"I have something for you to do, Charles."
"With all my heart."
"You know the low book-shelf in my study?"
"Perfectly."
"There is a small tin box by its side. Fetch it."
His voice was feeble and broken as well as indistinct. It took him some
time to utter a sentence. Charles left the room with a feeling of
congratulation that whatever had to be done, he would not have the
inconvenience of another witness. If Amelie had been still in the
anteroom he would have sent even her, on some excuse, out of the house.
But she had vanished, and after all, as he reflected, the precaution
would have been absurd. The tin box was where M. de Cadanet had said,
where Charles himself had seen it a hundred times. He looked at it now
curiously. Something of importance must be in it to cause it to lie so
heavy on the mind of the dying man, and he would have given a good deal
to have had a peep into its contents before he carried it back. All
that he could judge was that it was light, and not closely filled, for
he could feel papers slipping loosely inside. Perhaps, after all, the
great affair meant no more than that there were letters to be destroyed,
perhaps old love-letters--he laughed. If Mme. de Cadanet, Amelie's
aunt, had resembled Amelie, it was not impossible. Another thought made
him reflect that the joke might turn out to be awkward, and instead of
laughing, he looked angrily at the box which might contain dangerous
witnesses. M. de Cadanet received it without a sign, except one which
notified that it should be placed on a chair by his bedside. Then he
said to Charles:
"Sit down."
"Now for the confession," reflected the young man, drawing a chair near
the dying man.
"I have a story to tell, and little breath with which to speak," said M.
de Cadanet. "In that bottle is brandy; give me a spoonful."
Charles obeyed. He was silent, because he did not know what to say.
"And here are my keys. Unlock the box."
His hand trembling with anxiety, the young man did as he was told. A
small packet of letters lay at the bottom, confirming his suspicions.
But when he would have lifted it out, M. de Cadanet stopped him.
"Not yet. First hear my story. These letters relate to Monsieur Leon
de Beaudrillart."
"I was a fool. I might have seen that they were not so old," thought
the other.
Relief and curiosity began to struggle with him.
"You have not met him for some years."
"No. It has surprised me. Is it six years?"
"Between six and seven. He has been afraid to come."
"Yes?" Charles leaned eagerly forward.
"The day he was here he committed a crime, and I could have had him
arrested."
"Ah!"
M. de Cadanet's voice had grown yet feebler, and Charles, on fire with
mad desire to hear, was in terror lest it should fail altogether. He
poured out more brandy, but the other pushed it away with an impatient
gesture.
"When I ask. Not before. And don't interrupt me. Where was I?"
"You said you could have had him arrested."
"So I could. It was this way. You know what straits he was in; you had
been clever enough to find out. Well, he had the effrontery to come to
me--me, whom he had laughed at--and to invite me to pay his debts; I
should say, rather, to lend him money enough to pay them himself."
"The same thing."
"Precisely. Then I had my opportunity. I told my gentleman that I had
made inquiries and knew all about his affairs. That if he had come well
out of them, I would, for his father's sake, have made over to him two
hundred thousand francs; I even showed him the cheque."