfather's private room, while -my mother remained in the hall, half dead with anxiety and suspense, -every now and then hearing the angry tones of their voices, but unable -to distinguish any words. At length the brother came out, through the -hall, and looked at her as he passed by with eyes that transfixed her -with fear. -</p> - -<p> -"And the same evening," she went on, "Jacques took to his bed. Now, do -you understand my despair? Ah, it is not our name that I care for. I -wear myself out with repeating, 'What has this to do with us? How can we -be spattered by this mud?' It is his health, his precious health! The -doctor says that every violent emotion is a dose of poison to him. Ah!" -she cried, with a gesture of despair, "this man will kill him." To hear -that cry, which once again revealed to me the depth of her passion for -my stepfather, to hear it at this moment, and to think what I was -thinking! -</p> - -<p> -"You saw him?" I asked, hardly knowing what I said. -</p> - -<p> -"Have I not told you that he passed by me, there?" and, with terror -depicted in her face, she showed me the place on the carpet. -</p> - -<p> -"And you are sure that the man was his brother?" -</p> - -<p> -"Jacques told me so in the evening; but I did not require that; I should -have recognised him by the eyes. How strange it is! Those two brothers, -so different; Jacques so refined, so distinguished, so noble-minded, and -the other, a big, heavy, vulgar lout, common-looking, and a -rascal—well, they have the same look in their eyes." -</p> - -<p> -"And under what name is he in Paris?" -</p> - -<p> -"I do not know. I dare not speak of him any more. If he knew that I have -told you this, with his ideas! But then, dear, you would have heard it -at some time or other; and besides," she added with firmness, "I would -have told you long ago about this wretched secret if I had dared! You -are a man now, and you are not bound by this excessively scrupulous -fraternal affection. Advise me, André, what is to be done?" -</p> - -<p> -"I do not understand you." -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, yes. There must be some means of informing the police and having -this man arrested without its being talked of in the newspapers or -elsewhere. Jacques would not do this, because the man is his brother; -but if we were to act, you and I, on our own side? I have heard you say -that you visit M. Massol, whom we knew at the time of our great -misfortune; suppose I were to go to him and ask his advice? Ah t I must -keep my husband alive—he must be saved! I love him too much!" -</p> - -<p> -Why was I seized with a panic at the idea that she might carry out this -project, and apply to the former Judge of Instruction—I, who had not -ventured to go to his house since my aunt's death for fear he should -divine my suspicions merely by looking at me? What was it that I saw so -clearly, that made me implore her to abandon her idea in the very name -of the love she bore her husband. -</p> - -<p> -"You will not do this," I said; "you have no right to do it. He would -never forgive you, and he would have just cause; it would be betraying -him." -</p> - -<p> -"Betraying him! It would be saving him!" -</p> - -<p> -"And if his brother's arrest were to strike him a fresh blow? If you -were to see him ill, more ill than ever, on account of what you had -done?" -</p> - -<p> -I had used the only argument that could have convinced her. Strange -irony of fate! I calmed her, I persuaded her not to act—I, who had -suddenly conceived the monstrous notion that the doer of the murderous -deed, the docile instrument in my stepfather's hands, was this infamous -brother—that Edmond Termonde and Rochdale were one and the same man! -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XV">XV</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The night which followed that conversation with my mother remains in my -memory as the most wretched I had hitherto endured; and yet how many -sleepless nights had I passed, while all the world around me slept, in -bitter conflict with a thought which held mine eyes waking and devoured -my heart! I was like a prisoner who has sounded every inch of his -dungeon—the walls, the floor, the ceiling—and who, on shaking -the bars of his window for the hundredth time, feels one of the iron rods -loosen under the pressure. He hardly dares to believe in his good fortune, -and he sits down upon the ground almost dazed by the vision of deliverance -that has dawned upon him. "I must be cool-headed now," said I to myself, -as I walked to and fro in the smoking-room, whither I had retired -without tasting the meal that was served on my return. Evening came, -then the black night; the dawn followed, and once more the full day. -Still I was there, striving to see clearly amid the cloud of -suppositions in which an event, simple in itself (only that in my state -of mind no event would have seemed simple), had wrapped me. I was too -well used to these mental tempests not to know that the only safety -consisted in clinging to the positive facts, as though to immovable -rocks. In the present instance, the positive facts reduced themselves to -two: first, I had just learned that a brother of M. Termonde, who passed -for dead, and of whom my stepfather never spoke, existed; secondly, that -this man, disgraced, proscribed, ruined, an outlaw in fact, exercised a -dictatorship of terror over his rich, honoured, and irreproachable -brother. The first of these two facts explained itself. It was quite -natural that Jacques Termonde should not dispel the legend of the -suicide, which was of his own invention, and had saved the other from -the galleys. It is never pleasant to have to own a thief, a forger, or a -deserter, for one's nearest relation; but this, after all, is only an -excessively disagreeable matter. The second fact was of a different -kind. The disproportion between the cause assigned by my stepfather and -its result in the terror from which he was suffering was too great. The -dominion which Edmond Termonde exercised over his brother was not to be -justified by the threat of his return, if that return were not to have -any other consequence than a transient scandal. My mother, who regarded -her husband as a noble-minded, high-souled, great-hearted man, might be -satisfied with the alleged reason; but not I. It occurred to me to -consult the Code of Military Justice, and I ascertained, by the 184th -clause, that a deserter cannot claim immunity from punishment until -after he has attained his forty-seventh year, so that it was most likely -Edmond Termonde was still within the reach of the law. Was it possible -that his desire to shield his brother from the punishment of the offence -of desertion should throw my stepfather into such a state of illness and -agitation? I discerned another reason for this dominion—some dark and -terrible bond of complicity between the two men. What if Jacques -Termonde had employed his brother to kill my father, and proof of the -transaction was still in the murderer's possession? No doubt his hands -would be tied so far as the magistrates were concerned; but he had it in -his power to enlighten my mother, and the mere threat of doing this -would suffice to make a loving husband tremble, and tame his fierce -pride. -</p> - -<p> -"I must be cool," I repeated, "I must be cool;" and I put all my -strength to recalling the physical and moral particulars respecting the -crime which were in my possession. It was my business now to try whether -one single point remained obscure when tested by the theory of the -identity of Rochdale with Edmond Termonde. The witnesses were agreed in -representing Rochdale as tall and stout, my mother had described Edmond -Termonde as a big, heavy man. Fifteen years lay between the assassin of -1864 and the elderly rake of 1879; but nothing prevented the two from -being identical. My mother had dwelt upon the colour of Edmond -Termonde's eyes, pale blue like those of his brother; the concierge of -the Imperial Hotel had mentioned the pale blue colour and the brightness -of Rochdale's eyes in his deposition, which I knew by heart. He had -noticed this peculiarity on account of the contrast of the eyes with the -man's bronzed complexion. Edmond Termonde had taken refuge in America -after his alleged suicide, and what had M. Massol said? I could hear him -repeat, with his well-modulated voice, and methodical movement of the -hand: "A foreigner, American or English, or, perhaps, a Frenchman -settled in America." Physical impossibility there existed none. And -moral impossibility? That was equally absent. In order to convince -myself more fully of this, I took up the history of the crime from the -moment at which my father's correspondence concerning Jacques Termonde -became explicit, that is to say, in January, 1864. -</p> - -<p> -So as to rid my judgment of every trace of personal enmity, I suppressed -the names in my thoughts, reducing the dreadful occurrence by which I -had suffered to the bareness of an abstract narrative. A man is -desperately in love with the wife of one of his intimate friends, a -woman whom he knows to be absolutely, spotlessly virtuous; he knows, he -feels, that if she were free she would love him; but that, not being -free, she will never, never be his. This man is of the temperament which -makes criminals, his passions are violent in the extreme, he has no -scruples and a despotic will; he is accustomed to see everything give -way to his desires. He perceives that his friend is growing jealous; a -little later and the house will no longer be open to him. Would not the -thought come to him—if the husband could be got rid of? And -yet——? This dream of the death of him, who forms the sole -obstacle to his happiness, troubles the man's head, it recurs once, -twice, many times, and he turns the fatal idea over and over again in -his brain until he becomes used to it. He arrives at the "If I dared," -which is the starting-point of the blackest villainies. The idea takes a -precise form; he conceives that he might have the man whom he now hates, -and by whom he feels that he is hated, killed. Has he not, far away, a -wretch of a brother, whose actual existence, to say nothing of his -present abode, is absolutely unknown? What an admirable instrument of -murder he should find in this infamous, depraved, and needy brother, -whom he holds at his beck and call by the aid in money that he sends -him! And the temptation grows and grows. An hour comes when it is -stronger than all besides, and the man, resolved to play this desperate -game, summons his brother to Paris. How? By one or two letters in which -he excites the rascal's hopes of a large sum of money to be gained, at -the same time that he imposes the condition of absolute secrecy as to -his voyage. The other accepts; he is a social failure, a bankrupt in -life, he has neither relations nor ties, he has been leading an -anonymous and haphazard existence for years. The two brothers are face -to face. Up to that point all is logical, all is in conformity with the -possible stages of a project of this order. -</p> - -<p> -I arrived at the execution of it; and I continued to reason in the same -way, impersonally. The rich brother proposes the blood-bargain to the -poor brother. He offers him money; a hundred thousand francs, two -hundred thousand, three hundred thousand. From what motive should the -scoundrel hesitate to accept the offer? Moral ideas? What is the -morality of a rake who has gone from libertinism to theft? Under the -influence of my vengeful thoughts I had read the criminal news of the -day in the journals, and the reports of criminal trials, too assiduously -for years past, not to know how a man becomes a murderer. How many cases -of stabbing, shooting, and poisoning have there not been, in which the -gain was entirely uncertain, and the conditions of danger extreme, -merely to enable the perpetrators to go, presently, and expend the -murder-money in some low haunt of depravity! Fear of the scaffold? Then -nobody would kill. Besides, debauchees, whether they stop short at vice -or roll down the descent into crime, have no foresight of the future. -Present sensation is too strong for them; its image abolishes all other -images, and absorbs all the vital forces of the temperament and the -soul. An old dying mother, children perishing of hunger, a despairing -wife; have these pictures of their deeds ever arrested drunkards, -gamblers, or profligates? No more have the tragic phantoms of the -tribunal, the prison, and the guillotine, when, thirsting for gold, they -kill to procure it. The scaffold is far off, the brothel is at the -street corner, and the being sunk in vice kills a man, just as a butcher -would kill a beast, that he may go thither, or to the tavern, or to the -low gaming-house, with a pocket full of money. This is the daily mode of -procedure in crime. Why should not the desire of a more elevated kind of -debauch possess the same wicked attraction for men who are indeed more -refined, but are quite as incapable of moral goodness as the rascally -frequenters of the lowest dens of iniquity? Ah! the thought that my -father's blood might have paid for suppers in a New York night-house was -too cruel and unendurable. I lost courage to pursue my cold, calm, -reasonable deductions, a kind of hallucination came upon me—a mental -picture of the hideous scene—and I felt my reason reel. With a great -effort I turned to the portrait of my father, gazed at it long, and -spoke to him as if he could have heard me, aloud, in abject entreaty. -"Help me, help me!" And then, I once more became strong enough to resume -the dreadful hypothesis, and to criticise it point by point. Against it -was its utter unlikelihood; it resembled nothing but the nightmare of a -diseased imagination. A brother who employs his brother as the assassin -of a man whose wife he wants to marry! Still, although the conception of -such a devilish plot belonged to the domain of the wildest fantasies, I -said to myself: "This may be so, but in the way of crime, there is no -such thing as unlikelihood. The assassin ceases to move in the habitual -grooves of social life by the mere fact that he makes up his mind to -murder." And then a score of examples of crimes committed under -circumstances as strange and exceptional as those whose greater or less -probability I was then discussing with myself, recurred to my memory. -One objection arose at once. Admitting this complicated crime to be -possible only, how came I to be the first to form a suspicion of it? Why -had not the keen, subtle, experienced old magistrate, M. Massol, looked -in that direction for an explanation of the mystery in whose presence he -confessed himself powerless? The answer came readily. M. Massol did not -think of it, that was all. The important thing is to know, not whether -the Judge of Instruction suspected the fact, or did not suspect it; but -whether the fact itself is, or is not real. Again, what indications had -reached M. Massol to put him on this scent? If he had thoroughly studied -my father's home and his domestic life, he had acquired the certainty -that my mother was a faithful wife, and a good woman. He had witnessed -her sincere grief, and he had not seen, as I had, letters written by my -father in which he acknowledged his jealousy, and revealed the passion -of his false friend. But, even supposing the judge had from the first -suspected the villainy of my future stepfather, the discovery of his -accomplice would have been the first thing to be done, since, in any -case, the presence of M. Termonde in our house at the time of the murder -was an ascertained fact. Supposing M. Massol had been led to think of -the brother who had disappeared, what then? Where were the traces of -that brother to be found? Where and how? If Edmond and Jacques had been -accomplices in the crime, would not their chief care be to contrive a -means of correspondence which should defy the vigilance of the police? -Did they not cease for a time to communicate with each other by letters? -What had they to communicate, indeed? Edmond was in possession of the -price of the murder, and Jacques was occupied in completing his conquest -of my mother's heart. I resumed my argument: all this granted again, -but, although M. Massol was ignorant of the essential factor in the -case, although he was unaware of Jacques Termonde's passion for the wife -of the murdered man, my aunt knew it well, she had in her hands -indisputable proofs of my father's suspicions, how came she not to have -thought as I was now thinking? And how did I know that she had not -thought just as I was thinking? She had been tormented by suspicions, -even she, too; she had lived and died haunted by them. The only -difference was that she had included my mother in them, being incapable -of forgiving her the sufferings of the brother whom she loved so deeply. -To act against my mother was to act against me, so she had forsworn that -idea for ever. But, if she would have acted against my mother, how could -she have gone beyond the domain of vague inductions, since she, no more -than I, could have divined my stepfather's alibi, or known of the actual -existence of Edmond Termonde? No; that I should be the first to explain -the murder of my father as I did, proved only that I had come into -possession of additional information respecting the surroundings of the -crime, and not that the conjectures drawn from it were baseless. -</p> - -<p> -Other objections presented themselves. If my stepfather had employed his -brother to commit the murder, how came he to reveal the existence of -that brother to his wife? An answer to this question was not far to -seek. If the crime had been committed under conditions of complicity, -only one proof of the fact could remain, namely, the letters written by -Jacques Termonde to Edmond, in which the former recalled the latter to -Europe and gave him instructions for his journey; these letters Edmond -had of course preserved, and it was through them, and by the threat of -showing them to my mother, that he kept a hold over his brother. To tell -his wife so much as he had told her was to forestall and neutralise this -threat, at least to a certain extent; for, if the doer of the deed -should ever resolve on revealing the common secret to the victim's -widow, now the wife of him who had inspired it, the latter would be able -to deny the authenticity of the letters, to plead the former confidence -reposed in her respecting his brother, and to point out that the -denunciation was an atrocious act of revenge achieved by a forgery. And, -besides, if indeed the crime had been committed in the manner that I -imagined, was not that revelation to my mother justified by another -reason? -</p> - -<p> -The remorseful moods by which I believed my stepfather to be tortured -were not likely to escape the observant affection of his wife; she could -not fail to know that there was a dark shadow on his life which even her -love could not dispel. Who knows but she had suffered from the worst of -all jealousy, that which is inspired by a constant thought not imparted, -a strange emotion hidden from one? And he had revealed a portion of the -truth to her so as to spare her uneasiness of that kind, and to protect -himself from questions which his conscience rendered intolerable to him. -There was then no contradiction between this half-revelation made to my -mother, and my own theory of the complicity of the two brothers. It was -also clear to me that in making that revelation he had been unable to go -beyond a certain point in urging upon her the necessity of silence -towards me—silence which would never have been broken but for her -unforeseen emotion, but for my affectionate entreaties, but for the -sudden arrival of Edmond Termonde, which had literally bewildered the -poor woman. But how was my stepfather's imprudence in refusing money to -this brother, who was at bay and ready to dare any and everything, to be -explained? This, too, I succeeded in explaining to myself. It had -happened before my aunt's death, at a period when my stepfather believed -himself to be guaranteed from all risk on my side. He believed himself -to be sheltered from justice by the statute of limitation. He was ill. -What, then, was more natural than that he should wish to recover those -papers which might become a means of levying blackmail upon his widow -after his death, and dishonouring his memory in the heart of that woman -whom he had loved—even to crime—at any price? Such a -negotiation could only be conducted in person. My stepfather would have -reflected that his brother would not fulfil his threat without making a -last attempt; he would come to Paris, and the accomplices would again be -face to face after all these years. A fresh but final offer of money -would have to be made to Edmond, the price of the relinquishment of the -sole proof whereby the mystery of the Imperial Hotel could be cleared -up. In this calculation my stepfather had omitted to forecast the chance -that his brother might come to the hotel on the Boulevard de -Latour-Maubourg, that he would be ushered into my mother's presence, and -that the result of the shock to himself—his health being already -undermined by his prolonged mental anguish—would be a fresh attack -of his malady. In events, there is always the unexpected to put to rout -the skilful calculations of the most astute and the most prudent, and -when I reflected that so much cunning, such continual watchfulness over -himself and others had all come to this—unless indeed these -surmises of mine were but fallacies of a brain disturbed by fever and -the consuming desire for vengeance—I once more felt the passage of -the wind of destiny over us all. -</p> - -<p> -However, whether reality or fancy, there they were, and I could not -remain in ignorance or in doubt. At the end of all my various arguments -for and against the probability of my new explanation of the mystery, I -arrived at a positive fact: rightly or wrongly I had conceived the -possibility of a plot in which Edmond Termonde had served as the -instrument of murder in his brother's hand. Were there only one single -chance, one against a thousand, that my father had been killed in this -way, I was bound to follow up the clue to the end, on pain of having to -despise myself as the veriest coward that lived. The time of sorrowful -dreaming was over; it was now necessary to act, and to act was to know. -</p> - -<p> -Morning dawned upon these thoughts of mine. I opened my window, I saw -the faces of the lofty houses livid in the first light of day, and I -swore solemnly to myself, in the presence of re-awakening life, that -this day should see me begin to do what I ought, and the morrow should -see me continue, and the following days should see the same, until I -could say to myself: "I am certain." I resolutely repressed the wild -feelings which had taken hold of me during the night, and I fixed my -mind upon the problem: "Does there exist any means of making sure -whether Edmond Termonde is, or is not, identical with the man who in -1864 called himself Rochdale?" For the answer to this question I had -only myself, the resources of my own intelligence, and my personal will -to rely upon. I must do myself the justice to state that not for one -minute, during all those cruel hours, was I tempted to rid myself once -for all of the difficulties of my tragic task by appealing to justice, -as I should have done had I not taken my mother's sufferings into -account. I had resolved that the terrible blow of learning that for -fifteen years she had been the wife of an assassin should never be dealt -to her by me. In order that she might always remain in ignorance of this -story of crime, it was necessary for the struggle to be strictly -confined to my stepfather and myself. And yet, I thought, what if I find -that he is guilty? At this idea, no longer vague and distant, but liable -to-day, to-morrow, at any time, to become an indisputable truth, a -terrible project presented itself to my mind. But I would not look in -that direction, I made answer to myself: "I will think of this later -on," and I forced myself to concentrate all my reflections upon the -actual day and its problem: How to verify the identity of Edmond -Termonde with the false Rochdale? To tear the secret from my stepfather -was impossible. I had vainly endeavoured for months to find the flaw in -his armour of dissimulation; I had but broken not one dagger, but twenty -against the plates of that cuirass. If I had had all the tormentors of -the Middle Ages at my service, I could not have forced his fast-shut -lips to open, or extorted an admission from his woebegone and yet -impenetrable face. There remained the other; but, in order to attack -him, I must first discover under what name he was hiding in Paris, and -where. No great effort of imagination was required to hit upon a certain -means of discovering these particulars. I had only to recall the -circumstances under which I had learned the fact of Edmond Termonde's -arrival in Paris. For some reason or other—remembrance of a guilty -complicity or fear of a scandal—my stepfather trembled with fear at -the mere idea of his brother's return. His brother had returned, and my -stepfather would undoubtedly make every effort to induce him to go away -again. He would see him, but not at the house on the Boulevard de -Latour-Maubourg, on account of my mother and the servants. I had, -therefore, a sure means of finding out where Edmond Termonde was living; -I would have his brother followed. -</p> - -<p> -There were two alternatives: either he would arrange a meeting in some -lonely place, or he would go himself to Edmond Termonde's abode. In the -latter case, I should have the information I wanted at once; in the -former, it would be sufficient to give the description of Edmond -Termonde just as I had received it from my mother, and to have him also -followed on his return from the place of meeting. The spy-system has -always seemed to me to be infamous, and even at that moment I felt all -the ignominy of setting this trap for my stepfather; but when one is -fighting, one must use the weapons that will avail. To attain my end, I -would have trodden everything under foot except my mother's grief. And -then? Supposing myself in possession of the false name of Edmond -Termonde and his address, what was I to do? I could not, in imitation of -the police, lay my hand upon him and his papers, and get off with -profuse excuses for the action when the search was finished. I remember -to have turned over twenty plans in my mind, all more or less ingenious, -and rejected them all in succession, concluding by again fixing my mind -on the bare facts. -</p> - -<p> -Supposing the man really had killed my father, it was impossible that -the scene of the murder should not be indelibly impressed upon his -memory. In his dark hours the face of the dead man, whom I resembled so -closely, must have been visible to his mind's eye. Once more I studied -the portrait at which my stepfather had hardly dared to glance, and -recalled my own words: "Do you think the likeness is sufficiently strong -for me to have the effect of a spectre upon the criminal?" Why not -utilise this resemblance? I had only to present myself suddenly before -Edmond Termonde, and call him by the name—Rochdale—to his ears -its syllables would have the sound of a funeral bell. Yes! that was the way -to do it: to go into the room he now occupied, just as my father had -gone into the room at the Imperial Hotel, and to ask for him by the name -under which my father had asked for him, showing him the very face of -his victim. If he was not guilty, I should merely have to apologise for -having knocked at his door by mistake; if he was guilty, he would be so -terrified for some minutes that his fear would amount to an avowal. It -would then be for me to avail myself of that terror to wring the whole -of his secret from him. What motives would inspire him? Two, -manifestly—the fear of punishment, and the love of money. It would -then be necessary for me to be provided with a large sum when taking him -unawares, and to let him choose between two alternatives, either that he -should sell me the letters which had enabled him to blackmail his -brother for years past, or that I should shoot him on the spot. And what -if he refused to give up the letters to me? Is it likely that a ruffian -of his kind would hesitate? Well, then, he would accept the bargain, -hand me over the papers by which my stepfather is convicted of murder, -and take himself off? And I must let him go away just as he had gone -away from the Imperial Hotel, smoking a cigar, and paid for his -treachery to his brother, even as he had been paid for his treachery to -my father! Yes, I must let him go away thus, because to kill him with my -own hand would be to place myself under the necessity of revealing the -whole of the crime, which I am bound to conceal at all hazards. "Ah, -mother! what will you not cost me!" I murmured with tears. Fixing my -eyes again upon the portrait of the dead man, it seemed to me that I -read in its eyes and mouth an injunction never to wound the heart of the -woman he had so dearly loved—even for the sake of avenging him. "I -will obey you," I made answer to my father, and bade adieu to that part of -my vengeance. It was very hard, very cruel to myself; nevertheless, it was -possible; for, after all, did I hate the wretch himself? He had struck -the blow, it is true, but only as a servile tool in the hand of another. -Ah! that other, I would not let <i>him</i> escape, when he should be in my -grip, he who had conceived, meditated, arranged, and paid for the deed, -he who had stolen all from me, all, all, from my father's life even to -my mother's love, he, the real, the only culprit. Yes, I would lay hold -of him, and contrive and execute my vengeance, while my mother should -never suspect the existence of that duel out of which I should come -triumphant. I was intoxicated beforehand with the idea of the punishment -which I would find means to inflict upon the man whom I execrated. It -warmed my heart only to think of how this would repay my long, cruel -martyrdom. "To work! to work!" I cried aloud. I trembled lest this -should be nothing but a delusion, lest Edmond Termonde should have -already left the country, my stepfather having previously purchased his -silence. At nine o'clock I was in an abominable Private Inquiry -Office—merely to have passed its threshold would have seemed to me a -shameful action, only a few hours before. At ten, I was with my broker, -giving him instructions to sell out 100,000 francs' worth of shares for -me. That day passed, and then a second. How I bore the succession of the -hours, I know not. I do know that I had not courage to go to my mother's -house, or to see her again. I feared she might detect my wild hope in my -eyes, and unconsciously forewarn my stepfather by a sentence or a word, -as she had unconsciously informed me. Towards noon, on the third day, I -learned that my stepfather had gone out that morning. It was a -Wednesday, and on that day my mother always attended a meeting for some -charitable purpose in the Grenelle quarter. M. Termonde had changed his -cab twice, and had alighted from the second vehicle at the Grand Hotel. -There he had paid a visit to a traveller who occupied a room on the -second floor (No. 353); this person's name was entered in the list of -arrivals as Stanbury. At noon I was in possession of these particulars, -and at two o'clock I ascended the staircase of the Grand Hotel, with a -loaded revolver and a note-case containing one hundred bank-notes, -wherewith to purchase the letters, in my pocket. -</p> - -<p> -Was I about to enter on a formidable scene in the drama of my life, or -was I about to be convinced that I had been once more made the dupe of -my own imagination? -</p> - -<p> -At all events, I should have done my duty. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XVI">XVI</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -I had reached the second floor. At one corner of the long corridor there -was a notification that the numbers ran from 300 to 360. A waiter passed -me, whistling; two girls were chattering and laughing in a kind of -office at the stair-head; the various noises of the courtyard came up -through the open windows. The moment was opportune for the execution of -my project. With these people about the man could not hope to escape -from the house. 345, 350, 351 353—I stood before the door of Edmond -Termonde's room; the key was in the lock; chance had served my purpose -better than I had ventured to hope. This trifling particular bore -witness to the security in which the man whom I was about to surprise -was living. Was he even aware that I existed? I paused a moment before -the closed door. I wore a short coat, so as to have my revolver within -easy reach in the pocket, and I put my right hand upon it, opened the -door with my left, and entered without knocking. -</p> - -<p> -"Who is there?" said a man who was lying rather than sitting in an -arm-chair, with his feet on a table; he was reading a newspaper and -smoking, and his back was turned to the door. He did not trouble himself -to rise and see whose hand had opened the door; thinking, no doubt, that -a servant had come in, he merely turned his head slightly, and I did not -give him time to look completely round. -</p> - -<p> -"M. Rochdale?" I asked. -</p> - -<p> -He started to his feet, pushed away the chair, and rushed to the other -side of the table, staring at me with a terrified countenance; his light -blue eyes were unnaturally distended, his face was livid, his mouth was -half open, his logs bent under him. His tall, robust frame had sustained -one of those shocks of excessive terror which almost paralyse the forces -of life. He uttered but one word—Cornélis! -</p> - -<p> -At last I held in my victorious hand the proof that I had been seeking -for months, and in that moment I was master of all the resources of my -being. Yes, I was as calm, as clear of purpose as my adversary was the -reverse. He was not accustomed to live, like his accomplice, in the -daily habit of studied dissimulation. The name, "Rochdale," the terrifying -likeness, the unlooked—for arrival! I had not been mistaken -in my calculation. With the amazing rapidity of thought that accompanies -action I perceived the necessity of following up this first shock of -moral terror by a shock of physical terror. Otherwise, the man would -hurl himself upon me, in the moment of reaction, thrust me aside and -rush away like a madman, at the risk of being stopped on the stairs by -the servants, and then? But I had already taken out my revolver, and I -now covered the wretch with it, calling him by his real name, to prove -that I knew all about him. -</p> - -<p> -"M. Edmond Termonde," I said, "if you make one step towards me, I will -kill you, like an assassin as you are, as you killed my father." -</p> - -<p> -Pointing to a chair at the corner of the half-open window, I added: -</p> - -<p> -"Sit down!" -</p> - -<p> -He obeyed mechanically. At that instant I exercised absolute control -over him; but I felt sure this would cease so soon as he recovered his -presence of mind. But even though the rest of the interview were now to -go against me, that could not alter the certainty which I had acquired. -I had wanted to know whether Edmond Termonde was the man who had called -himself Rochdale, and I had secured undeniable proof of the fact. -Nevertheless, it was due to myself that I should extract from my enemy -the proof of the truth of all my conjectures, that proof which would -place my stepfather at my mercy. This was a fresh phase of the struggle. -</p> - -<p> -I glanced round the room in which I was shut up with the assassin. On -the bed, placed on my left, lay a loaded cane, a hat and an overcoat, on -a small table were a steel knuckle-duster and a revolver. Among the -articles laid out on a chest of drawers on my right a bowie-knife was -conspicuous, a valise was placed against an unused door, a wardrobe with -a looking-glass stood before another unused door, then came the -toilet-stand, and the man, crouching under the aim of my revolver, -between the table and the window. He could neither escape, nor reach to -any means of defence without a personal struggle with me; but he would -have to stand my fire first, and besides, if he was tall and robust, I -was neither short nor feeble. I was twenty-five, he was fifty. All the -moral forces were for me, I must win. -</p> - -<p> -"Now," said I, as I took a seat, but without releasing him from the -covering barrel of my pistol, "let us talk." -</p> - -<p> -"What do you want of me?" he asked roughly. His voice was both hoarse -and muffled; the blood had gone back into his cheeks, his eyes, those -eyes so exactly like his brother's, sparkled. The brute-nature was -reviving in him after having sustained a fearful shock, as though -astonished that it still lived. -</p> - -<p> -"Come, then," he added, clenching his fists, "I am caught. Fire on me, -and let this end." -</p> - -<p> -Then, as I made him no answer, but continued to threaten him with my -pistol, he exclaimed: -</p> - -<p> -"Ah! I understand; it is that blackguard Jacques who has sold me to you -in order to get rid of me himself. There's the statute of -limitations—he thinks he is safe! But has he told you that he was in -it himself, good, honest man, and that I have the proof of this? Ah! he -thinks I am going to let you kill me, like that, without speaking? No, -no, I shall call out, we shall be arrested, and all will be known." -</p> - -<p> -Fury had seized upon him; he was about to shout "Help!" and the worst of -it was that rage was rising in me also. It was he, with that same hand -which I saw creeping along the table, strong, hairy, seeking something to -throw at me—yes—it was he who had killed my father. One impulse -more of anger and I was lost; a bullet was lodged in his body, and I saw -his blood flow. Oh, what good it would have done me to see that sight! -But no, I had made the sacrifice of this particular vengeance. In a -second, I beheld myself arrested, obliged to explain everything, and my -mother exposed to all the misery of it. Happily for me, he also had an -interval of reflection. The first idea that must have occurred to him -was that his brother had betrayed him, by telling me one-half of the -truth, so as to deliver him up to my vengeance. The second, no doubt, -was that, for a son who came to avenge his dead father, I was making a -good deal of delay about it. There was a momentary silence between us. -This allowed me to regain my coolness, and to say: "You are mistaken," -so quietly that his amazement was visible in his face. He looked at me, -then closed his eyes, and knitted his brow. I felt that he could not -endure my resemblance to my father. -</p> - -<p> -"Yes, you are mistaken," I continued deliberately, giving the tone of a -business conversation to this terrible interview. "I have not come here -either to have you arrested, or to kill you. Unless," I added, "you -oblige me to do so yourself, as I feared just now you would oblige me. I -have come to propose a bargain to you, but it is on the condition that -you listen, as I shall speak, with coolness." -</p> - -<p> -Once more we were both silent. In the corridor, almost at the door of -the room, there were sounds of feet, voices, and peals of laughter. This -was enough to recall me to the necessity of controlling myself, and him -to the consciousness that he was playing a dangerous game. A shot, a -cry, and some one would enter the room, for it opened upon the corridor. -Edmond Termonde had heard me with extreme attention, a gleam of hope -succeeded by a singular look of suspicion had passed over his face. -</p> - -<p> -"Make your conditions," said he. -</p> - -<p> -"If I had intended to kill you," I resumed, so as to convince him of my -sincerity by the evidence of his senses, "you would be dead already." I -raised the revolver. "If I had intended to have you arrested, I would -not have taken the trouble to come here myself; two policemen would have -been sufficient, for you don't forget that you are a deserter, and still -amenable to the law." -</p> - -<p> -"True," he replied simply, and then added, following out a mental -argument which was of vital importance to the issue of our interview: -</p> - -<p> -"If it is not Jacques, then who is it that has sold me?" -</p> - -<p> -"I held you at my disposal," I continued, without noticing what he had -said, "and I have not availed myself of that. Therefore I had a strong -reason for sparing you yesterday, ere yesterday, this morning, a little -while ago, at the present moment; and it depends upon yourself whether I -spare you altogether." -</p> - -<p> -"And you want me to believe you," he answered, pointing to my revolver -which I still continued to hold in my hand, but no longer covering him -with it. "No, no," and he added—with an expression which smacked of -the barrack-room, "I don't tumble to that sort of thing." -</p> - -<p> -"Listen to me," said I, now assuming a tone of extreme contempt. "The -powerful motive which I have for not shooting you like a mad dog, you -shall learn. I do not choose that my mother should ever know what a man -she married in your brother. Do you now understand why I resolved to let -you go; provided you are of the same mind, however; for even the idea of -my mother would not stop me, if you pushed me too far. I will add, for -your guidance, that the limitation by which you supposed yourself to be -safe from pursuit for the murder in 1864 has been traversed; you are -therefore staking your head at this moment. For ten years past you have -been successfully levying blackmail on your brother. I do not suppose -you have merely played upon the chord of fraternal love. When you came -from America to assume the personality of Rochdale, it was clearly -necessary that he should send you some instructions. You have kept those -letters. I offer you one hundred thousand francs for them." -</p> - -<p> -"Sir," he replied slowly, and his tone showed me that for the moment he -had recovered his self-control, "how can you imagine that I should take -such a proposal seriously? Admitting that any such letters were ever -written, and that I had kept them, why should I give up a document of -this kind to you? What security should I have that you would not have me -laid by the heels the moment after? Ah!" he cried, looking me straight -in the face, "you know nothing! That name! That likeness! Idiot that I -am, you have tricked me." -</p> - -<p> -His face turned crimson with rage, and he uttered an oath. -</p> - -<p> -"You shall pay for this!" he cried; and at the same instant, when he was -no longer covered by my pistol, he pushed the table upon me so -violently, that if I had not sprung backwards I must have been thrown -down; but he already had time to fling himself upon me and seize me -round the body. Happily for me the violence of the attack had knocked -the pistol out of my hands, so that I could not be tempted to use it, -and a struggle began between us in which not one word was spoken by -either. With his first rush he had flung me to the ground; but I was -strong, and the strange premonitions of danger, from which I suffered in -my youth, had led me to develop all my physical energy and adroitness. I -felt his breath on my face, his skin upon my skin, his muscles striving -against mine, and at the same time the dread that our conflict might be -overheard gave me the coolness which he had lost. After a few minutes of -this tussle, and just as his strength was failing, he fastened his teeth -in my shoulder so savagely that the pain of the bite maddened me; I -wrenched one of my arms from his grasp and seized him by the throat at -the risk of choking him. I held him under me now, and I struck his head -against the floor as though I meant to smash it. He remained motionless -for a minute, and I thought I had killed him. I first picked up my -pistol, which had rolled away to the door, and then bathed his forehead -with water in order to revive him. -</p> - -<p> -When I caught sight of myself in the glass, with my coat-collar torn, my -face bruised, my cravat in rags, I shuddered as if I had seen the -spectre of another André Cornélis. The ignoble nature of this -adventure filled me with disgust; but it was not a question of -fine-gentleman fastidiousness. My enemy was coming to himself, I must -end this. I knew in my conscience I had done all that was possible to -fulfil my vow in regard to my mother. The blame must fall upon destiny. -The wretch had half-raised himself, and was looking at me; I bent over -him, and put the barrel of my revolver within a hair's breadth of his -temple. -</p> - -<p> -"There is still time," I said. "I give you five minutes to decide upon -the bargain which I proposed to you just now; the letters, and one -hundred thousand francs, with your liberty; if not, a bullet in your -head. Choose. I wished to spare you on account of my mother; but I will -not lose my vengeance both ways. I shall be arrested, your papers will -be searched, the letters will be found, it will be known that I had a -right to shoot you. My mother will go mad with grief; but I shall be -avenged. I have spoken. You have five minutes, not one more." -</p> - -<p> -No doubt my face expressed invincible resolution. The assassin looked at -that face, then at the clock. He tried to make a movement, but saw that -my finger was about to press the trigger. -</p> - -<p> -"I yield," he said. -</p> - -<p> -I ordered him to rise, and he obeyed me. -</p> - -<p> -"Where are the letters?" -</p> - -<p> -"When you have them," he implored, with the terror of a trapped beast in -his abject face, "you will let me go away?" -</p> - -<p> -"I swear it," I answered; and, as I saw doubt and dread in his quailing -eyes, I added, "by the memory of my father. Where are the letters?" -</p> - -<p> -"There." -</p> - -<p> -He pointed to a valise in a corner of the room. -</p> - -<p> -"Here is the money." -</p> - -<p> -I flung him the note-case which contained it. Is there a sort of moral -magnetism in the tone of certain words and in certain expressions of -countenance? Was it the nature of the oath which I had just taken, so -deeply impressive at that moment, or had this man sufficient strength of -mind to say to himself that his single chance of safety resided in -belief in my good faith? However that may be, he did not hesitate for a -moment; he opened the ironbound valise, took out a yellow-leather box -with a patent lock, and, having opened it, flung its contents—a -large sealed envelope—to me, exactly as I had flung the bank-notes -to him. I, too, for my part, had not a moment's fear that he would -produce a weapon from the valise and attack me while I was verifying the -contents of the envelope. These consisted of three letters only; the two -first bore the double stamp of Paris and New York, the third those of -New York and Liverpool, and all three bore the January or February -postmarks of the year 1864. -</p> - -<p> -"Is that all?" he asked. -</p> - -<p> -"Not yet," I answered; "you must undertake to leave Paris this evening -by the first train, without having seen your brother or written to him." -</p> - -<p> -"I promise; and then?" -</p> - -<p> -"When was he to come back here to see you?" -</p> - -<p> -"On Saturday," he answered, with a shrug of his shoulders. "The bargain -was concluded. He was determined to wait until the day came for me to -set out for Havre before paying me the money, so that he might make -quite sure I should not stay on in Paris.—The game is up," he added, -"and now I wash my hands of it." -</p> - -<p> -"Edmond Termonde," said I, rising, but not loosing him from the hold of -my eye, "remember that I have spared you; but you must not tempt me a -second time by putting yourself in my way, or crossing the path of any -whom I love." -</p> - -<p> -Then, with a threatening gesture, I quitted the room, leaving him seated -at the table near the window. I had hardly reached the corridor when my -nerves, which had been so strangely under my control during the -struggle, failed me. My legs bent under me, and I feared I was about to -fall. How was I to account for the disorder of my clothes? I made a -great effort, concealed the torn ends of my cravat, turned up the collar -of my coat to hide the condition of my shirt, and did my best to repair -the damage that had been done to my hat. I then wiped my face with my -handkerchief, and went downstairs with a slow and careless step. The -inspector of the first floor was, doubtless, occupied at the other end -of the corridor; but two of the waiters saw me and were evidently -surprised at my aspect. They were, however, too busy, luckily for me, to -stop me and inquire into the cause of my discomposure. At last I reached -the courtyard. If anybody who knew me had been there? I got into the -first cab and gave my address. I had kept my word. I had conquered. -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XVII">XVII</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -What was I going to do with those letters of my stepfather's which I had -bought so dear, since I had paid for them by the sacrifice of one-half -of my vengeance? The letters placed him at my mercy, even as they had -held him for long years at the mercy of his brother—what was I going -to do with them? -</p> - -<p> -I began to read them in the cab on my way to the Avenue Montaigne. The -first, which was of great length, reminded Edmond of his past faults and -the hopelessness of his actual condition, and then indicated, without -entering into any particulars, a possible means of at least partially -repairing all these disasters and once more gaining a fortune. The first -condition was that the outlaw should scrupulously obey the orders of his -brother. He was to begin by announcing his departure from New York to -all his ordinary associates, and then to remove into another quarter of -the city under a new name, and wait there for the next letter. That one, -the second, made it evident that an answer from Edmond had been received -prior to its despatch, and that he had accepted the offer. By this -second letter the wretch was enjoined to go to Liverpool and to await -further instructions there. These instructions, contained in the third -letter—a mere note—were limited to an appointment at an -early date, at ten o'clock in the evening, in Paris, on the portion of -the footpath of the Rue de Jussieu which faces the Rue Guy-de-la-Brosse. -At that hour, those two streets, situated between the old Jardin des -Plantes and the buildings of the Entrepôt des Vins, are as solitary as -the streets of a country town. There was no more mention in this note -than in the two preceding letters of the plan that had been laid by -Jacques Termonde, and which was to be discussed by the brothers at their -first meeting after so many years; but, even if I had not had the false -Rochdale's own avowal, extorted by his surprise and terror, the -coincidence of date between this clandestine recall and the -assassination of my father constituted an undeniable proof. I read and -re-read those accusing pages—as I had read and re-read my father's -letters written at the same time—first in the cab, and then in the -solitude of my own apartment, and the horrible plot which had made me -fatherless was fully revealed to me with all its terrible details. -</p> - -<p> -It happened that I was well acquainted with the street in which Jacques -played the part of tempter to Edmond; Joseph Dediot, my former -schoolfellow at Versailles, had a lodging close to it in the Rue Cuvier -for some years after he and I had left school, and I used constantly to -drop in the morning or the afternoon to pass an hour or two with him, -or take him to one of the restaurants on the Quay, from whence we could -look out upon the green water of the Seine, the busy workmen on the -Quay, and the long line of boats. Often and gaily had I trodden that -pavement on which the two accomplices walked while they were keeping -their rendezvous of crime. How plainly I saw them, coming and going -between the gas lamps! I heard the sound of their footsteps, I -distinguished the voice of the man who was to be my stepfather. That -insinuating and impassioned voice uttered words fraught with -consequences to the whole of my life, words which were the death-warrant -of my father and also of my aunt; for the malady that killed her had its -origin in grief. I, myself, had suffered severely in my childhood, was -suffering cruelly at this very moment on account of the words spoken in -that place. And then there came to me an equally distinct vision of the -infamous scoundrel whose bite still made it painful for me to move my -left shoulder. I saw him arranging his disordered dress after I had left -his room, strapping his trunks, calling the waiter, asking for his bill, -paying it with one of the notes which I had flung to him, and leaving -the house. His luggage was hoisted up on the carriage, and he was driven -off in haste to a railway station—no doubt that of Le Nord, because -it is nearest to the frontier. He took the first train and departed, and -never more should I hold him at my mercy. Again rage seized upon me! He -had not yet had time to get very far away. What if I were to go to the -Prefecture de Police? My description of him would be sufficient; he -would be arrested. I had sworn to him by my father's memory that I would -let him go free. Well, what then? An oath to such a wretch! He would be -arrested; they would be arrested—and my mother? What of her? For the -first time since the suspicion of the fatal truth had dawned upon me, I -recoiled from the thought of her. At the moment my anger burned so -fiercely at the image of the escaping murderer, that I reproached -myself, as though it were a weakness, for the filial pity which had -induced me to sacrifice one-half of my vengeance to the peace of my -dearly-beloved mother. "Let her suffer," I said to myself; "let her be -punished for her unfaithfulness to the memory of the dead!" But I was -ashamed a little later of having allowed such a thought to flit across -my mind; I repelled it as a crime. To have lived with an assassin for -fifteen years, and borne his name! Ah, she never could endure such a -discovery, or I the remorse of having revealed so hideous a truth to -her. No, no, let him escape! I looked at the clock, and with each swing -of the pendulum the chances of the villain's escape were increased. What -route had he taken? Had he set out for England? A few hours more and he -would be in London, secure, hidden, and lost amid the swarming -multitudes of the great city. "Oh, mother, mother," I cried as I flung -myself upon the sofa and writhed in mental agony, "what have I not done -for you!" After a while I arose and resolutely put away the image of -Edmond Termonde, substituting that of his brother. He at least could not -escape me. If "vengeance is a dish to be eaten cold," I had full leisure -to prepare mine at my case. My stepfather could not fly as his -accomplice had done; his marriage with my mother, the successful result -of his crime, made him my prisoner. I knew where to find him always, and -should always be free to approach him and bring about the scene between -us which the execution of my design demanded. What design? What but that -which had already haunted me, that which had appeared to offer -sufficient compensation, if I did not allow one of my two enemies to -escape; the design that had taken the form in my mind of a resolution? I -uttered aloud the words, "I am going to kill him." Several times I -repeated, "I am going to kill him, I am going to kill him," with a kind -of frenzy, as though I were intoxicated. So I was, by a vision of my -mothers infamous husband, stiff, stark, dead; those, eyes whose glance I -had suffered from so long, sightless; that mouth which had proposed the -blood bargain, mute. Never would that body, whose movements I had so -detested, move again. A strange wild delight came over me, while the -vision born of my hate was before my mind's eye. "At last, at last," I -again said aloud, "I am going to kill him!" Immediately after came the -inevitable question: how? -</p> - -<p> -I had to prevent at any cost my mother's learning the truth respecting -the death of my father. I had not sacrificed my first vengeance, -allowing the wretch who actually did the deed to go free, to permit the -consequence of the second to wound the unhappy woman far more cruelly. I -had therefore to plan this second act of justice so as to secure beyond -all risk my own escape from the law. I should have to employ, in the -killing of my stepfather, all the cautious precaution that he had -employed in procuring the killing of my own father. Let me speak -plainly: I was bound to assassinate him. Yes, to assassinate him; that -is the name by which the act of killing a man who does not defend himself -is called—and things would happen thus. No matter how ingenious -the snare that I might lay for him, were I to poison him drop by drop, -to wait for him at a street corner and stab him, to fire a pistol at -him, there would be only one name for the deed. An assassination! I -myself should be an assassin. All the base infamy the word represents -was suddenly evoked in my thoughts, and for the first time I was afraid -of the vengeance I had so much desired, on which I had counted since my -childhood, as the sole and supreme reparation for all my misery. When I -became conscious of the sudden failure of my courage in presence of the -actual deed now it had become feasible, I was at first astounded. I -closed my eyes that I might collect my mind and force it in upon itself, -and I had to confess to myself: "I am afraid." Afraid of what? Afraid of -a word! For it was only a word. My vengeance, to which I had sacrificed -even the respect due to the wishes of the dying—had I not failed to -fulfil the desire of my aunt in her last moments?—now caused me a -thrill of terror, because the work that was to be done was repugnant. To -what? To the prejudices of my class and my time. I am afraid to kill; -but had I been born in Italy, in the fifteenth century, would I have -hesitated to poison my father's murderer? Would I have hesitated to -shoot him, had I been born in Corsica fifty years ago? Am I then nothing -but a civilised person, a wretched and impotent dreamer, who would fain -act, but shrinks from soiling his hands in the action? I forced myself -to contemplate the dilemma in which I stood, in its absolute, -imperative, inevitable distinctness. I must either avenge my father by -handing over his murderer to be dealt with by the law, since M. Massol -had prudently fulfilled all the formalities necessary to bar the -limitation, or I must be my own minister of justice. There was a third -alternative; that I should spare the murderous wretch, allow him to live -on in occupation of his victim's place in my mother's home, from which -he had driven me; but at the thought of this my rage revived. The -scruples of the civilised man did indeed give him pause; but that -hesitation did not hinder the savage, who slumbers in us all, from -feeling the appetite for retaliation which stirs the animal nature of -man—all his flesh, and all his blood—as hunger and thirst stir -it. "Well, then," said I to myself, "I will assassinate my stepfather, -since that is the right word. Was he afraid to assassinate my father? He -killed; he shall be killed. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth; that -is the primitive law, and all the rest is a lie." -</p> - -<p> -Evening had come while this strife was raging in my soul. I was -labouring under excitement which contrasted strangely with the calmness -I had felt a few hours previously, when ascending the stairs in the -Grand Hotel. The situation also had undergone a change; then I was -preparing for a struggle, a kind of duel; I was about to confront a man -whom I had to conquer, to attack him face to face without any treachery, -and I had not flinched. It was the mean hypocrisy of clandestine murder -that had made me shrink from the idea of killing my stepfather, by -luring him into a snare. I had controlled this trembling the first time; -but I was afraid of its coming again, and that I should have a sleepless -night, and be unfit to act next day with the cool calmness I desired. I -felt that I could not bear suspense; on the morrow I must act. The plan -on which I should decide, be it what it might, must be executed within -the twenty-four hours. The best means of calming my nerves was by making -a beginning now, at once; by doing something beforehand to guard against -suspicion. I determined upon letting myself be seen by persons who could -bear witness, if necessary, that they had seen me, careless, easy, -almost gay. I dressed and went out, intending to dine at a place where I -was known, and to pass the most of the night at the club. When I was in -the Avenue des Champs-Élysées, crowded with carriages and people on -foot—the May evening was delicious—I shared the physical -sensation of the joy of living which was abroad in the air. The sky -quivered with the innumerable throbs of the stars, and the young leaves -shook at the touch of a slow and gentle breeze. Garlands of light -illumined the various pleasure-gardens. I passed in front of a -restaurant where the tables extended to the edge of the footpath, and -young men and women were finishing their dinner gaily. The contrast -between the spring-festival aspect of Paris and the tragedy of my own -destiny came home to me too strongly. What had I done to Fate to deserve -that I should be the one only person, amid all this crowd, condemned to -such an experience? Why had my path been crossed by a man capable of -pushing passion to the point of crime, in a society in which passion is -ordinarily so mild, so harmless, and so lukewarm? Probably there did not -exist in all the "good" society of Paris four persons with daring enough -to conceive such a plan as that which Jacques Termonde had executed with -such cool deliberation under the influence of his passion. And this -villain, who could love so intensely, was my stepfather! Once more the -breath of fatality, which had already thrilled me with a kind of -mysterious horror, passed over me, and I felt that I could no longer -bear the sight of the human face. Turning my back upon the noisy quarter -of the Champs-Élysées, I walked on towards the Arc de Triomphe. -Without thinking about it I took the road to the Bois, bore to the right -to avoid the vehicles, and turned into one of the loneliest paths. Had I -unconsciously obeyed one of those almost animal impulses of memory, -which bring us back to ways that we have already trodden? By the soft, -bluish light of the spring moon I recognised the place where I had -walked with my stepfather in the winter, on the occasion of our first -drive to the Bois. It was on that day I obliged him to look the portrait -of his victim in the face, on that day he came to me on the pretext of -asking for the Review which my mother had lent me. In my thoughts I -beheld him, as he then was, and recalled the strange pity which had -stirred my head at the sight of him, so sad, broken-down, and, so to -speak, conquered. He stood before me, in the light of that remembrance, -as living and real as if he had been there, close beside me, and the -acute sensation of his existence made me feel at the same time all the -signification of those fearful and mysterious words: to kill. To kill? I -was going to kill him, in a few hours it might be, at the latest in a -few days. I heard voices, and I withdrew into the shade. Two forms -passed me, a young man and a girl, lovers, who did not see me. The -moonlight fell upon them, as they went on their way, hand in hand. I -burst into tears, and wept long, unrestrainedly; for I too was young; in -my heart there was a flood of pent-up tenderness, and here I was, on -this perfumed, moonlit, starlit night, crouching in a dark corner, -meditating murder! -</p> - -<p> -No, not murder, an execution. Has my stepfather deserved death? Yes. Is -the executioner who lets down the knife on the neck of the condemned -criminal to be called an assassin? No! Well, then I shall be the -executioner and nothing else. I rose from the bench where I had shed my -last tears of irresolution and cowardice—for thus I regarded those -hot tears to which I now appeal, as a last proof that I was not born for -what I have done. -</p> - -<p> -While walking back to Paris, I multiplied and reiterated my arguments. -Sometimes I succeeded in silencing a voice within me, stronger than my -reasoning and my longing for vengeance, a voice which pronounced the -words formerly uttered by my aunt: "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord -God." And if there be no God? And if there be, is not the fault His, for -He has let this thing be? Yes, such were my wild words and thoughts; and -then all these scruples of my conscience appeared to me—mere vain -futile quibbles, fitting for philosophers and confessors. There remained -one indisputable, absolute fact: I could not endure that the murderer of -my father should continue to be the husband of my mother. There was a -second no less evident fact: I could not place this man in the hands of -justice without, probably, killing my mother on the spot, or, quite -certainly, laying her whole life waste. Therefore I would have to be my -own tribunal, judge, and executioner in my own cause. What mattered to -me the arguments for or against? I was bound to give heed first to my -filial instinct, and it cried out to me "Kill!" -</p> - -<p> -I walked fast, keeping my mind fixed on this idea with a kind of tragic -pleasure, for I felt that my irresolution was gone, and that I should -act. All of a sudden, as I came close to the Arc de Triomphe, I -remembered how, on that very spot, I had met one of my club companions -for the last time. He shot himself the next day. Why did this -remembrance suddenly suggest to me a series of new thoughts? I stopped -short with a beating heart. I had caught a glimpse of the way of safety. -Fool that I had been, led away as usual by an undisciplined imagination! -My stepfather should die. I had sentenced him in the name of my -inalienable right as an avenging son; but could I not condemn him to die -by his own hand? Had I not that in my possession which would drive him -to suicide? If I went to him without any more reserves or -circumlocution, and if I said to him, "I hold the proof that you are the -murderer of my father. I give you the choice—either you will kill -yourself, or I denounce you to my mother," what would his answer be? He, -who loved his wife with that reciprocated devotion by which I had -suffered so much, would he consent that she should know the truth, that -she should regard him as a base, cowardly assassin? No, never; he would -rather die. My heart, weary and worn with pain, rushed towards this door -of hope, so suddenly opened. "I shall have done my duty," I thought, -"and I shall have no blood on my hands. My conscience will not be -stained." I experienced an immense relief from the weight of foreseen -remorse that had caused me such agony, and I went on drawing a picture -of the future, freed at last from one dark image which had veiled the -sunshine of my youth. "He will kill himself; my mother will weep for -him; but I shall be able to dry her tears. Her heart will bleed, but I -will heal the wound with the balm of my tenderness. When the assassin is -no longer there, she and I will live over again all the dear time that -he stole from us, and then I shall be able to show her how I love her. -The caresses which I did not give her when I was a child, because the -other froze me by his mere presence, I will give her then; the words -which I did not speak, the tender words that were stopped upon my lips, -she shall hear then. We will leave Paris, and get rid of these sad -remembrances. We will retire to some quiet spot, far, far away, where -she will have none but me, I none but her, and I will devote myself to -her old age. What do I want with any other love, with any other tie? -Suffering softens the heart; her grief will make her love me more. Ah! -how happy we shall be." But once more the voice within resumed: "What if -the wretch refuse to kill himself? What if he were not to believe me -when I threaten to denounce him?" Had I not been acting for months as -his accomplice in maintaining the deceit practised upon my mother? Did -he not know how much I loved her, he who had been jealous of me as her -son, as I had been jealous of him as her husband? Would he not answer: -"Denounce me!" being well assured that I would not deal such a blow at -the poor woman? To these objections I replied, that, whereas I had -suspected previously, now I knew. No, he will not be entirely convinced -that the evidence I hold will make me dare everything. Well then, if he -refuse, I shall have attempted the impossible to avoid murder—let -destiny be accomplished! -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XVIII">XVIII</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -It was four o'clock in the afternoon on the following day, when I -presented myself at the hotel on the Boulevard de Latour-Maubourg. I -knew that my mother would most probably be out. I also thought it likely -my stepfather would be feeling none the better of his early excursion to -the Grand Hotel on the previous day, and I therefore hoped to find him -at home, perhaps in his bed. I was right; my mother was out, and he had -remained at home. He was in his study, the room in which our first -explanation had taken place. That upon which I was now bent was of far -greater importance, and yet I was less agitated than on the former -occasion. At last I was completely certain of the facts, and with that -certainty a strange calmness had come to me. I can recall my having -talked for a few moments with the servant who announced me, about a -child of his who was ill. I also remember to have observed for the first -time that the smoky chimney of some manufacturing works at the back of -the garden, built, no doubt, during the last winter, was visible through -the window of the staircase. I record these things because I am bound to -recognise that my mind was quite clear and free—for I will be sincere -to the end—when I entered the spacious room. My stepfather was -reclining in a deep arm-chair at the far side of the fireplace, and -occupied in cutting the pages of a new book with a dagger. The blade of -this weapon was broad, short, and strong. He had brought the knife back -from Spain, with several other kinds of arms, which lay about in the -rooms he habitually occupied. I now understood the order of ideas which -this singular taste indicated. He was dressed for walking; but his -altered looks bore witness to the intensity of the crisis through which -he had passed. It had affected his whole being. Very likely my face was -expressive of an extraordinary resolution, for I saw by his eyes as our -looks met, that he had read the depths of my thoughts at a glance. -Nevertheless, he said: "Ah, is it you, André? It is very kind of you to -come," thus exhibiting once more the power of his self-control, and he -put out his hand. I did not take it, and my refusal, contrasting with -his gesture of welcome, the silence which I kept for some minutes, the -contraction of my features, and, no doubt, the menace in my eyes, -entirely enlightened him as to the mood in which I came to him. Very -quietly, he laid down his book and the Spanish knife he had been using, -on a large table within his reach, and then he rose from his chair, -leaned his back against the mantelpiece, and crossing his arms, looked -at me with the haughty stare I knew so well, and which had so often -humiliated me in my boyhood. I was the first to break the silence; -replying to his polite greeting in a harsh tone, and looking him -straight in the face, I said: -</p> - -<p> -"The time of lies is past. You have guessed that I know all?" -</p> - -<p> -He bent his brows into the stern frown he always assumed when he felt -anger he was bound to suppress, his eyes met mine with indomitable -pride, and he merely replied: -</p> - -<p> -"I do not understand you." -</p> - -<p> -"You do not understand me? Very well, I am about to enlighten you." My -voice shook in uttering these words; my coolness was forsaking me. The -day before, and in my conversation with the brother, I had come in -contact with the vile infamy of a knave and a coward; but the enemy whom -I was now facing, although a greater scoundrel than the other, found -means to preserve a sort of moral superiority, even in that terrible -hour when he knew well he was face to face with his crime. Yes, this man -was a criminal, but of a grand kind, and there was no cowardice in him. -Pride sat upon that brow so laden with dark thoughts, but fear set no -mark upon it, any more than did repentance. In his eyes—exactly like -those of his brother—a fierce resolution shone; I felt that he would -defend himself to the end. He would yield to evidence only, and such -strength of mind displayed at such a moment had the effect of -exasperating me. The blood flew to my head, and my heart beat rapidly, -as I went on: -</p> - -<p> -"Allow me to take up the matter a little farther back. In 1864 there was -in Paris a man who loved the wife of his most intimate friend. Although -that friend was very trusting, very noble, very easily duped, he became -aware of this love, and he began to suffer from it. He grew -jealous—although he never doubted his wife's purity of -heart—jealous as every one is who loves too well. The man who was -the object of his jealousy perceived it, understood that he was about to -be forbidden the house, knew that the woman whom he loved would never -degrade herself by listening to a lover, and this is the plan which he -conceived. He had a brother somewhere in a distant land, an infamous -scoundrel who was supposed to be dead, a creature sunk in shame, a -thief, a forger, a deserter, and he bethought him of this brother as an -instrument ready to his hand wherewith to rid himself of the friend who -stood in the way of his passion. He sent for the fellow secretly, he -appointed to meet him in one of the loneliest corners of Paris—in -a street adjoining the Jardin des Plantes, and at night—you see. I -am well informed. It is easy to imagine how he persuaded the former -thief to play the part of bravo. A few months after, the husband was -assassinated by this brother, who eluded justice. The felon-friend -married almost immediately the woman whom he loved; he is now a man in -society, wealthy, and respected, and his pure and pious wife loves, -admires, nay, worships him. Do you now begin to understand?" -</p> - -<p> -"No more than before," he answered, with the same impassive face. He did -well not to flinch. What I had said might be only an attempt to wrest -his secret from him by feigning to know all. Nevertheless, the detail -concerning the place where he had appointed to meet his brother had made -him start. That was the spot to hit, and quickly. -</p> - -<p> -"The cowardly assassin," I continued, "yes, the coward, because he dared -not commit the crime himself, had carefully calculated all the -circumstances of the murder; but he had reckoned without certain little -accidents, for instance, that his brother would keep the three letters -he had received, the first two at New York, the last at Liverpool, and -which contained instructions relating to the stages of this clandestine -journey. Neither had he taken into account that the son of his victim -would grow up, would become a man, would conceive certain suspicions of -the true cause of his father's death, and would succeed in procuring -overwhelming proof of the dark conspiracy. Come, then," I added -fiercely, "off with the mask! M. Jacques Termonde, it is you who had my -unhappy father killed by your brother Edmond. I have in my possession -the letters you wrote him in January, 1864, to induce him to come to -Europe, first under the false name of Rochester and afterwards under -that of Rochdale. It is not worth your while to play the indignant or -the astonished with me—the game is up." -</p> - -<p> -He had turned frightfully pale; but his arms still remained crossed, and -his bold eyes did not droop. He made one last attempt to parry the -straight blow I had aimed at him, and he had the hardihood to say: -</p> - -<p> -"How much did that wretch Edmond ask as the price of the forgery which -he fabricated in revenge for my refusal to give him money?" -</p> - -<p> -"Be silent, you—" said I still more fiercely. "Is it to me that you -dare to speak thus—to me? Did I need those letters in order to learn -all? Have we not known for weeks past, I, that you had committed the -crime, and you, that I had divined your guilt? What I still needed was -the written, indisputable, undeniable proof, that which can be laid -before a magistrate. You refused him money? You were about to give him -money, only that you mistrusted him, and chose to wait until the day of -his departure. You did not suspect that I was upon your track. Shall I -tell you when it was you saw him for the last time? Yesterday, at ten -o'clock in the morning, you went out, you changed your cab first at the -Place de la Concorde, and a second time at the Palais Royal. You went to -the Grand Hotel, and you asked whether Mr. Stanbury was in his room. A -few hours later, I, I myself, was in that same room. Ah! how much did -Edmond Termonde ask from me for the letters? Why, I tore them from him, -pistol in hand, after a struggle in which I was nearly killed. You see -now that you can deceive me no more, and that it is no longer worth your -while to deny." -</p> - -<p> -I thought he was about to drop dead before me. His face changed, until -it was hardly human, as I went on, on, on, piling up the exact facts, -tracking his falsehood, as one tracks a wild beast, and proving to him -that his brother had defended himself after his fashion, even as he had -done. He clasped his hands about his head, when I ceased to speak, as -though to compress the maddening thoughts which rushed upon him; then, -once more looking me in the face, but this time with infinite despair in -his eyes, he uttered exactly the same sentence as his brother had -spoken, but with quite another expression and tone: -</p> - -<p> -"This hour too was bound to come. What do you want from me now?" -</p> - -<p> -"That you should do justice on yourself," I answered. "You have -twenty-four hours before you. If, to-morrow at this hour, you are still -living, I place the letters in my mother's hands." -</p> - -<p> -Every sort of feeling was depicted upon his livid face while I placed -this ultimatum before him, in a firm voice which admitted of no farther -discussion. I was standing up, and I leaned against the large table; he -came towards me, with a sort of delirium in his eyes as they strove to -meet mine. -</p> - -<p> -"No," he cried, "no, André, not yet! Pity me, André, pity me! See now, -I am a condemned man, I have not six months to live. Your revenge! Ah! -you had no need to undertake it. What! If I have done a terrible deed, -do you think I have not been punished for it? Look at me, only look at -me; I am dying of this frightful secret. It is all over; my days are -numbered. The few that remain, leave, oh leave them to me! Understand -this, I am not afraid to die; but to kill myself, to go away, leaving -this grief to her whom you love as I do! It is true that, to win her, I -have done an atrocious deed; but say, answer, has there ever been an -hour, a minute since, in which her happiness was not my only aim? And -you would have me leave her thus, inflict upon her the torment of -thinking that while I might have grown old by her side, I preferred to -go away, to forsake her before the time? No, André, this last year, -leave it to me! Ah, leave it to me, leave it to us, for I assure you -that I am hopelessly ill, that I know it, that the doctors have not hidden -it from me. In a few months—fix a date—if the disease has not -carried me off, you can come back. But I shall be dead. She will weep -for me, without the horror of that idea that I have forestalled my hour, -she who is so pious! You only will be there to console her, to love her. -Have pity upon her, if not upon me. See, I have no more pride towards -you, I entreat you in her name, in the name of her dear heart, for well -you know its tenderness. You love her, I know that; I have guessed truly -that you hid your suspicions to spare her pain. I tell you once again, -my life is a hell, and I would joyfully give it to you in expiation of -what I have done; but she, André, she, your mother, who has never, -never cherished a thought that was not pure and noble, no, do not -inflict this torture upon her." -</p> - -<p> -"Words, words," I answered, moved to the bottom of my soul in spite of -myself, by the outburst of an anguish in which I was forced to recognise -sincerity. "It is because my mother is noble and pure that I will not -have her remain the wife of a vile murderer for a day longer. You shall -kill yourself, or she shall know all." -</p> - -<p> -"Do it then if you dare," he replied, with a return to the natural pride -of his character, at the ferocity of my answer. "Do it if you dare! Yes, -she is my wife, yes, she loves me; go and tell her, and kill her -yourself with the words. Ha, you see! You turn pale at the mere thought. -I have allowed you to live, yes, I, on account of her, and do you -suppose I do not hate you as much as you hate me? Nevertheless, I have -respected you because you were dear to her, and you will have to do the -same with me. Yes, do you hear, it must be so——" -</p> - -<p> -It was he who was giving orders now, he who was threatening. How plainly -had he read my mind, to stand up before me in such an attitude. Furious -passion broke loose in me; I took in the facts of the situation. This -man had loved my mother madly enough to purchase her at the cost of the -murder of his most intimate friend, and he loved her after all those -years passionately enough to desire that not one of the days he had -still to pass with her might be lost to him. And it was also true that -never, never should I have the courage to reveal the terrific truth to -the poor woman. I was suddenly carried away by rage to the point of -losing all control over my frenzy. "Ah!" I cried, "since you will not do -justice on yourself, die then, at once!" I stretched out my hand and -seized the dagger which he had recently placed upon the table. He -looked at me without flinching, or recoiling, indeed presenting his -breast to me, as though to brave my childish rage. I was on his left, -bending down, and ready to spring. I saw his smile of contempt, and then -with all my strength I struck him with the knife in the direction of the -heart. The blade entered his body to the hilt. No sooner had I done this -thing than I recoiled, wild with terror at the deed. He uttered a cry. -His face was distorted with terrible agony, and he moved his right hand -towards the wound, as though he would draw out the dagger. He looked at -me, convulsed with unbearable agony; I saw that he wanted to speak; his -lips moved, but no sound issued from his mouth. The expression of a -supreme effort passed into his eyes, he turned to the table, took a pen, -dipped it into the inkstand, and traced two lines on a sheet of paper -within his reach. He looked at me again, his lips moved once more, then -he fell down like a log. -</p> - -<p> -I remember—I saw the body stretched upon the carpet, between the -table and the tall mantelpiece, within two feet of me. I approached him, I -bent over his face. His eyes seemed to follow me even after death. Yes, -he was dead. The doctor who certified the death explained afterwards -that the knife had passed through the cardiac muscle without completely -penetrating the left cavity of the heart, and that, the blood not being -shed all at once, death had not been instantaneous. I cannot tell how -long he lived after I struck him, nor do I know how long I remained in -the same place, overwhelmed by the thought: "Some one will come, and I -am lost." It was not for myself that I trembled. What could be done to a -son who had but avenged his murdered father? But, my mother? This was -what all my resolutions to spare her at any cost, my daily solicitude -for her welfare, my unseen tears, my tender silence, had come to in the -end! I must now, inevitably, either explain myself, or leave her to -think that I was a mere murderer. I was lost. But if I called, if I -cried out suddenly that my stepfather had just killed himself in my -presence, should I be believed? And, besides, had he not written what -would convict me of murder, on that sheet of paper lying on the table? -Was I going to destroy it, as a practised criminal destroys every -vestige of his presence before he leaves the scene of his crime? I -seized the sheet of paper; the lines were written upon it in characters -rather larger than usual. How it shook in my hand while I read these -words: "Forgive me, Marie. I was suffering too much. I wanted to be done -with it." And he had had the strength to affix his signature! So then, -his last thought had been for her. In the brief moments that had elapsed -between my blow with the knife, and his death, he had perceived the -dreadful truth, that I should be arrested, that I would speak to explain my -deed, that my mother would then learn his crime—and he had saved me -by compelling me to silence. But was I going to profit by this means of -safety? Was I going to accept the terrible generosity by which the man, -whom I had so profoundly detested, would stand acquitted towards me for -evermore? I must render so much justice to my honour; my first impulse -was to destroy that paper, to annihilate with it even the memory of the -debt imposed upon my hatred by the atrocious but sublime action of the -murderer of my father. At that moment I caught sight of a portrait of my -mother on the table close to where he had been sitting. It was a -photograph taken in her youth; she was represented in brilliant evening -attire, her bare arms shaded with lace, pearls in her hair, gay, ay, -better than gay, happy, with an ineffably pure expression overspreading -her face. My stepfather had sacrificed all to save her from despair on -learning the truth, and was she to receive the fatal blow from me, to -learn at the same moment that the man she loved had killed her first -husband, and that he had been killed by her son? I desire to believe, so -that I may continue to hold myself in some esteem, that only the vision -of her grief led me to my decision. I replaced the sheet of paper on the -table, and turned away from the corpse lying on the carpet, without -casting a glance at it. The remembrance of my flight from the Grand -Hotel, on the previous day, gave me courage; I must try a second time to -get away without betraying discomposure. I found my hat, left the room, -and closed the door carelessly. I crossed the hall and went down the -staircase, passing by the footman who stood up mechanically, and then -the concierge who saluted me. The two servants had not even put me out -of countenance. I returned to my room as I had done the day before, but -in a far more tragic state of suspense! Was I saved? Was I lost? All -depended on the moment at which somebody might go into my stepfather's -room. If my mother were to return within a few minutes of my departure; -if the footman were to go upstairs with some letter, I should instantly -be suspected, in spite of the declaration written by M. Termonde. I felt -that my courage was exhausted. I knew that, if accused, I should not -have moral strength to defend myself, for my weariness was so -overwhelming that I did not suffer any longer. The only thing I had -strength to do, was to watch the swing of the pendulum of the timepiece -on the mantelshelf, and to mark the movement of the hands. A quarter of -an hour elapsed, half-an-hour, a whole hour. It was an hour and a half -after I had left the fatal room, when the bell at the door was rung. I -heard it through the walls. A servant brought me a laconic note from my -mother scribbled in pencil and hardly legible. It informed me that my -stepfather had destroyed himself in an attack of severe pain. The poor -woman implored me to go to her immediately. Ah, she would now never know -the truth! -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4><a id="XIX">XIX</a></h4> -<p><br /></p> - -<p> -The confession that I wished to write, is written. To what end could I -add fresh facts to it now? I hoped to ease my heart by passing in review -all the details of this dark story, but I have only revived the dread -memory of the scenes in which I have been an actor; from the -first—when I saw my father stretched dead upon his bed, and my -mother weeping by his side, to the last—when I noiselessly entered -a room in which the unhappy woman was again kneeling and weeping. Again -upon the bed there lay a corpse, and she rose as she had done before, -and uttered the same despairing cry: "My André—my son." And I had -to answer her questions; I had to invent for her a false conversation -with my stepfather, to tell her that I left him rather depressed, but -with nothing in his appearance or manner to indicate a fatal resolution. -I had to take the necessary steps to prevent this alleged suicide from -getting known, to see the commissary of police and the "doctor of the -dead." I had to preside at the funeral ceremonies, to receive the guests -and act as chief mourner. And always, always, he was present to me, with -the dagger in his breast, writing the lines that had saved me, and -looking at me, while his lips moved. Ah, begone, begone, abhorred -phantom! Yes! I have done it; yes! I have killed you; yes! it was just. -You know well that it was just. Why are you still here now? Ah! I -<i>will</i> live; I <i>will</i> forget. If I could only cease to think -of you for one day, only one day, just to breathe, and walk, and see the -sky, without your image returning to haunt my poor head which is racked -by this hallucination, and troubled? My God! have pity on me. I did not -ask for this dreadful fate; it is Thou that hast sent it to me. Why dost -Thou punish me? Oh, my God, have pity on me! <i>Miserere mei, -Domine</i>. -</p> - -<p> -Vain prayers! Is there any God, any justice, is there either good or -evil? None, none, none, none. There is nothing but a pitiless destiny -which broods over the human race, iniquitous and blind, distributing joy -and grief at haphazard. A God who says, "Thou shalt not kill," to him -whose father has been killed? No, I don't believe it. No, if hell were -there before me, gaping open, I would make answer: "I have done well," -and I would not repent. I do not repent. My remorse is not for having -seized the weapon and struck the blow, it is that I owe to him—to -him—that infamous good service which he did me—that I cannot -to the present hour shake from me the horrible gift I have received from -that man. If I had destroyed the paper, if I had gone and given myself -up, if I had appeared before a jury, revealing, proclaiming my deed, I -should not be ashamed; I could still hold up my head. What relief, what -joy it would be if I might cry aloud to all men that I killed him, that -he lied, and I lied, that it was I, I, who took the weapon and plunged -it into him! And yet, I ought not to suffer from having -accepted—no—endured the odious immunity. Was it from any -motive of cowardice that I acted thus? What was I afraid of? Of -torturing my mother, nothing more. Why then do I suffer this unendurable -anguish? Ah, it is she, it is my mother who, without intending it, makes -the dead so living to me, by her own despair. She lives, shut up in the -rooms where they lived together for sixteen years; she has not allowed a -single article of furniture to be touched; she surrounds the man's -accursed memory with the same pious reverence that my aunt formerly -lavished on my unhappy father. I recognise the invincible influence of -the dead in the pallor of her cheeks, the wrinkles in her eyelids, the -white streaks in her hair. He disputes her with me from the darkness of -his coffin, he takes her from me, hour by hour, and I am powerless -against that love. If I were to tell her, as I would like to tell her, -all the truth, from the hideous crime which he committed, down to the -execution carried out by me, it is I whom she would hate, for having -killed him. She will grow old thus, and I shall see her weep, always, -always—— What good is it to have done what I did, since I -have not killed him in her heart? -</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>HERE ENDS THE STORY OF ANDRÉ CORNÉLIS</h4> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF ANDRÉ CORNÉLIS ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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