idea. "Hola, Gaston! Have monsieur and madame from number fourteen yet
departed?"
"Yes, monsieur; already early this morning; you were at the market, so
Mademoiselle settled the bill."
"Mademoiselle Jehane?" the stranger looks up sharply.
"My niece, monsieur; you have perhaps heard of her, for I see by your
easel you are an artist. She is supposed to be of a rare beauty; I think
it myself." Jean Potin keeps up a running flow of talk as he conducts
his visitor down the long bare passages, past blistered yellow doors.
"It is a double room I must give you, vacated, as you heard, but this
very morning. They were going to stay longer, Monsieur and Madame
Guillaumet, but of a sudden she changed her mind. Oh, she was of a
temper!" Potin raises expressive eyes heavenwards. "It is ever so when
May weds with December."
"He was much older than his wife, then?" queries the artist, politely
feigning an interest he is far from feeling.
"_Mais non, parbleu!_ It was she who was the older--by some fifteen
years; and not a beauty. But rich--he knew what he was about, giving his
smooth cheek for her smooth louis!"
Left alone, Lou Arnaud proceeds to unpack his knapsack; he lingers over
it as long as possible; the task awaiting him below is no pleasant one.
Finally he descends. The small smoky _salle a manger_ is full of people.
There is much talk and laughter going on; the clatter of knives and
forks. At the desk near the door, a young girl is busy with the
accounts. Her very pale gold hair, parted and drawn loosely back over
the ears, casts a faint shadow on her pure, white skin. Arnaud, as he
chooses a seat, looks at her critically.
"Bah, she is insignificant!" he thinks. "What can have possessed
Claude?"
Suddenly she raises her eyes. They meet his in a long, steady gaze. Then
once again the lids are lowered.
The artist sets down his glass with a hand that shakes. He is not
imaginative, as a rule, but when one sees the soul of a mocking devil
look out, dark and compelling, from the face of a Madonna, one is
disconcerted.
He wonders no more what had possessed Claude. On his way to the door a
few moments later, he pauses at her desk.
"Monsieur wishes to order breakfast for to-morrow morning?"
"Monsieur wishes to speak with you."
She smiles demurely. Many have wished to speak with her. Arnaud divines
her thoughts.
"My name is Lou Arnaud!" he adds meaningly.
"Ah!" she ponders on this for an instant; then: "It is a warm night; if
you will seat yourself at one of the little tables in the courtyard at
the back of the house, I will try to join you, when these pigs have
finished feeding." She indicates with contempt the noisily eating crowd.
They sit long at that table, for the man has much to tell of his young
brother Claude; of the ruin she has made of his life; of the little
green devils that lurk in a glass of absinthe, and clutch their victim,
and drag him down deeper, ever deeper, into the great, green abyss.
But she only laughs, this Jehane of the wanton eyes.
"But what do you want from me? I have no need of this Claude. He
wearies me--now!"
Arnaud springs to his feet, catching her roughly by the wrist. He loves
his young brother much. His voice is raised, attracting the notice of
two or three groups who take coffee at the iron tables.
"You had need of him once. You never left him in peace till you had
sucked him of all that makes life good. If I could----"
Jean Potin appears in the doorway.
"Jehane, what are you doing out here? You know I do not permit it that
you speak with the visitors. Pardon her, monsieur, she is but a child."
"A child?" The artist's brow is black as thunder. "She has wrecked a
life, this child you speak of!"
He strides past the amazed innkeeper, up the narrow flight of stairs,
and down the passage to his room.
Sitting on the edge of the huge curtained four-poster bed, he ponders on
the events of the evening.
But his thoughts are not all of Claude. That girl--that girl with her
pale face and her pale hair, and eyes the grey of a storm cloud before
it breaks, she haunts him! Her soft murmuring voice has stolen into his
brain; he hears it in the drip, drip of the rain on the sill outside.
Soon heavy feet are heard trooping up the stairs; doors are heard to
bang; cheery voices wish each other good-night. Then gradually the
sounds die away. They keep early hours at the "Loup Noir"; it is not yet
ten o'clock.
Still Arnaud remains sitting on the edge of the bed; the dark plush
canopy overhead repels him, he does not feel inclined for sleep.
Jehane! what a picture she would make! He _must_ paint her!
Obsessed by this idea, he unpacks a roll of canvas, spreads it on the
tripod easel, and prepares crayons and charcoal; he will start the
picture as soon as it is day. He will paint her as Circe, mocking at her
grovelling herd of swine!
He creeps into bed and falls asleep.
* * * * *
Softly the rain patters against the window-pane.
A distant clock booms out eleven strokes.
Lou Arnaud raises his head. Then noiselessly he slides out of bed on the
chill wooden boarding. As in a trance he crosses the room, seizes
charcoal, and feverishly works at the blank canvas on the easel.
For twenty minutes his hand never falters, then the charcoal drops from
his nerveless fingers! Groping his way with half-closed eyes back to the
bed, he falls again into a heavy, dreamless slumber.
* * * * *
The early morning sun chases away the raindrops of the night before.
Signs of activity are abroad in the inn; the swish of brooms; the noisy
clatter of pails. A warm aroma of coffee floats up the stairs and under
the door of number fourteen, awaking Arnaud to pleasant thoughts of
breakfast. He is partly dressed before his eye lights on the canvas he
had prepared.
"_Nom de Dieu!_"
He falls back against the wall, staring stupefied at the picture before
him. It is the picture of a girl, crouching in a kneeling position, all
the agony of death showing clearly in her upturned eyes. At her throat,
cruelly, relentlessly doing their murderous work, are a pair of
hands--ugly, podgy hands, but with what power behind them!
The face is the face of Jehane--a distorted, terrified Jehane! Arnaud
recoils, covering his eyes with his hands. Who could have drawn this
unspeakable thing? He looks again closely; the style is his own! There
is no mistaking those bold, black lines, that peculiar way of indicating
muscle beneath the tightly stretched skin--it _is_ his own work!
Anywhere would he have known it!
A knock at the door! Jean Potin enters, radiating cheerfulness.
"Breakfast in your room, monsieur? We are busy this morning; I share in
the work. Permit me to move the table and the easel--_Sacre-bleu!_"
Suddenly his rosy lips grow stern. "This is Jehane. Did she sit for
you--and when? You only came last night. What devil's work is this?"
"That is what I would like to find out; I know no more about it than you
yourself. When I awoke this morning the picture was there!"
"Did you draw it?" suspiciously.
"Yes. At least, no! Yes, I suppose I did. But I----"
Potin clenches his fist: "I will have the truth from the girl herself!
There is something here I do not like!" Roughly he pushes past the
artist and mounts to Jehane's room.
She is not there, neither is she at her desk. Nor yet down in the
village. They search everywhere; there is a hue and cry; people rush to
and fro.
Then suddenly a shout; and a silence, a dreadful silence.
Something is carried slowly into the "Loup Noir." Something that was
found huddled up in the shadow of the wall that borders the courtyard.
Something with ugly purple patches on the white throat.
It is Jehane, and she is dead; strangled by a pair of hands that came
from behind.
The story of the picture is rapidly passed from mouth to mouth. People
look strangely at Lou Arnaud; they remember his loud, strained voice and
threatening gestures on the preceding night.
Finally he is arrested on the charge of murder.
* * * * *
I was the judge, gentlemen, on the occasion of the Arnaud trial.
The prisoner is questioned about the picture. He knows nothing; can tell
nothing of how it came there. His fellow-artists testify to its being
his work. From them also leaks out the tale of his brother Claude, of
the latter's infatuation and ruin. No need now to explain the quarrel in
the courtyard. The accused has good reason to hate the dead girl.
The Avocat for the defence does his best. The picture is produced in
court; it creates a sensation.
If only Lou Arnaud could complete it--could sketch in the owner of those
merciless hands. He is handed the charcoal; again and again he tries--in
vain.
The hands are not his own; but that is a small point in his favour. Why
should he have incriminated himself by drawing his own hands? But again,
why should he have drawn the picture at all?
There is nobody else on whom falls a shadow of suspicion. I sum up
impartially. The jury convict on circumstantial evidence, and I sentence
the prisoner to death.
A short time must elapse between the sentence and carrying it into
force. The Avocat for the defence obtains for the prisoner a slight
concession; he may have picture and charcoal in his cell. Perhaps he can
yet free himself from the web which has inmeshed him!
Arnaud tries to blot out thought by sketching in and erasing again
fanciful figures twisted into a peculiar position; he cannot adjust the
pose of the unknown murderer. So in despair he gives it up.
One morning, three days before the execution, the innkeeper comes to
visit him and finds him lying face downwards on the narrow pallet.
Despite his own grief, he is sorry for the young man; nor is he
convinced in his shrewd bourgeois mind of the latter's guilt.
"You _must_ draw in the second figure," he repeats again and again. "It
is your last, your only chance! Think of the faces you saw at the 'Loup
Noir.' Do none of them recall anything to you? You quarrelled with
Jehane in the garden about your brother. Then you went to your room. Oh,
what did you think in your room?"
"I thought of your niece," responds Arnaud wildly. "How very beautiful
she was, and what a model she would make. Then I prepared a blank
canvas for the morning, and went to bed. When I woke up the picture was
there."
"And you remember nothing more--nothing at all?" insists Jean Potin.
"You fell asleep at once? You heard no sound?"
Against the barred window of the cell the rain patters softly. A distant
clock booms out eleven strokes.
Something in the artist's brain seems to snap. He raises his head. He
slides from the bed. As in a trance he crosses the cell, seizes a piece
of charcoal, and feverishly works at the picture on the easel!
Not daring to speak, Jean Potin watches him. The figure behind the hands
grows and grows beneath Arnaud's fingers.
A woman's figure!
Then the face: a coarse, malignant face, distorted by evil passions.
"Ah!"
It is a cry of recognition from the breathless innkeeper. It breaks the
spell. The charcoal drops, and the prisoner, passing his hand across his
eyes, gazes bewildered at his own work.
"Who? What?"
"But I know her! It is the woman in whose room you slept! She was
staying at the 'Loup Noir' the very night before you arrived, and she
left that morning. She and her husband, Monsieur Guillaumet. But it is
incredible if _she_ should have----"
I will be short with you, gentlemen. Madame Guillaumet was traced to her
flat in Paris. Arnaud's Avocat confronted her with the now completed
picture. She was confounded--babbled like a mad woman--confessed!
A reprieve for further inquiry was granted by the State. Finally Arnaud
was cleared, and allowed to go free.
The motive for the murder? A woman's jealousy. Monsieur and Madame
Guillaumet had been married only ten months. Her age was forty-nine; his
twenty-seven. Every second of their married life was to her weighted
with intolerable suspicions; how soon would this young husband, so dear
to her, forsake her for another, now that his debts were paid? It preyed
upon her mind, distorting it, unbalancing it; each glance, each movement
of his she exaggerated into an intrigue.
On their way to Paris they stayed a few days at the "Loup Noir"; Charles
Guillaumet was interested in racing. Also, he became interested in a
certain Mdlle. Jehane. Madame, quick to see, insisted on an instant
departure.
The evening of the day of their departure she missed her husband, and
found he had taken the car. Where should he have gone? Back to the inn,
of course, only half-an-hour's run from Paris. She hired another car and
followed him, driving it herself. It was not a pleasant journey. The
first car she discovered forsaken, about half-a-mile distant from the
inn. Her own car she left beside it, and trudged the remaining distance
on foot.
The rest was easy.
Finding no sign of Guillaumet in front of the house, she stole round to
the back. There she found a door in the wall of the courtyard--a door
that led into the lane. That door was slightly ajar. She slipped in and
crouched down in the shadow.
Yes, there they were, her husband and Jehane; the latter was laughing,
luring him on--and she was young; oh, so young!
The woman watched, fascinated.
Charles bade Jehane good-bye, promising to come again. He kissed her
tenderly, passed through the gate; his steps were heard muffled along
the lane.
Jehane blew him a kiss, and then fastened the little door.
A distant clock boomed out eleven strokes, and a pair of hands stole
round the girl's throat, burying themselves deep, deep in the white
flesh.
* * * * *
"And the husband, was he an accessory after the fact?" inquired the Boy.
"Possibly he guessed at the deed, yes; but, being a weakling, said
nothing for fear of implicating himself. It wasn't proved."
The Host moved uneasily in his chair.
"Do you mean to tell me that the mystery of the picture has never been
cleared up?" he asked. "Could Arnaud have actually seen the murder from
his window, and fixed it on the canvas?"
The little French Judge shook his head.
"Did I not tell you that his window faced front?" he replied. "No, that
point has not yet been explained. It is beyond us!"
He made a sweeping gesture, knocking over his liqueur glass; it fell
with a crash on the parquet floor.
The Bore woke with a start.
"And did they marry?" he queried.
"Who should marry?"
"That artist-chap and the girl--what was her name?--Jehane."
"Monsieur," quoth the little French Judge very gently and ironically, "I
grieve to state that was impossible, Jehane being dead."
The Boy at the corner of the table stood up and threw the stump of his
cigar into the fire.
"I think Spiritualism is all rot!" he declared.
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