When he reached Caffies door the night had scarcely fallen, and the
streets were not yet lighted.
The better and the surest plan for him had been to wait in the
‘porte-cochere’ across the street; from there he could watch the
‘concierge’, who would not be able to go out without being seen by him.
But though the passers were few at this moment, they might have observed
him. Next to this ‘porte-cochere’ was a small ‘cafe’, whose brilliant
lights would cause him to be seen quite plainly. He, therefore, walked
on, but soon returned.
All irresolution, all hesitation, had disappeared, and the only point on
which he still questioned himself bore upon the state in which he found
himself at this moment. He felt himself firm, and his pulse, he
was certain, beat regularly. He was as he had imagined he would be;
experience confirmed his foresight; his hand would tremble no more than
his will.
As he passed before the house he saw the concierge come slowly out of
her lodge and close her door carefully, putting the key in her pocket.
In her left hand she held something white that he could not see
distinctly in the twilight, but it was probably the wax-taper which,
doubtless, she had not lighted for fear the wind would blow it out.
This was a favorable circumstance, that gave him one or two minutes more
than he had counted on, for she would be obliged to strike a match on
the stairs to light her taper; and, in the execution of his plan, two
minutes, a single minute even, might be of great importance.
With dragging steps and bent back she disappeared through the vestibule
of the stairway. Then Saniel continued his walk like an ordinary
passer-by until she had time to reach the first story; then, turning,
he returned to the porte-cochere and entered quietly. By the gaslight
in the vestibule he saw by his watch, which he held in his hand, that
it was fourteen minutes after five o’clock. Then, if his calculation
was right, at twenty-four or twenty-five minutes after five he must pass
before the lodge, which should still be empty at that moment.
On the staircase above him he heard the heavy step of the concierge; she
had lighted the gas on the first story, and continued on her way slowly.
With rapid but light steps he mounted behind her, and, on reaching
Caffie’s door, he rang the bell, taking care not to ring too loudly or
too timidly; then he knocked three times, as Caffie had instructed him.
Was Caffie alone?
Up to this time all had gone as he wished; no one in the vestibule, no
one on the stairs; fate was in his favor; would it accompany him to the
end?
While he waited at the door, asking himself this question, an idea
flashed into his mind. He would make a last attempt. If Caffie consented
to make the loan he would save himself; if he refused, he condemned
himself.
After several seconds, that appeared like hours, his listening ears
perceived a sound which announced that Caffie was at home. A scratching
of wood on the tiled floor denoted that a chair had been pushed aside;
heavy, dragging steps approached, then the bolt creaked, and the door
was opened cautiously.
“Ah! It is you, my dear sir!” Caffie said, in surprise.
Saniel entered briskly and closed the door himself, pressing it firmly.
“Is there anything new?” Caffie asked, as he led the way to his office.
“No,” Saniel replied.
“Well, then?” Caffie asked, as he seated himself in an armchair before
his desk, on which stood a lighted lamp. “I suppose you have come to
hear more about my young friend. This hurry augurs well.”
“No, it is not of the young person that I wish to talk to you.”
“I am sorry.”
On seating himself opposite to Caffie, Saniel had taken out his watch.
Two minutes had passed since he left the vestibule; he must hurry. In
order to keep himself informed of the passing of time, he retained his
watch in his hand.
“Are you in a hurry?”
“Yes; I will come immediately to business. It concerns myself, my
position, and I make a last appeal to you. Let us be honest with each
other. Undoubtedly you think that, pushed by my distress, and seeing
that I shall be lost forever, I shall decide to accept this marriage to
save myself.”
“Can you suppose such a thing, my dear sir?” Caffie cried.
But Saniel stopped him....
“The calculation is too natural for you not to have made it. Well,
I must tell you that it is false. Never will I lend myself to such a
bargain. Renounce your project, and let us discuss my demand. I am in
absolute want of three thousand francs, and I will pay the interest that
you fix upon.”
“I have not found a money-lender, my dear sir. I have taken a great deal
of trouble, I assure you, but I did not succeed.”
“Make an effort yourself.”
“Me? My dear sir!”
“I address myself to you.”
“But I have no ready money.”
“It is a desperate appeal that I make. I understand that your long
experience in business makes you insensible to the misery that you see
every day--”
“Insensible! Say that it breaks my heart, my dear sir.”
“But will you not permit yourself to be touched by the misery of a man
who is young, intelligent, courageous, who will drown if a hand is not
held out to help him? For you, the assistance that I ask so earnestly is
nothing--”
“Three thousand francs! Nothing! Bless me! How you talk!”
“For me, if you refuse me, it is death.”
Saniel began to speak with his eyes fixed on the hands of his watch, but
presently, carried away by the fever of the situation, he raised them to
look at Caffie, and to see the effect that he produced on him. In this
movement he made a discovery that destroyed all his calculations.
Caffie’s office was a small room with a high window looking into the
court; never having been in this office except in the evening, he had
not observed that this window had neither shutters nor curtains of
muslin or of heavier stuff; there was nothing but the glass. To tell the
truth, two heavy curtains of woollen damask hung on either side of
the window, but they were not drawn. Talking to Caffie, who was placed
between him and this window, Saniel suddenly perceived that on the other
side of the court, in the second wing of the building, on the second
story, were two lighted windows directly opposite to the office, and
that from there any one could see everything that occurred in the
office.
How should he execute his plan under the eyes of these people whom he
saw coming and going in this room? He would be lost. In any case, it was
risking an adventure so hazardous that he would be a fool to attempt it,
and he was not that; never had he felt himself so much the master of his
mind and nerves.
Also, it was not only to save Caffie’s life that he argued, it was to
save himself in grasping this loan.
“I can only, to my great regret, repeat to you what I have already said,
my dear sir. I have no ready money.”
And he held his jaw, groaning, as if this refusal aroused his toothache.
Saniel rose; evidently there was nothing for him to do but to go. It was
finished, and instead of being in despair he felt it as a relief.
But, as he was about to leave the room, an idea flashed through his
mind.
He looked at his watch, which he had not consulted for some time; it was
twenty minutes after five; there yet remained four minutes, five at the
most.
“Why do you not draw these curtains?” he said. “I am sure your
sufferings are partly caused by the wind that comes in this window.”
“Do you think so?”
“I am sure of it; you should be warm about the head, and avoid currents
of air.”
Passing behind Caffie, he went to the window to draw the curtains, but
the cords would not move.
“It is years since they were drawn,” Caffie said. “Doubtless the cords
are entangled. I will bring the light.”
And, taking the lamp, he went to the window, holding it high in order to
throw light on the cords.
With a turn of the hand Saniel disentangled the cords, and the curtains
slid on the rods, almost covering the window.
“It is true a good deal of air did come in the window,” Caffie said. “I
thank you, my dear doctor.”
All this was done with a feverish rapidity that astonished Caffie.
“Decidedly, you are in a hurry,” he said.
“Yes, in a great hurry.”
He looked at his watch.
“However, I have still time to give you a consultation if you desire
it.”
“I would not trouble you--”
“You do not trouble me.”
“But--”
“Sit down in your armchair, and show me your mouth.”
While Caffie seated himself, Saniel continued in a vibrating voice:
“You see I give good for evil.”
“How is that, my dear sir?”
“You refuse me a service that would save me, and I give you a
consultation. It is true, it is the last.”
“And why the last, my dear sir?”
“Because death is between us.”
“Death!”
“Do you not see it?”
“No.”
“I see it.”
“You must not think of such a thing, my dear sir. One does not die
because one cannot pay three thousand francs.”
The chair in which Caffie seated himself was an old Voltaire, with an
inclined back, and he half reclined in it. As his shirtcollar was
too large for him since he had become thin, and his narrow cravat was
scarcely tied, he displayed as much throat as jaw.
Saniel, behind the chair, had taken the knife in his right hand, while
he pressed the left heavily on Caffies forehead, and with a powerful
stroke, as quick as lightning, he cut the larynx under the glottis,
as well as the two carotid arteries, with the jugular veins. From this
terrible wound sprang a large jet of blood, which, crossing the room,
struck against the door. Cut clean, not a cry could be formed in the
windpipe, and in his armchair Caffie shook with convulsions from head to
foot.
Leaving his position behind the chair, Saniel, who had thrown the
knife on the floor, looked at his watch and counted the ticking of the
second-hand in a low voice.
“One, two, three-”
At the end of ninety seconds the convulsions ceased.
It was twenty-three minutes after five. Now it was important that he
should hurry and not lose a second.
The blood, after having gushed out, had run down the body and wet the
vest pocket in which was the key of the safe. But blood does not produce
the same effect upon a doctor as upon those who are not accustomed to
its sight and odor, and to its touch. In spite of the lukewarm sea in
which it lay, Saniel took the key, and after wiping his hand on one of
the tails of Caffie’s coat, he placed it in the lock.
Would it turn freely, or was it closed with a combination? The question
was poignant. The key turned and the door opened. On a shelf and in a
wooden bowl were packages of bank-notes and rolls of gold that he had
seen the evening when the bank-clerk came. Roughly, without counting; he
thrust them into his pocket, and without closing the safe, he ran to the
front door, taking care not to step in the streams of blood, which, on
the sloping tiled floor, ran toward this door. The time was short.
And now was the greatest danger, that of meeting some one behind this
door, or on the stairs. He listened, and heard no noise. He went out,
and no one was to be seen. Without running, but hastily, he descended
the stairs. Should he look in the lodge, or should he turn his head
away? He looked, but the concierge was not there.
A second later he was in the street mingling with the passersby, and he
drew a long breath.