CRIME.
In her soul Catherine felt quite positive that Firmin would not dare
perpetrate the act he had voluntarily promised to do; still she
resolved to keep Savin out that night, if possible. By a grim fatality,
however, Savin went abroad on his own account.
When Catherine reached home she found him still sound asleep. Overcome
by fatigue, he had dropped into slumber without removing his clothes
several hours before. At about five o’clock in the afternoon he awoke
with a sudden start, ate a bit of luncheon, and then set to work
cleaning his gun, being thus and in other ways engaged until nearly ten
o’clock, when without a word he shouldered his weapon and started out
of the house.
To Catherine there was something grewsomely suggestive in the departure
of the man whom she might never see again alive.
Involuntarily she advanced as though to call him back. But pride,
in collusion with baser feelings, conquered her, and the wretched
woman lingered with her hand on the door-knob until the sound of his
retreating steps had died away and all was still.
Then she sought her bed, but her intention to go to sleep calmly was
frustrated. In a short time she began to weigh her means of defence in
case she were complicated in the proposed crime.
The night was characterized by a dry, cold atmosphere. An occasional
gust of wind shivered the leaves of the trees, among which the silver
gleams of the high-poised moon fantastically played. The stillness
would have been continuous but for the shrill interruptions of watchful
owls.
Thoughtfully Savin strode on, taking the road which led to the
Trinquelin, by a descent into a ravine.
Overcome with a sudden remorse, Catherine left her bed, and opening a
window gazed out into the night. After several minutes of unpleasant
silence she heard stealthy footsteps approaching, and soon a man’s
figure appeared to view. The sight filled Catherine with a double sense
of horror. She opened the window and in a loud voice cried: “Firmin, go
home!”
But the unresponsive figure only hastened on in the gloom of the
oak-trees. Hurrying out of the house, Catherine was bent on overtaking
the person ahead of her. As she advanced she gave earnest utterance to
the words: “Stop, Firmin! Abandon your object! Pray come back! I am
unwilling----”
But the figure had disappeared.
“It is fate,” murmured the young woman, who was shaking like an aspen
leaf.
Eleven o’clock sounded. As the night advanced Catherine was torn the
more by conflicting emotions. Love and despair grappled her heart. The
more she thought of Savin as lost to her forever, the greater seemed
her love for him. And yet she could not help but feel that he had
humiliated her before the world.
At a little past midnight she heard carriage wheels. The horses’ hoofs
clattered over the frozen road, and then passing the cottage at the
corner of the wood their echoes grew fainter and fainter until they no
longer could be heard. Was her husband’s wounded or death-cold form
being borne away in that late-hour vehicle? Catherine asked herself
this question with a cold shudder, as she crouched down beside her
chamber window and waited. Perchance to distract her thoughts she
began to count the branches of the trees in front of the cottage. But
this was a vain and mocking pastime. Every rustle of the leaves to her
alarmed senses seemed like the report of a gun. Even the creaking of
the floor under her weight as she moved startled her. Once more she
went to bed, but only to toss about in dire distress.
The terrible situation appalled her; and the more she considered it,
the more atrocious seemed the part she was playing. Visions of Savin
her husband, he who had protected her against the world, the man to
whom she owed everything--wounded and perhaps dying at that very
moment--haunted her. And yet, he had humiliated her. Yes; but what a
fearful vengeance--that he should die because of a few vehement words!
Two o’clock. O God! Would the night never pass? Perhaps, after all, he
was safe. “Firmin is such a coward! Who knows if he would dare carry
out his threat? Why do I torment myself about it? When Firmin sees
Savin, he will not dare lift his little finger. God be praised! Firmin
is a poltroon--_that_ I know, and why should I fear?”
Half-past two.
“How the hours creep! Oh, what if Firmin should attack him from behind?
Yes, that is what he would do--the coward! He would take him unawares.
And _I_ am the cause! Oh, no, no! It cannot be!”
Catherine hurriedly dressed herself, determined to seek her husband and
end her apprehensive suspense. As she crossed the threshold the air
made her shiver and she turned back, and while searching for her shawl
she regained a share of her wonted composure.
“After all,” she reflected aloud, “I am foolish. If Firmin, as is
probable, becomes frightened and runs home, I shall only get deeper
into trouble. At this hour all is settled, one way or the other, but
Savin probably is quite safe and uninjured. Firmin is too much of a
coward to carry out his threat. And why should I show such an interest,
anyway? Why, indeed?”
In a nearly tranquil mood she again seated herself at the window. But
her tranquillity did not last long. Soon she was assailed by doubts and
emotions that brought fresh tears to her eyes.
“But what if he be dead at this instant? What if he were so far from
here that I could not have heard the report?”
A revulsive paroxysm of grief and remorse made her moan piteously.
“Who knows but that he may be dying with no one near to help him?”
How terrible is remorse! Catherine, during those moments of suspense,
suffered untold anguish, and when at last she could endure it no
longer, she snatched up her wrap and rushed out into the night. The
clock tinkled four as she closed the door behind her. Possessed with
the one idea of finding her husband, she hurried on, but just as she
entered the wood she heard a loud reverberating report.
“O God! I am too late!” cried the distracted woman, as she fell on her
knees like a sobbing suppliant. Soon, however, she recovered herself in
a measure, but instead of flying to Savin’s side, her one thought was
to get home as rapidly as possible.
“They must find me alone and asleep,” she murmured, “when they come to
break the news.”
In her confusion it did not occur to her that Savin might be only
wounded and that immediate relief might save him. Nor did she dream
that anybody could have seen her leave the house--only to return
precipitately after the shot was fired, and lock the door, which all
night had remained unlocked, behind her.
Mounting the staircase she entered her bed-room and prepared for bed.
But her every nerve was on the alert. The ticking of the little clock
on the mantelpiece sounded like a cannon in her ears. What a dreadful
suspense! Would they never come? In a waiting, listening attitude she
seated herself by the window.
“Do I hear footsteps on the walk?” she asked herself. “No, it is only
the beating of my heart.”
A death-like soundlessness prevailed.
“Oh, what a demon is that Firmin! I would kill him if he stood before
me now,” she exclaimed.
Five o’clock sounded.
“I hear a step on the pebbles. Thank Heaven! somebody is coming. Good
God! how my heart throbs. But I must feign sleep or I am lost. They are
knocking at the door. Now to play my part. Oh, Holy Mother, forgive my
sin! Remorse--no, it is my conscience--makes me cowardly.”
Tremblingly she leaned out of the window and looked.
“God be praised!” she cried. “It is Savin.”
Mad with joy, and penitent as Magdalen, she sped down-stairs, drew the
bolt, tore open the door, and seizing Savin’s arm attempted to lead him
within.
“At last!” she breathlessly cried. She noticed nothing strange in
his appearance, so delighted was she to know that he was living. The
gamekeeper surveyed his wife with unsteady eyes. Any other person would
have seen that the poor fellow was wounded. Catherine saw nothing of
the sort. His expression was awful in its intensity. Convinced that his
wife was the cause of his wounds, he had dragged himself home to avenge
himself, should he retain sufficient strength. With superhuman effort
he had walked the whole distance alone. Blind to everything but the one
thought that Savin had been spared to her, she attempted to embrace him.
“Miserable hypocrite!” he shouted. And with a great effort he raised
his hand and struck her face.
“So violence and brutality are to be the reward for my penitence. Very
well,” she wildly exclaimed, her better feelings again overpowered.
Without hesitation she slammed the door in Savin’s face and turned the
key. Losing his balance, Savin uttered a groan as he fell on the steps
with a thud.
Again the young woman mounted the staircase in anger.
“Why do I ever try to conciliate him?” she said to herself. “Twice he
has repulsed me when I have tried to bring about amiable relations. But
I have finished. Let him strike me again if he dares.”
Now that she had seen him safe and well, as she supposed, her anxiety
ceased. She reproached herself for having passed the night in worrying.
“What a night I have passed! And all for nothing! But it is over now.
I shall never be such a fool again.”
By some strange fatality, each time either of them had made overtures
to the other some awkward step on the part of the latter had prevented
a reconciliation. Reflecting upon this fact, Catherine became the
more incensed. Seated upon the edge of her bed she waited. At about
half-past six she heard approaching footsteps. Suddenly an awful shriek
was given, and then followed the sound of running feet. Catherine
listened with every nerve on the alert. Soon a voice said: “Firmin is
the man who dealt this blow--the ruffian!”
“What can have happened?” Catherine asked herself, as she crept to the
window and looked out. The heavens away in the east were violet and
rose tinted; while Aurora, beautiful as a dream, was ascending the sky.
“He is dead,” said a voice under the window.
“Dead, dead!” repeated Catherine, her eyes dilating with horror.
“Merciful heavens! Not dead?”
She vaguely comprehended that they were speaking of her husband. A low
murmur of voices arose from the spot where the gamekeeper lay; but the
peasants, superstitiously awed, dared not touch the body, and all were
speaking in suppressed tones. More than one whispered to his neighbor
that Madame Catherine might be able to name the murderer.
“She is a D’Angerolles, you know,” added another, significantly.
Every moment some new-comer joined the crowd which surrounded poor
Savin’s body.
“Come, let us go inside,” at last suggested one of the men. But upon
trying the door he found it locked, and knocked loudly. Endeavoring to
compose herself, Catherine hastily arranged her dress, and crossed the
room toward the staircase. In passing before the mirror that surmounted
the mantelpiece she involuntarily looked in the glass. By the dim gray
light a shadow seemed to rest upon her face.
“My God! what is it?” she cried in terror.
Lighting a candle, she gazed once more into the little glass. In the
glimmering, flickering light she saw upon her livid cheek the traces of
a bloody hand. Savin’s five fingers, which had been covered with blood
from his wound, when he struck his wife, had left their imprint on her
face. In a moment more she would have faced the throng with those marks
upon her face--by which her husband had branded her as a criminal.
“Look! Madame Catherine has struck a light. She must be coming down,”
said Mathieu.
“Hadn’t we better break it to her gently?” suggested somebody.
“Bah!” replied a woman. “She probably knew all about it before we did.”
Meantime Catherine washed away the stains as well as she could, but it
seemed to her as though some of them never could be effaced. Down below
all wondered why she was so long in coming. At length, after washing
her face several times, she descended the stairs.
When she appeared on the threshold, her countenance, mobile and
composed, was scrutinized by all, and suspiciously by many. On the
doorstep, just as he had fallen, lay poor Savin. Catherine saw him, and
a desolate cry escaped her. Falling on her knees she drew his head upon
her lap, and with a passionate moan, more of remorse than of despair,
she stroked his cold face. But to the spectators present it seemed but
a bit of clever acting, and they manifested signs of distrust of her.
“She is playing a _rôle_,” cried Mathieu, sneeringly, but he was
in error. For as she now looked upon his pale dead face, so drawn
and still, all hatred of her husband disappeared, and her being was
scourged by the thought that he had met his death because of her.
Suddenly a wild hope filled her heart. Leaning over her husband’s
prostrate form, she pressed her ear against his breast.
“He still lives!” she cried. “He lives!”
Realizing that her hope was not in vain, her tears ceased to well up in
her swollen eyes.
“Help me,” she commanded, as she tried to lift the body in her arms.
Several in the crowd came forward to assist her. Her emotion nearly
convinced them of her innocence, and only one among them, Andoche,
intuitively felt that she was guilty, and yet sincere in her grief.
A mattress was brought from the house and the gamekeeper was carefully
placed upon it.
“You, Lucien,” said Catherine, to a little boy of fifteen who was
standing near, “you must run to Quarré and bring Monsieur Morris, the
doctor, at once.”
When he was removed within, Catherine laved Savin’s wounds. A single
discharge of lead had entered the chest on the left side a little below
the heart. Profuse bleeding had rendered him insensible, but his heart
was still beating.
“He is not dead! No, no! He breathes!” Catherine kept repeating.
“Listen, George, don’t you hear him breathe?”
George was a young student of Trinquelin who possessed no little
intelligence.
“Yes, he is living,” he declared. So great was her joy at this
assurance that all now felt fully convinced of her innocence.
Meanwhile, Andoche, who alone felt undeceived, left the others,
determined to follow the trail of blood which indicated the way the
wounded man had taken. This trail led him to a little crossway where
all signs ceased. At the right a tuft of high shoots had two or three
broken branches, and the leaves were scattered. This, then, had been
the scene of the assassination. The murderer had posted himself behind
the accusing shrubbery and had fired at short range.
Little Lucien returned with the doctor, who at a moment’s notice
had mounted his horse, anxious to answer so extraordinary a
summons. Already the intelligence had spread with that rapidity so
characteristic of bad news, and from Quarré to Trinquelin the matter
was being discussed.
It was now broad daylight. Just behind the doctor was observed
approaching the Chief of Police and one of his subordinates. A great
commotion now prevailed. Since the day of the great stampede no such
crowd had collected within a radius of twenty miles. From St. Benoit,
from Trinquelin, Bordichon, and all the neighboring villages, people
had assembled. When Bruno heard the startling news he entered his home
completely prostrated.
“Poor Catherine! Poor little woman!” he cried, in his grief. He did
not doubt that she was the cause of Savin’s death, and he was utterly
wretched in the consciousness that his love for her neither increased
nor diminished with this discovery.
From all sides rose one cry. All were unanimous in their decision:
“Firmin is the guilty man.”
When the doctor examined Savin, all looked anxiously for his verdict.
At last it came:
“He is not dead, but there is no hope of saving him,” he said, soberly.
Catherine gave one heart-rending shriek and threw herself at the
doctor’s feet.
“Oh, save him! Save him, I beseech you!” she cried in anguish.
“My poor woman, I am powerless. He can live but a few moments.”
By this time the gendarmes had entered the yard and were seeking
information.
“There are only two men capable of killing Barrau,” said one red-haired
old gossip who felt it her duty to say something.
“Who are they?”
“Why, Madame Barrau’s lovers, of course.”
“You mean Firmin?”
“Yes, and Bruno, too.”
“What, young Bruno?”
“Why not?”
At this moment little Sidonie appeared. From the instant she learned of
the crime she had been a prey to tormenting doubts. Bruno’s words on
the day of the wedding recurred to her mind.
“For her,” he had said, “I would be capable of anything--even of crime.”
“Of crime,” repeated the lame girl, who, though she trembled like a
leaf, possessed an unshaken love for Bruno.
She arrived just in time to hear Bruno accused. A burning desire to
defend him filled her soul, but another feeling kept her silent. The
moment had not come to take up his defence. When the accusation became
formal, then would be her time.
The conversation was continued, everybody having a word to say on the
subject.
“Young Bruno,” said Suzanne the bride, “surely he is too honorable to
have dreamed of such a thing. Oh, no!”
“That is all very well to say,” returned the red-haired gossip, “but
when a man is in love with a coquette, he sometimes comes pretty near
being a villain.”
“You are an old scandal-monger, Madame Calasse, permit me to say,”
broke in Andoche, who had just returned from his tour of investigation.
“Well, nobody asked your opinion, sir,” she retorted.
“No: I give it unsolicited, and nobody here can prevent me, either.”
“You scoundrel!”
“You viper!”
“Come, come,” interposed Sidonie, indignantly. “Don’t dispute in the
presence of death. A poor soul is dying.”
“Pooh, little simpleton! You are a great one to talk. You will have
enough to do if _you_ stand up for Bruno.”
“That is my affair,” replied Sidonie.
Just then Barrau made a movement. In a sort of convulsion he turned
upon his right side.
For a moment the doctor seemed encouraged.
“Perhaps he can name his murderer,” said the Chief of Police.
“There is no need of that. We all know,” ejaculated one of the women.
This statement was greeted with an indecent burst of laughter from
Mademoiselle Faillot, who had come into the house, as it seemed, solely
for the purpose of destroying by her innuendos the good impression
which Catherine had created.
But the Chief of Police, Monsieur Banastre, was a loyal, intelligent
soldier, and was endowed with a tact rarely found among men.
“My good woman,” said he to Rosalie, “it is for _us_ to find out the
criminal. You need not play the spy.”
“What!” gasped Léocadia, “you do not care for our information, then?
Why, the police are supposed to protect----”
“Mademoiselle,” interrupted Banastre, “do not waste your eloquence upon
me. Rosalie wishes to imply that the presumable assassin is Firmin, the
valet.”
“Certainly,” Léocadia answered.
“Ah, well, as yet we do not know. Everybody says it, doubtless
everybody thinks it, but I should prefer to hear from the wounded man.”
“From the dead!” solemnly remarked Dr. Morris.
The two men made a military salute, and the people superstitiously
crossed themselves.
Catherine, at the dead man’s side, was weeping bitterly, and praying
with a fervor of which she had felt incapable eight days before. It was
a sad scene, but Banastre perceived what it was his duty to do.
“Show me the home of Firmin Valeau,” he sternly ordered.
Little Sidonie came forward and pointed out the way.
“You see the little red roof there--quite new?” she asked.
“Is that it?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Thanks, little one.--Come, Plagnolles, we must go.”
With regular tread they started down the slope, followed by many
curious peasants. Now that Savin was dead, why should they remain
longer here?
But by the time the chief and his assistant entered the little
enclosure of which Firmin was proprietor, many had lingered behind to
discuss the crime by themselves, and to express their opinions without
fear of reprimand.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]