_An Appeal for Help_
|THE important events of this story and its hero have occupied us to
such an extent that we have not found time to present Monsieur Lecamus
as he should be. The little that we know of him does not effect our
sympathy. The place that he occupies in the house of Longuet, which is
eminently immoral; the cynicism with which he deceives an innocent soul;
the little danger that he seems to run in accomplishing the larceny—
these are good reasons why we have deferred showing our contempt for
him. It may be said that we have judged hastily, and have not allowed
him to plead extenuating circumstances. The principal one, and the one
which it would be well for us to dwell upon, is that he really liked
Théophraste above everybody else. He loved him with his faults, his
weaknesses, his ingenuousness, the confidence he had in him, and above
all, the admiration Théophraste had for him. There was no sacrifice he
would not make for Théophraste, and I daresay that if Théophraste
had any pecuniary troubles, which after all are the only troubles which
really count here below, Adolphe Lecamus would open his purse, and give
to him freely. Adolphe loved Théophraste even above Marceline; and
although I do not pretend to deal here with psychology, I find myself
confronted with a case which is much less common than one would be
inclined to believe. For Adolphe loved Marceline because he had made her
his mistress.
If he had learned, by some supernatural warning, that Théophraste would
some day learn his real position in the household, he would only have
respected Marceline. “But,” he thought to himself, “Théophraste
will never know anything about it, and as unknown evils do not exist, I
will be the lover of the wife of my best friend.”
These lines are necessary, that the reader may understand properly
the knavish tricks of the lover. But we must understand distinctly
Adolphe’s devotion to Théophraste.
After the departure of the Commissioner, they all set themselves to
consider what was to be done with the articles which Théophraste had
brought home with him. At first they all sat silently looking at the
objects, no one wishing to break the silence, until Théophraste said,
“I have nothing more in my pockets. I really believe I have got my
black plume.”
Marceline and Adolphe were startled by this, but still did not say
anything, and waited for Théophraste to give some explanation. Then he
declared it was in the crowd at the Place de la Concorde. He went in and
out among the crowd, and it was a very simple matter for him.
“What must we do?” asked Adolphe in a grave voice?”
“What do you wish me to do?” replied Théophraste, who by this time
had begun to confess. “You do not think that I am going to keep them!
It is not my habit to keep things that do not belong to me. I am an
honest man and have never wronged anybody. You must take them all to M.
Milfroid, your friend, the Commissioner of Police. He can easily restore
them to the owners.”
“What can I say to him?”
“Whatever you wish,” burst out Théophraste, who was becoming
impatient. “Did the honest coachman who found a purse and fifty
thousand francs in his carriage think about what he should say when he
took them to the commissariat? He simply said, ‘I have found them in
the carriage.’ That was sufficient. They even rewarded him for it. You
must say, ‘My friend Longuet charged me to bring this to you. He found
them in his pockets, and he does not wish a reward.’”
Marceline touched Adolphe with her foot under the table. This was her
customary way of secretly drawing Adolphe’s attention. She wanted to
signify to him that she thought Théophraste was demented, and her look
quite showed it. Adolphe understood. He knitted his brows and scratched
the tip of his nose. He felt that now was the time to act. He
looked from Théophraste to the pocket-books, and coughing, said,
“Théophraste, this is not natural. We have to explain ourselves. We
must understand. You must not close your eyes to this misfortune. You
must open them wide, and bring your will to fight it.”
“Of what misfortune are you speaking?” asked Théophraste, becoming
frightened.
“Well, is it not a misfortune to have things in your pocket that do
not belong to you?”
“I do not understand. You seem to be accusing me of being dishonest.
I am an honest man, and whatever I have done dishonestly, I have done
against my will.”
Having said these words, he fell back in his chair in a dead faint, and
a deep silence fell over them all.
When Théophraste came out of his stupor, his eyes were full of tears.
He motioned to his wife and his friend to come nearer to him. When
they were beside him, he said, showing pitiable emotion, “I feel that
Adolphe is right. A great misfortune menaces me, I know not what! I know
not what! My God! I know not what! I know not what!”
Adolphe and Marceline attempted to console him, but he wept more. Then
Marceline began to weep.
In his emotion, Théophraste grasped them both by the hand, and cried,
“Swear never to abandon me, no matter what happens, for, oh! some day
I shall need your help.” They swore to him in good faith.
Adolphe then asked to see the document. As he spread the document before
him, he said, “Théophraste, tell me, do you ever have dreams?”
“It is very probable, but I only dream a very little.”
“Never?” insisted Adolphe.
“Scarcely ever. However, I remember to have dreamed four or five times
in my life, perhaps because I woke each time in the middle of my dream,
and it was always the same dream. But what possible interest can there
be in this, to the subject which is occupying us now, Adolphe?”
Adolphe continued: “Dreams have never been explained by science.
Science attributes them all to the effects of the imagination, but it
does not give us the reason for these clear, distinct visions which
appear to us sometimes. Thus it explains a thing which is not known
by another which is no better understood. It says that dreams are the
recollection of things which took place in a former life. But even
admitting this solution—which is a doubtful one—we still have
to find out what is the magic mirror that serves so well to keep the
imprint of things. Moreover, how can one explain visions of real things,
events that one has never seen in a former state, and of which one
has never even thought? Who can affirm that these are not visions of
retrospective past events in a former life?”
“That is right, my dear Adolphe,” said Théophraste, “and I ought
to confess the things that I have dreamed. I have dreamed them three
times as I said before, things that were perhaps true in the past, or
will be in the future. I have never seen them in a waking state in my
present life.”
“You understand me,” said Adolphe. “Relate to me the things that
you have dreamed of and have never seen.”
“Oh, that will not take long. But so much the better, for it is not
very cheerful: I dreamed that I was married to a woman named Marie
Antoinette, and then----”
“And then?” interrupted Adolphe, who had never taken his eyes off
the document.
“And then I cut her up in pieces.”
“Oh, horrors!” cried Marceline.
“It is horrible,” continued Théophraste, shaking his head. “Then
I put the pieces in a basket and threw them into the Seine by the little
bridge of the Hotel Dieu. I awoke then, and you may be sure I was not
sorry.”
Adolphe struck the table a hard blow with his fist. “It is
frightful,” he cried in a harsh voice, looking at Théophraste.
“Is it not?” said Marceline, shuddering.
Adolphe read the first lines of the document.
“Oh, how dreadful it is!” he continued, groaning. “Alas, alas! I
understand all, now.”
“What do you understand?” asked Théophraste in a frightened voice,
following Adolphe’s finger as he traced the first two lines of the
document.
“This,” said Adolphe. “‘Moi et! I buried my, treasures.’ And you do not
know what that ‘et’ means? Well, I won’t tell you until I am quite sure.
I will know to-morrow. Théophraste, tomorrow at two o’clock be at the
Rue Guinegaud and the Rue Mazarin. I am going to take these articles to
M. Milfroid’s house. He will restore them to their owners, and we will
prove to him that there are pickpockets even when the Commissioner is
present. Adieu, my friend, adieu. Above all take courage. Take courage.”
Adolphe shook Théophraste’s hand with the warmth of a comrade, and
departed.
Théophraste did not sleep that night. While Marceline reposed
peacefully by his side, he lay with eyes wide open in the darkness. His
respiration was irregular, and he sighed often. Anxiety lay heavy upon
him.