Saniel walked home briskly. If, more than once during this interview,
his emotion was poignant, he could not but be satisfied with the result.
The concierge had not seen him, that was henceforth unquestionable; the
hypothesis of the butcher’s knife was put in a way to make his fortune;
and it seemed probable that Caffie had not kept the numbers of the
bank-notes.
But if they had been noted, and should the notebook containing them be
discovered later, the danger was not immediate. While writing his report
and listening to the concierge’s deposition, by a sort of inspiration he
thought of a way of disposing of them. He would divide them into small
packages, place them in envelopes, and address them with different
initials to the poste restante, where they would remain until he could
call for them without compromising himself.
In the deposition of the concierge, in the track indicated by the knife,
in the poste restante, he had just motives for satisfaction, that made
him breathe freely. Decidedly, fate seemed to be with him, and he should
have been able to say that everything was going well, if he had not
committed the imprudence of entering the cafe. Why had he gone there
and remained long enough to attract attention? What might not be the
consequences of this stupidity?
As soon as he reached home and his door was closed, he carried out his
intentions regarding the bank-notes, dividing them into ten packages.
His first thought was to place them in the nearest letterbox, but
reflection showed him that this would be unwise, and he decided to mail
each one in a different quarter of the city.
After his long walk of the morning, and the emotions of the evening, he
felt a fatigue that he had never known before, but he comprehended that
he was not at liberty to yield to this weariness. A new situation was
made for him, and henceforth he no longer belonged to himself. For the
rest of his life he would be the prisoner of his crime. And it was this
crime which, from this evening, would command, and he must obey.
Why had he not foreseen this situation when, weighing the pro and con
like an intelligent man who can scrutinize the future under all its
phases, he had examined what must happen? But surprising as it was, the
discovery was no less certain, and the sad and troublesome proof
was that, however intelligent one may be, one can always learn by
experience.
What was there yet to learn? He confessed that he found himself face to
face with the unknown, and all that he wished was, that this lesson he
had learned from experience might be the hardest. It would be folly to
imagine that it was the last. Time would show.
When he returned home, after posting his letters, it was long past one
o’clock. He went to bed immediately, and slept heavily, without waking
or dreaming.
It was broad daylight when he opened his eyes the next morning.
Surprised at having slept so late, he jumped up and looked at his watch,
which said eight o’clock. But as he should not leave until a quarter
past eleven, he had plenty of time.
How should he employ it?
It was the first time in years that he had asked himself such a
question; he, who each day always found that he needed three or four
hours more to carry out his programme.
He dressed slowly, and then thought of writing to Phillis to tell her of
his trip to Nice. But suddenly he changed his mind, and decided to go to
see her.
The preceding year he attended Madame Cormier, who had been stricken
with paralysis, and he could occasionally present himself at her house
without appearing to call upon Phillis. It was easy to say that he was
passing by, and wished to learn news of the patient whom he had cured.
At nine o’clock he knocked at her door.
“Enter,” a man’s voice said.
He was surprised, for in his visits to Madame Cormier he had never seen
a man there. He crossed the hall and knocked at the dining-room door.
This time it was Phillis who bid him come in.
He opened the door and saw Phillis, in a gray blouse, seated before a
large table placed by the window. She was painting some cards.
Hearing steps, she turned her head and instantly rose, but she
restrained the cry-the name that was on her lips.
“Mamma,” she said, “here is Doctor Saniel.”
Madame Cormier entered, walking with difficulty; for, if Saniel had put
her on her feet, he had not given her the suppleness or the grace of
youth.
After a few words, Saniel explained that, having to pay a visit to
the Batignolles, he would not come so near his former patient without
calling to see her.
While Madame Cormier told at great length how she felt, and also how
she did not feel, Phillis looked at Saniel, uneasy to see his face so
convulsed. Surely, something very serious had happened; his visit
said this. But what? Her anguish was so much the greater, because he
certainly avoided looking at her. Why? She had done nothing, and could
find nothing with which to reproach herself.
At this moment the door opened, and a man still young, tall, with a
curled beard, entered the room.
“My son,” Madame Cormier said.
“My brother Florentin, of whom we have spoken so often,” Phillis said.
Florentin! Was he then becoming imbecile, that he had not thought the
voice of the man who bid him enter was that of Phillis’s brother? Was he
so profoundly overwhelmed that such a simple reasoning was impossible
to him? Decidedly, it was important for him to go away as quickly as
possible; the journey would calm his nerves.
“They wrote to me,” Florentin said, “and since my return they have told
me how good you were to my mother. Permit me to thank you from a touched
and grateful heart. I hope that before long this gratitude will be
something more than a vain word.”
“Do not let us speak of that,” Saniel said, looking at Phillis with a
frankness and an open countenance that reassured heron a certain
point. “It is I who am obliged to Madame Cormier. If the word were not
barbarous, I should say that her illness has been a good thing for me.”
To turn the conversation, and because he wished to speak to Phillis
alone, he approached her table and talked with her about her work.
Saniel then gave Madame Cormier some advice, and rose to go.
Phillis followed him, and Florentin was about to accompany them, but
Phillis stopped him.
“I wish to ask Doctor Saniel a question,” she said.
When they were on the landing she closed the door.
“What is the matter?” she asked in a hurried and trembling voice.
“I wished to tell you that I start for Monaco at eleven o’clock.”
“You are going away?”
“I have received two hundred francs from a patient, and I am going
to risk them at play. Two hundred francs will not pay Jardine or the
others, but with them I may win several thousands of francs.”
“Oh! Poor dear! How desperate you must be--you, such as you are, to have
such an idea!”
“Am I wrong?”
“Never wrong to my eyes, to my heart, to my love. O my beloved, may
fortune be with you!”
“Give me your hand.”
She looked around, listening. There was no one, no noise.
Then, drawing him toward her, she put her lips on his:
“All yours, yours!”
“I will return Tuesday.”
“Tuesday, at five o’clock, I shall be there.”