CHAPTER XXIII. STUNNING NEWS

On going to see Nougarede, Saniel vaguely fancied the lawyer would tell

him that an acquittal was certain if Florentin passed to the assizes,

and even that an ‘ordonnance de non-lieu’ was probable. But his hope was

not realized.

“The adventure of the button for you or me would not have the same

gravity as for this boy; we have no antecedents on which presumptions

might be established, but he has. The forty-five francs which constitute

an embezzlement for a salaried man will be, certainly, a starting-point

for the accusation; one commences by a weakness and finishes by a crime.

Do you not hear the advocate-general? He will begin by presenting the

portrait of the honest, laborious, exact, scrupulous clerk, content with

a little, and getting satisfaction from his duties accomplished; then,

in opposition, he will pass to the clerk of to-day, as irregular in

his work as in his conduct, full of desires, in a hurry to enjoy,

discontented with everything and everybody, with others as with himself.

And he will go on to speak of the embezzlement of the forty-five francs

as the beginning of the crimes that led to the assassination. You may

be sure if the affair goes to the assizes that you will hear these words

and more, and I assure you that it will be difficult for us to destroy

the impression that he will produce on the jury. But I hope we shall

succeed.”

He had to give up the idea of obtaining the ‘ordonnance de non-lieu’,

and to tell himself that the ‘affaire’ would come before the assizes;

but it does not follow that one is condemned for what one is accused

of, and Saniel persisted in believing that Florentin would not be.

Assuredly, the prison was hard for the poor boy, and the trial before

the jury, with all the ignominy that necessarily accompanies it, would

be harder yet. But, after all, it would all disappear in the joy of

acquittal; when that time came, there would be found, surely, some

ingenious idea, sympathy, effective support, to pay him for all that he

would have suffered. Certainly, things would come to pass thus, and the

acquittal would be carried with a high hand.

He said this to himself again and again, and from the day when he put

the affair in Nougarede’s hands, he often went to see him, to hear him

repeat it.

“He cannot be condemned; can he?”

“One may always be condemned, even when one is innocent; as one may die

at any time, you know that, even with excellent health.”

In one of these visits he met Madame Nougarede, who had then been

several days married, and on recognizing in her the young virgin with

a child, of whom Caffie showed him the portrait, he was strengthened

in his idea that conscience, such as it was understood, was decidedly a

strange weighing-machine, which might be made to say whatever one chose.

Of what good were these hypocrisies, and whom did they deceive?

Although he had told Phillis repeatedly that an acquittal was

certain, and that he had promised her he would do all he could for

Florentin--which he really did--she did not give entirely into his

hands, or into Nougarede’s, the task of defending her brother, but

worked with them in his defence.

Nougarede believed that the delay in bringing the affair before the

assizes was caused by the attempts to learn if, during his residence in

America, Florentin had not worked in some large meat-shop or sheepfold,

where he would have learned to use a butcher knife, which was the chief

point for the accusation. Phillis wrote to the various towns where

Florentin had lived, and to tell the truth, he had worked at La Plata

for six months as accountant in a large sheepfold, but never slaughtered

the sheep.

When she received a letter, she carried it immediately to Saniel, and

then to Nougarede; and, at the same time, on all sides, in Paris, among

those who had held relations with her brother, she sought for testimony

that should prove to the jury that he could not be the man that his

accusers believed him. It was thus that, all alone, without other means

of action than those which she found in her sisterly tenderness and

bravery, she organized an investigation parallel to that of the law,

which, on the day of judgment, would carry a certain weight, it seemed,

with the conviction of the jury, showing them what had been the true

life of this irregular and debauched man, capable of anything to glut

his appetite and satisfy his desires.

Each time that she obtained a favorable deposition, she ran to Saniel

to tell him, and then together they repeated that a conviction was

impossible.

“You are sure, are you not?”

“Have I not always told you so?”

He had also said that Florentin could not be arrested, basing the

accusation on the torn button, and he had said that certainly an

‘ordonnance de non-lieu’ would be given by the judge; but they wished to

remember neither the one nor the other.

Things had reached this state, when one Saturday evening Phillis arrived

at Saniel’s, radiant.

As soon as the door opened she exclaimed:

“He is saved!”

“An ordonnance de non-lieu?”

“No; but now it is of little importance. We can go to the assizes.”

She breathed a sigh which showed how great were her fears, in spite

of the confidence she expressed when she repeated that conviction was

impossible.

He left his desk, and going toward her, took her in his arms, and made

her sit down beside him on the divan.

“You will see that I do not let myself be carried away by an illusion,

and that, as I tell you, he is saved, really saved. You know that an

illustrated paper has published his portrait?”

“I do not read illustrated papers.”

“You could have seen them at the kiosks where they are displayed. It

is there that I saw them yesterday morning when I went out, and I was

petrified, red with shame, distracted, not knowing where to hide myself.

‘Florentin Cormier, the assassin of the Rue Sainte-Anne.’ Is it not

infamous that an innocent person should be thus dishonored? This was

what I said to myself. Where did the paper get the photograph? They came

to ask us for one, but you can imagine how I treated them, not knowing

how anything good for us would result from such a disgrace.”

“And what is the result?”

“The proof that it is not Florentin who was with Caffie at the moment

when the assassination took place. All day yesterday and all this

morning I was filled with the feeling of disgrace that followed me, when

at three o’clock I received this little note from the concierge of the

Rue Sainte-Anne.”

She took from her pocket a piece of paper folded in the form of a

letter, which she handed to Saniel.

“MADEMOISELLE: If you will pass through the Rue Sainte-Anne, I have

something to tell you that will give you a great deal of pleasure, I

believe.

“I am your servant,

“WIDOW ANAIS BOUCHU.”

“You know the lame old concierge has never been willing to admit that my

brother could be guilty. Florentin was polite and kind to her during

his stay with Caffie, and she is grateful. Very often she has said to me

that she is certain the guilty one would be found, and that when it was

announced I must tell her. Instead of my telling her the good news, she

has written to me. You may be sure I hurried to the Rue Sainte-Anne,

expecting to hear something favorable, but we have a proof. When I

arrived, the old woman took both of my hands, and told me that she would

conduct me immediately to a lady who saw Caffie’s assassin.”

“Saw him!” exclaimed Saniel, struck by a blow that shook him from head

to foot.

“She saw him perfectly, as I tell you. She added that this lady was the

proprietor of the house, and that she lived in the second wing of the

building, on the second story on the court, just opposite to Caffie’s

office. This lady, who is called Madame Dammauville, widow of a lawyer,

is afflicted with paralysis, and I believe has not left her room for a

year. The concierge explained this to me while crossing the court and

mounting the stairs, but would say no more.”

If Phillis had been able to observe Saniel, she would have seen him pale

to such a degree that his lips were as white as his cheeks; but she was

completely absorbed in what she was saying.

“A servant conducted us to Madame Dammauville, whom I found in a small

bed near a window, and the concierge told her who I was. She received me

kindly, and after having made me sit down in front of her, she told

me that hearing from her concierge that I was exerting myself in my

brother’s behalf, she had something to tell me which would demonstrate

that Caffie’s assassin was not the man whom the law had arrested and

detained. The evening of the assassination she was in this same room,

lying on this same bed, before this same window, and after having read

all day, she reflected and dreamed about her book, while listlessly

watching the coming of twilight in the court, that already obscured

everything in its shadow. Mechanically she had fixed her eyes on the

window of Caffie’s office opposite. Suddenly she saw a tall man, whom

she took for an upholsterer, approach the window, and try to draw the

curtains. Then Caffie rose, and taking the lamp, he came forward in

such a way that the light fell full on the face of this upholsterer. You

understand, do you not?”

“Yes,” murmured Saniel.

“She saw him then plainly enough to remember him, and not to confound

him with another. Tall, with long hair, a curled blond beard, and

dressed like a gentleman, not like a poor man. The curtains were drawn.

It was fifteen or twenty minutes after five. And it was at this

same moment that Caffie was butchered by this false upholsterer, who

evidently had only drawn the curtains so that he might kill Caffie in

security, and not imagining that some one should see him doing a deed

that denounced him as the assassin as surely as if he had been surprised

with the knife in his hand. On reading the description of Florentin in

the newspapers when he was arrested, Madame Dammauville believed the

criminal was found--a tall man, with long hair and curled beard. There

are some points of resemblance, but in the portrait published in the

illustrated paper that she received, she did not recognize the man who

drew the curtains, and she is certain that the judge is deceived. You

see that Florentin is saved!”

BOOK 3.

CHAPTER XXIV. HEDGING

As he did not reply to this cry of triumph, she looked at him in

surprise saw his face, pale, agitated, under the shock evidently of a

violent emotion that she could not explain to herself.

“What is the matter?” she asked, with uneasiness.

“Nothing,” he answered, almost brutally.

“You do not wish to weaken my hope?” she said, not imagining that he

could not think of this hope and of Florentin. This was a path to lead

him out of his confusion. In following it he would have time to recover

himself.

“It is true,” he said.

“You do not think that what Madame Dammauville saw proves Florentin’s

innocence?”

“Would what may be a proof for Madame Dammauville, for you, and for me,

be one in the eyes of the law?”

“However--”

“I saw you so joyful that I did not dare to interrupt you.”

“Then you believe that this testimony is without value,” she murmured,

feeling crushed.

“I do not say that. We must reflect, weigh the pro and con, compass the

situation from divers points of view; that is what I try to do, which is

the cause of my preoccupation that astonishes you.”

“Say that it crushes me; I let myself be carried away.”

“You need not be crushed or carried away. Certainly, what this lady told

you forms a considerable piece of work.”

“Does it not?”

“Without any doubt. But in order that the testimony she gives may be of

great consequence, the witness must be worthy of trust.”

“Do you believe this lady could have invented such a story?”

“I do not say that; but before all, it is necessary to know who she is.”

“The widow of an attorney.”

“The widow of an attorney and landowner. Evidently this constitutes

a social status that merits consideration from the law; but the moral

state, what is it? You say that she is paralyzed?”

“She has been so a little more than a year.”

“Of what paralysis? That is a vague word for us others. There are

paralyses that affect the sight; others that affect the mind. Is it one

of these with which this lady is afflicted, or one of the others, which

permitted her really to see, the evening of the assassination, that

which she relates, and which leaves her mental faculties in a sane

condition? Before everything, it is important to know this.”

Phillis was prostrated.

“I had not thought of all that,” she murmured.

“It is very natural that you had not; but I am a doctor, and while you

talked it was the doctor who listened.”

“It is true, it is true,” she repeated. “I only saw Florentin.”

“In your place I should have seen, like you, only my brother, and I

should have been carried away by hope. But I am not in your place. It

is by your voice that this woman speaks, whom I do not know, and against

whom I must be on my guard, for the sole reason that it is a paralytic

who has told this story.”

She could not restrain the tears that came to her eyes, and she let them

flow silently, finding nothing to reply.

“I am sorry to pain you,” he said.

“I saw only Florentin’s liberty.”

“I do not say this testimony of Madame Dammauville will not influence

the judge, and, above all, the jury; but I must warn you that you

will expose yourself to a terrible deception if you believe that her

testimony alone will give your brother liberty. It is not on a testimony

of this kind or of this quality that the law decides; better than we,

it knows to what illusions people can lend themselves when it is the

question of a crime that absorbs and excites the public curiosity. There

are some witnesses who, with the best faith in the world, believe they

have seen the most extraordinary things which only existed in their

imaginations; and there are people who accuse themselves rather than say

nothing.”

He heaped words on words, as if, in trying to convince Phillis, he might

hope to convince himself; but when the sound of his words faded, he was

obliged to declare to himself that, whatever the paralysis of this woman

might be, it had not, in this instance, produced either defect of sight

or of mind. She had seen, indeed, the tall man with long hair and curled

beard, dressed like a gentleman, who was not Florentin. When she related

the story of the lamp and the curtain cords, she knew what she was

saying.

In his first alarm he had been very near betraying himself. Without

doubt he should have told himself that this incident of the curtains

might prove a trap; but all passed so rapidly that he never imagined

that, exactly at the moment when Caffie raised the lamp to give him

light, there was a woman opposite looking at him, and who saw him

so plainly that she had not forgotten him. He thought to use all

precautions on his side in drawing the curtains, when, on the contrary,

he would have done better had he left them undrawn. Without doubt the

widow of the attorney would have been a witness of a part of the scene,

but in the shadow she would not have distinguished his features as she

was able to do when he placed himself before the window under the light.

But this idea did not enter his mind, and, to save himself from

an immediate danger, he threw himself into another which, although

uncertain, was not less grave.

Little by little Phillis recovered herself, and the hope that Madame

Dammauville put in her heart, momentarily crushed by Saniel’s remarks,

sprang up again.

“Is it not possible Madame Dammauville really saw what she relates?”

“Without any doubt; and there are even probabilities that it is so,

since the man who drew the curtains was not your brother, as we know.

Unfortunately, it is not ourselves who must be convinced, since we are

convinced in advance. It is those who, in advance also, have one whom

they will not give up unless he is torn from them by force.”

“But if Madame Dammauville saw clearly?”

“What must be learned before everything is, if she is in a state to see

clearly; I have said nothing else.”

“A doctor would surely know on examining her?”

“Without doubt.”

“If you were this doctor?”

It was a cry rather than an exclamation. She wished that he should

present himself before this woman; but in that case she would recognize

him.

Once more, under the pain of betraying his emotion, he must recover from

this first impulse.

“But how can you wish me to go and examine this woman whom I do not

know, and who does not know me? You know very well that patients choose

their doctors, and not doctors their patients.”

“If she sent for you?”

“By what right?”

“By what I shall learn on making the concierge talk, could you not

recognize her kind of paralysis without seeing her?”

“That would be a little vague. However, I will do the best I can. Try

to learn not only what concerns her illness, but all that relates to

her--what her position is, who are her relations, which is important

for a witness who overawes as much by what he is as by what he says.

You understand that a deposition that destroys the whole plan of the

prosecution will be severely disputed, and will only be accepted if

Madame Dammauville has by her character and position a sufficient

authority to break down all opposition.”

“I will also try to learn who is her doctor. You may know him. What he

would tell you would be worth more than all the details that I could

bring you.”

“We should be immediately decided on the paralysis, and we should see

what credit we could accord this woman’s words.”

While listening to Phillis and talking himself, he had time to compass

the situation that this thunderbolt created for him. Evidently, the

first thing to do was to prevent a suspicion from arising in Phillis’s

mind, and it was to this that he applied himself on explaining the

different kinds of paralysis. He knew her well enough to know that he

had succeeded. But what would she do now? How did she mean to make use

of Madame Dammauville’s declaration? Had she spoken of it to any one

besides himself? Was it her intention to go to Nougarede and tell

him what she had learned? All that must be made clear, and as soon as

possible. She must do nothing without his knowledge and approval. The

circumstances were critical enough, without his letting accident become

the master to direct them and conduct them blindly.

“When did you see Madame Dammauville?” he asked.

“Just this minute.”

“And now, what do you wish to do?”

“I think that I ought to tell Monsieur Nougarde.”

“Evidently, whatever the value of Madame Dammauville’s declaration, he

should know it; he will appraise it. Only, as it is well to explain to

him what may vitiate this testimony, if you wish, I will go to see him.”

“Certainly I wish it, and I thank you.”

“In the mean time, return to your mother and tell her what you have

learned; but, that she may not yield to an exaggerated hope, tell

her, also, that if there are chances, and great ones, in favor of your

brother, on the other side there are some that are unfavorable. Tomorrow

or this evening you will return to the Rue Sainte-Anne and begin

your inquiries of the concierge. If the old woman tells you nothing

interesting, you must go to Madame Dammauville, and make some reason

for seeing her. Make her talk, and you will notice if her ideas are

consecutive, and examine her face and eyes. Above all, neglect nothing

that appears to you characteristic. Having taken care of your mother,

you know almost as well as a doctor the symptoms of myelitis, and you

could see instantly if Madame Dammauville has them.”

“If I dared!” she said timidly, after a short hesitation.

“What?”

“I would ask you to come with me to the concierge immediately.”

“You think of such a thing!” he exclaimed.

Since the evening when he had testified to the death of Caffie, he had

not returned to the Rue Sainte-Anne; and it was not when the description

given by Madame Dammauville was, doubtless, already spread in the

quarter, that he was going to commit the imprudence of showing himself.

But he must explain this exclamation.

“How can you expect a doctor to give himself up to such an

investigation? On your part it is quite natural; on mine it would be

unheard of and ridiculous; add that it would be dangerous. You must

conciliate Madame Dammauville, and this would be truly a stupidity that

would give her a pretext for thinking that you are trying to find out

whether she is, or is not, in her right mind.”

“That is true,” she said. “I had not thought of that. I said to myself

that, while I could only listen to what the concierge would tell me, you

would know how to question her in a way that would lead her to say what

you want to learn.”

“I hope that your investigation will tell me. In any case, let us offend

in nothing. If to-morrow you bring me only insignificant details, we

will consider what to do. In the mean time, return to the concierge this

evening and question her. If it is possible, see Madame Dammauville,

and do not go home until after having obtained some news on this subject

that is of such importance to us. And I will go to see Nougarde.”

CHAPTER XXV. DANGEROUS DETAILS

It was not to falsify Phillis’s story that Saniel insisted on going

to see Nougarede. What good would it do? That would be a blunder which

sooner or later would show itself, and in that case would turn against

him. He would have liked, with the authority of a physician, to explain

that this testimony of a paralytic could have no more importance than

that of a crazy woman.

But at the first words of an explanation Nougarede stopped him.

“What you say is very possible, my dear friend; but I shall make you

see that it is not for us to raise objections of this kind. Here is a

testimony that may save our client; let us accept this, such as it may

be, whence it comes. It is the business of the prosecution to prove that

our witness could not see what she relates that she saw, or that her

mental condition does not permit her to know what she saw; and do not

be afraid, investigation will not be lacking. Do not let us even give a

hint from our side; that would be stupid.”

This, certainly, was not what Saniel wished; only he believed it a duty,

in his quality of physician, to indicate some rocks against which they

might strike themselves.

“Our duty,” continued the advocate, “is, therefore, to manage in a way

to escape them; and this is how I understand the role of this really

providential witness, if it is possible to make her undertake it.

Since it has occurred to you--you who wish the acquittal of this poor

boy--that the testimony of Madame Dammauville may be vitiated by the

simple fact that it comes from a sick woman, it is incontestable, is

it not, that this same idea will occur to those who wish for his

conviction? This testimony should be irrefutable; it should be presented

in such a way that no one could raise anything against it, so that it

would compel the acquittal in the same moment that it is presented. It

was between a quarter past and half past five o’clock that Caffie was

assassinated; at exactly a quarter past five, a woman of respectable

position, and whose intellectual as well as physical faculties render

her worthy of being believed, saw in Caffies office a man, with whom

it is materially impossible to confound Florentin Cormier, draw the

curtains of the window, and thus prepare for the crime. She would make

her deposition in these conditions, and in these terms, and the affair

would be finished. There would not be a judge, after this confrontation,

who would send Florentin Cormier before the assizes, and, assuredly,

there would not be two voices in the jury for conviction. But things

will not happen like this. Without doubt, Madame Dammauville bears a

name that is worth something; her husband was an estimable attorney, a

brother of the one who was notary at Paris.”

“Have you ever had any business with her?”

“Never. I tell you what is well known to every one, morally she is

irreproachable. But is she the same physically and mentally? Not at all,

unfortunately. If a physician can be found who will declare that her

paralysis does not give her aberrations or hallucinations, another one

will be found who will contest these opinions, and who will come to

an opposite conclusion. So much for the witness herself; now for

the testimony. This testimony does not say that the man who drew the

curtains at a quarter past five was built in such a way that it is

materially impossible to confound him with Florentin Cormier, because

he was small or hunchbacked or bald, or dressed like a workman; while

Florentin is tall, straight, with long hair and beard, and dressed like

a gentleman. It says, simply, that the man who drew the curtains

was tall, with long hair, and curled blond beard, and dressed like a

gentleman. But this description is exactly Florentin Cormier’s, as it is

yours--”

“Mine!” Saniel exclaimed.

“Yours, as well as that of many others. And it is this, unfortunately

for us, which destroys the irrefutability that we must have. How is

it certain that this tall man, with long hair and curled beard, is not

Florentin Cormier, since these are his chief characteristics? And it was

at night, at a distance of twelve or fifteen metres, through a window,

whose panes were obscured by the dust of papers and the mist, that

this sick woman, whose eyes are affected, whose mind is weakened by

suffering, was able, in a very short space of time, when she had no

interest to imprint upon her memory what she saw, to grasp certain

signs, that she recalled yesterday strongly enough to declare that the

man who drew the curtains was not Florentin Cormier, against whom so

many charges have accumulated from various sides, and who has only this

testimony in his favor--every sensible person could not but find it

suspicious!”

“But it is true,” Saniel said, happy to lend himself to this view of the

matter, which was his own.

“What makes the truth of a thing, my dear sir, is the way of presenting

it; let us change this manner and we falsify it. To arrive at the

conclusion which made you say ‘It is true,’ I am on the side of the idea

that to-morrow Madame Dammauville’s story should be known to the law,

that the brave lady should be heard before the prosecution, and that

time should be allowed to examine this testimony that you suspect. Now

let us look at it from the opposite point. Madame Dammauville’s story is

not known to the law, or, if something transpires, we will arrange that

this something is so vague that the prosecution will attach but little

importance to it. And this is possible if we do not base a new defence

on this testimony. We arrive at the judgment, and when the prosecution

has listened to its witnesses which have overwhelmed us--the agent of

affairs Savoureux, the tailor Valerius,--it is Madame Dammauville’s

turn. She simply relates what she saw, and declares that the man who

is on the prisoner’s bench is not the same who drew the curtains at a

quarter past five. Do you see the ‘coup de theatre’? The prosecution had

not foreseen it; it had not inquired into the health of the witness; the

physician would not be there to quote the defects of sight or reason;

very probably it would not think of the dusty windowpanes, or of the

distance. And all the opposing arguments that would be properly arranged

if there were time, would be lacking, and we should carry the acquittal

with a high hand.”

Arranged thus, things were too favorable for Saniel for him not to

receive, with a sentiment of relief, this combination which brought

Florentin’s acquittal more surely, it seemed to him, than all that

they had arranged for his defence up to this day. However, an objection

occurred to him, which he communicated to Nougarede immediately.

“Would one wish to admit that Madame Dammauville had kept silent on so

grave a matter, and waited for an audience to reveal it?”

“This silence she kept until yesterday; why should she not keep it a few

days longer? It is evident that if she had not related what she saw, it

is because she had reasons for being silent. It is probable that, being

ill, she did not wish to expose herself to the annoyances and fatigue

of an investigation; and in her eyes her deposition was not of great

importance. What should she have revealed to the prosecution? That the

man who committed the crime was tall, with a curled blond beard? This

man the law held, or it held one the description of whom answered to

this, which to Madame Dammauville was the same thing. She did not

need, therefore, to call the police or the judge to tell them these

insignificant things for her own comfort; and, also, because she

believed that she had nothing interesting to say, she did not speak. It

was when accident brought to her notice the portrait of the accused, she

recognized that the law had not the real criminal, and then she broke

the silence. The moment when she first saw this portrait is not stated

precisely; I undertake to arrange that. The difficulty is not there.”

“Where do you see it?”

“Here: Madame Dammauville may have already told her story to so many

persons that it is already public property, where the prosecution has

picked it up. In that case there will be no ‘coup de theatre’. She

will be questioned, her deposition examined, and we will have only a

suspected testimony. The first thing to do, then, is to know how far

this story has spread, and if there is yet time to prevent it from

spreading farther.”

“That is not easy, it seems to me.”

“I believe Mademoiselle Phillis can do it. She is a brave woman, whom

nothing dejects or disconcerts, which is the living proof that we

are only valued according to the force and versatility of the inner

consciousness. For the rest, I need not sound her praises, since you

know her better than I; and what I say has no other object but to

explain the confidence that I place in her. As I cannot interfere

myself, I think there is no better person than she to act on Madame

Dammauville, without disturbing or wounding her, and to bring about

the result that we desire. I am sure that she has already won Madame

Dammauville, and that she will be listened to with sympathy.”

“Do you wish me to write to her to come to see you tomorrow?”

“No; it would be better for you so see her this evening, if possible.”

“I shall go to the Batignolles when I leave you.”

“She will enter into her part perfectly, I am certain, and she will

succeed, I hope.”

“It seems to me that your combination rests, above all, on the ‘coup de

theatre’ of the non-recognition of Florentin by Madame Dammauville. How

will you bring this paralytic to court?”

“I depend upon you.”

“And how?”

“You will examine her.”

“I shall have to go to her house!”

“Why not?”

“Because I am not her doctor.”

“You will become so.”

“It is impossible.”

“I do not find it at all impossible that you should be called in

consultation. I have not forgotten that your thesis was on the paralyses

due to the affection of the spinal cord, and it was remarkable enough

for us to discuss it in our ‘parlotte’ of the Rue de Vaugirard. You

have, therefore, authority in the matter.”

“It is not on account of having written several works on the

pathological anatomy of medullary lesions, and especially on the

alterations of the spinal ganglia, that one acquires authority in a

question so comprehensive and so delicate.”

“Do not be too modest, dear friend. I have had, lately, to consult my

Dictionary of Medicine, and at each page your work was quoted. And,

besides, the way in which you passed your examinations made you famous.

Every one talks of you. So it is not impossible that Mademoiselle

Phillis, relating that her mother was cured of a similar paralysis, will

give Madame Dammauville the idea of consulting you, and her physician

will send for you.”

“You will not do that?”

“And why should I not do it?”

They looked at each other a moment in silence, and Saniel turned his

eyes away.

“I detest nothing so much as to appear to put myself forward.”

“In this case it is no matter what you detest or like. The question is

to save this unfortunate young man whom you know to be innocent; and you

can do a kind deed and aid us. You examine Madame Dammauville; you see

with which paralysis she is afflicted, and consequently, what exceptions

may be taken at her testimony. At the same time, you see if you can cure

her, or, at least, put her in a state to go to court.”

“And if it is proved that she cannot leave her bed?”

“In that case I shall change my order of battle, and that is why it is

of capital importance--you know that that is the word--that we should be

warned beforehand.”

“You will make the judge receive her deposition?”

“In any case. But I shall make her write a letter that I shall read at

the desired moment, and I shall call upon her physician to explain that

he would not permit his patient to come to court. Without doubt, the

effect would not be what I desire, but, anyhow, we should have one.”

CHAPTER XXVI. A GOOD MEMORY

After Phillis, Nougarde also wished him to see Madame Dammauville; this

coincidence was not the least danger of the situation that opened before

him.

If he saw her, the chances were that she would recognize in him the

man who drew the curtains; for, if he was able to speak to Phillis and

Nougarede of an affection of the eyes or of the mind, he did not believe

in these affections, which for him were only makeshifts.

When he reached Madame Cormier’s, Phillis had not returned, and he was

obliged to explain to the uneasy mother why her daughter was late.

It was a delirium of joy, before which he felt embarrassed. How should

he break the hope of this unhappy mother?

What he had said to Phillis and to Nougarede he repeated to her.

“But it is possible, also, for paralytics to enjoy all their faculties!”

Madame Cormier said, with a decision that was not in accordance with her

habit or with her character.

“Assuredly.”

“Am I not an example?”

“Without doubt.”

“Then Florentin will be saved.”

“This is what we hope. I only caution you against an excess of joy by

an excess of prudence. Nevertheless, it is probable Mademoiselle Phillis

will settle this for us when she returns.”

“Perhaps it would have been better if you had gone to the Rue

Sainte-Anne. You would have found her.”

There was, then, a universal mania to send him to the Rue Sainte-Anne!

They waited, but the conversation was difficult and slow between them.

It was neither of Phillis nor of Florentin that Saniel thought; it was

of himself and of his own fears; while Madame Cormier’s thoughts ran to

Phillis. Then there were long silences that Madame Cormier interrupted

by going to the kitchen to look after her dinner, that had been ready

since two o’clock.

Not knowing what to say or do in the presence of Saniel’s sombre face

and preoccupation, which she could not explain, she asked him if he had

dined.

“Not yet.”

“If you will accept a plate of soup, I have some of yesterday’s

bouillon, that Phillis did not find bad.”

But he did not accept, which hurt Madame Cormier. For a long time Saniel

had been a sort of god to her, and since he had shown so much zeal

regarding Florentin, the ‘culte’ was become more fervent.

At last Phillis’s step was heard.

“What! You came to tell mamma!” she exclaimed, on seeing Saniel.

Ordinarily her mother listened to her respectfully, but now she

interrupted her.

“And Madame Dammauville?” she asked.

“Madame Dammauville has excellent eyes. She is a woman of intellect,

who, without the assistance of any business man, manages her fortune.”

Overcome, Madame Cormier fell into a chair.

“Oh, the poor child!” she murmured.

Exclamations of joy escaped her which contained but little sense.

“It is as I thought,” Saniel said; “but it would be imprudent to abandon

ourselves to hopes to-day that to-morrow may destroy.”

While he spoke he escaped, at least, from the embarrassment of his

position and from the examination of Phillis.

“What did Monsieur Nougarde say?” she asked.

“I will explain to you presently. Begin by telling us what you learned

from Madame Dammauville. It is her condition that will decide our

course, at least that which Nougarde counsels us to adopt.”

“When the concierge saw me return,” Phillis began, “she showed a certain

surprise; but she is a good woman, who is easily tamed, and I had not

much trouble in making her tell me all she knows of Madame Dammauville.

Three years ago Madame Dammauville became a widow without children. She

is about forty years of age, and since her widowhood has lived in her

house in the Rue Sainte-Anne. Until last year she was not ill, but she

went every year to the springs at Lamoulon. It is a year since she was

taken with pains that were thought to be rheumatic, following which,

paralysis attacked her and confined her to her bed. She suffers so much

sometimes that she cries, but these are spasms that do not last. In the

intervals she lives the ordinary life, except that she does not get up.

She reads a great deal, receives her friends, her sister-in-law--widow

of a notary--her nephews and nieces, and one of the vicars of the

parish, for she is very charitable. Her eyes are excellent. She has

never had delirium or hallucinations. She is very reserved, detests

gossip, and above everything seeks to live quietly. The assassination

of Caffie exasperated her; she would let no one speak to her of him, and

she spoke of it to no one. She even said that if she were in a condition

to leave her house, she would sell it, so that she would never hear the

name of Caffie.”

“How did she speak of the portrait and of the man she saw in Caffie’s

office?” Saniel asked.

“That is exactly the question that the concierge was not able to answer;

so I decided to go to see Madame Dammauville again.”

“You are courageous,” the mother said with pride.

“I assure you that I was not so on going up-stairs. After what I had

heard of her character, it was truly audacious to go a second time,

after an interval of two hours, to trouble her, but it was necessary.

While ascending, I sought a reason to justify, or, at least, to explain

my second visit, and I found only an adventurous one, for which I ought

to ask your indulgence.”

She said this on turning toward Saniel, but with lowered eyes, without

daring to look at him, and with an emotion that made him uneasy.

“My indulgence?” he said.

“I acted without having time to reflect, and under the pressure of

immediate need. As Madame Dammauville expressed surprise at seeing me

again, I told her that what she had said to me was so serious, and might

have such consequences for the life and honor of my brother, that I had

thought of returning the next day, accompanied by a person familiar with

the affair, before whom she would repeat her story; and that I came to

ask her permission to present this person. This person is yourself.”

“I!”

“And that is why,” she said feebly, without raising her eyes, “that I

have need of your indulgence.”

“But I had told you--” he exclaimed with a violence that the

dissatisfaction at being so disposed of was not sufficient to justify.

“That you could not present yourself to Madame Dammauville in the

character of a physician unless she sent for you. I did not forget that;

and it is not as a physician that I wish to beg you to accompany me, but

as a friend, if you permit me to speak thus; as the most devoted, the

most firm, and the most generous friend that we have had the happiness

to encounter in our distress.”

“My daughter speaks in my name, as in her own,” Madame Cormier said

with emotion; “I add that it is a respectful friendship, a profound

gratitude, that we feel toward you.”

Although Phillis trembled to see the effect that she produced on Saniel,

she continued with firmness:

“You would accompany me, then, without doing anything ostensibly,

without saying you are a doctor, and while she talks you could examine

her. Madame Dammauville gave her consent to my request with extreme

kindness. I shall return to her to-morrow, and if you think it useful,

if you think you should accept the part that I claimed for you without

consulting you, you can accompany me.”

He did not reply to these last words, which were an invitation as well

as a question.

“Did you not examine her as I told you?” he asked, after a moment of

reflection.

“With all the attention of which I was capable in my anguish. Her

glance seemed to me straight and untroubled; her voice is regular, very

rhythmical; her words follow each other without hesitation; her ideas

are consecutive and clearly expressed. There is no trace of suffering on

her pale face, which bears only the mark of a resigned grief. She

moves her arms freely, but the legs, so far as I could judge under

the bedclothes, are motionless. In many ways it seems to me that her

paralysis resembles mamma’s, though it is true that in others it does

not. She must be extremely sensitive to the cold, for although the

weather is not cold today, the temperature of her room seemed very

high.”

“This is an examination,” Saniel said, “that a physician could not have

conducted better, unless he questioned the patient; and had I been

with you during this visit we should not have learned anything more.

It appears certain that Madame Dammauville is in possession of her

faculties, which renders her testimony invulnerable.”

Madame Cormier drew her daughter to her and kissed her passionately.

“I have, therefore, nothing to do with this lady,” continued Saniel,

with the precipitation of a man who has just escaped a danger. “But your

part, Mademoiselle, is not finished, and you must return to her tomorrow

to fulfil that which Nougarde confides to you.”

He explained what Nougarde expected of her.

“Certainly,” she said. “I will do all that I am advised to do for

Florentin. I will go to Madame Dammauville; I will go everywhere. But

will you permit me to express my astonishment that immediate profit is

not made of this declaration to obtain the release of my brother?”

He repeated the reasons that Nougarede had given him for not proceeding

in this manner.

“I would not say anything that resembles a reproach,” said Madame

Cormier, with more decision than she ordinarily put into her words; “but

perhaps Monsieur Nougarde has some personal ideas in his advice. Our

interest is that Florentin should return to us as quickly as possible,

and that he should be spared the sufferings of a prison. But I

understand that to an ‘ordonnance de non-lieu’, in which he does not

appear, Monsieur Nougarde prefers the broad light of the court, where he

could deliver a brilliant address, useful to his reputation.”

“Whether or not he has made this calculation,” Saniel said, “things are

thus. I, also, I should have preferred the ‘ordonnance de non-lieu’,

which has the great advantage of finishing everything immediately.

Nougarede does not believe that this would be a good plan to follow, so

we must follow the one that he traces out for us.”

“We will follow it,” Phillis said, “and I believe that it may bring

about the result Monsieur Nougarede expects, as Madame Dammauville would

have spoken to but few persons. When I tried to make her explain herself

on this point, without asking her the question directly, she told me

that she had only spoken to the concierge of the non-resemblance of the

portrait to the man she saw draw the curtains, so that the concierge,

who had often spoken to her of Florentin and of my efforts to save

him, might warn me. I shall see, then, to-morrow, how far her story has

spread, and I will go to see you about it at five o’clock, unless you

prefer that I should go at once to see Monsieur Nougarede.”

“Begin with me, and we will go together to see him, if there is

occasion. I am going to write to him.”

“If I understand Monsieur Nougarde’s plan, it seems that it rests

on Madame Dammauville’s appearance in court. Will this appearance be

possible? That is what I could not learn; only a physician could tell.”

Saniel did not wish to let it appear that he understood this new

challenge.

“I forgot to tell you,” Phillis continued, “that the physician who

attends her is Doctor Balzajette of the Rue de l’Echelle. Do you know

him?”

“A prig, who conceals his ignorance under dignified manners.”

No sooner had these words left his lips than he realized his error.

Madame Dammauville should have an excellent physician, one who was so

high in the estimation of his ‘confreres’ that, if he did not cure her,

it was because she was incurable.

“Then how can you hope that he will cure her in time for her to go to

court?” Phillis asked.

He did not answer, and rose to go. Timidly, Madame Cormier repeated her

invitation, but he did not accept it, in spite of the tender glance that

Phillis gave him.

CHAPTER XXVII. A NEW PERIL

Would he be able to resist the pressure which from all sides at once

pushed him toward the Rue Sainte Anne?

It seemed that nothing was easier than not to commit the folly of

yielding, and yet such was the persistence of the efforts that were

united against him, that he asked himself if, one day, he would not

be led to obey them in spite of himself. Phillis, Nougarede, Madame

Cormier. Now, whence would come a new attack?

For several months he had enjoyed a complete security, which convinced

him that all danger was over forever. But all at once this danger burst

forth under such conditions that he must recognize that there could

never more be any security for him. To-day Madame Dammauville menaced

him; tomorrow it would be some one else. Who? He did not know. Every

one. And it was the anguish of his position to be condemned to live

hereafter in fear, and on the defensive, without repose, without

forgetfulness.

But it was not tomorrow about which he need be uneasy at this moment, it

was the present hour; that is to say, Madame Dammauville.

That she should say, with so much firmness at the sight of a single

portrait, that the man who drew the curtains was not Florentin, she must

have an excellent memory of the eyes; at the same time a resolute mind

and a decision in her ideas, which permitted her to affirm without

hesitation what she believed to be true.

If they should ever meet, she would recognize him, and recognizing him,

she would speak.

Would she be believed?

This was the decisive question, and from what he had heard of her, it

seemed that she would be.

Denials would not suffice. He did not go to Caffie’s at a quarter past

five. Where was he at this moment? What witness could he call upon?

Caffie’s wound was made by a hand skilled in killing, and this learned

hand was his, more even than that of a murderer. Every one knew that

his position at that moment was desperate, financially speaking; and,

suddenly, he paid his debts. Who would believe the Monte Carlo story?

One word, one little hint, from this Madame Dammauville and he was lost,

without defence, without possible struggles.

Truly, and fortunately, since she was paralyzed and confined to her bed,

he ran no risk of meeting her face to face at the corner of a street, or

at the house of an acquaintance, nor of hearing the cry of surprise that

she would not fail to give on recognizing him. But that was not enough

to make him sleep in an imprudent security on saying to himself that

this meeting was improbable. It was improbable, also, to admit that some

one was exactly opposite to Caffies window at the moment when he

drew the curtains; more improbable yet to believe that this fact,

insignificant in itself, that this vision, lasting only an instant,

would be so solidly engraved in a woman’s memory as to be distinctly

remembered after several months, as if it dated from the previous

evening; and yet, of all these improbabilities, there was formed a

reality which enclosed him in such a way that at any moment it might

stifle him.

Despite the importunities of Phillis, Madame Cormier, and Nougarede, and

of all those which might arise, he would not be fool enough to confront

the danger of a recognition in the room where this paralytic was

confined--at least, that was probable, for, after what had happened, he

was certain of nothing--but this recognition might take place elsewhere.

In Nougarede’s plan Madame Dammauville would come to court to make her

declaration; he himself was a witness; they would, therefore, at a given

moment, meet each other, and it was not impossible that before the court

the recognition would occur with a ‘coup de theatre’ very different from

that arranged by Nougarede.

Without doubt there were chances that Madame Dammauville would not be

able to leave her bed to go to court; but were there only one for her

leaving it, he must foresee it and take precautions.

A single one offered security: to render himself unrecognizable; to cut

his beard and hair; to be no more the long-haired, curled, blond-bearded

man that she remembered. Had he been like every one else she would not

have remarked him; or, at least, she would have confounded him with

others. A man can only permit himself to be original in appearance when

he is sure beforehand that he will never have anything to fear.

Assuredly, nothing was easier than to have his hair and beard cut; he

had only to enter the first barber shop he came to; in a few minutes the

change would be radical.

Among his acquaintances he need not be uneasy at the curiosity that this

change might produce; more than one would not remark it, and those who

would be surprised at first would soon cease to think of it, without

doubt; otherwise, he had an easy answer for them; on the eve of becoming

a serious personage, he abandoned the last eccentricities of the old

student, and passed the bridge without wish to return by the left bank.

But it was not only to acquaintances that he must account; there

were Phillis and Nougarde. Had not the latter already remarked the

resemblance between him and the description, and would it not be

imprudent to lead him to ask why this resemblance suddenly disappeared?

It would be dangerous to expose himself to this question from the

lawyer, but it would be much more dangerous coming from Phillis.

Nougarede would only show surprise; Phillis might ask for an

explanation.

And he must reply to her so much the more clearly, because four or five

times already he had almost betrayed himself as to Madame Dammauville,

and if she had let his explanations or embarrassment pass, his

hesitations or his refusal, without questioning him frankly, certainly

she was not the less astonished. Should he appear before her with short

hair and no beard, it would be a new astonishment which, added to the

others, would establish suspicions; and logically, by the force of

things, in spite of herself, in spite of her love and her faith, she

would arrive at conclusions from which she would not be able to free

herself. Already, five or six months before, this question of long hair

and beard had been agitated between them. As he complained one day of

the bourgeois who would not come to him, she gently explained to him

that to please and attract these bourgeois it was, perhaps, not quite

well to astonish those whom one does not shock. That overcoats less

long, hats with less brim, and hair and beard shorter; in fact, a

general appearance that more nearly approached their own, would be,

perhaps, more agreeable. He became angry, and replied plainly that such

concessions were not in keeping with his character. How could he now

abruptly make these concessions, and at a time when his success at the

examinations placed him above such small compromises? He resisted when

he needed help, and when a patient was an affair of life or death to

him; he yielded when he had need of no one, and when he did not care for

patients. The contradiction was truly too strong, and such that it could

not but strike Phillis, whose attention had already had only too much to

arouse it.

And yet, as dangerous as it was to come to the decision to make himself

unrecognizable, it would be madness on his part to draw back; the sooner

the better. His fault had been in not foreseeing, the day after Caffie’s

death, that circumstances might arise sooner or later which would force

it upon him. At that moment it did not present the same dangers as now;

but parting from the idea that he had not been seen by any one, that

he could not have been seen, he had rejoiced in the security that this

conviction gave him, and quietly become benumbed.

The awakening had come; with his eyes open he saw the abyss to the edge

of which his stupidity had brought him.

How strong would he not be if during the last three months he had not

had this long hair and beard, which was most terrible testimony against

him? Instead of taking refuge in miserable makeshifts when Phillis and

Nougarede asked him to see Madame Dammauville, he would have boldly held

his own, and have gone to see her as they wished. In that case he would

be saved, and soon Florentin would be also.

And he believed himself intelligent! And he proudly imagined he could

arrange things beforehand so well that he would never be surprised! What

he should have foreseen would come to pass, nothing more; the lesson

that experience taught him was hard, and this was not the first one;

the evening of Caffie’s death he saw very clearly that a new situation

opened before him, which to the end of his life would make him the

prisoner of his crime. To tell the truth, however, this impression

became faint soon enough; but now it was stronger than ever, and to a

certainty, never to be dismissed again.

But it was useless to look behind; it was the present and the future

that he must measure with a clear and firm glance, if he did not wish to

be lost.

After carefully examining and weighing the question, he decided to have

his hair and beard cut. However adventurous this resolution was, however

embarrassing it might become in provoking curiosity and questions, it

was the only way of escaping a possible recognition.

Mechanically, by habit, he bent his steps toward the Rue

Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, where his barber lived, but he had taken only

a few steps when reflection caused him to stop; it would be certainly

a mistake to provoke the gossip of this man who, knew him, and who, for

the pleasure of talking, would tell every one in the quarter that he had

just cut the hair and beard of Dr. Saniel. He returned to the boulevard,

where he was not known.

But as he was about to open the door of the shop which he decided to

enter, he changed his mind. He happened to find the explanation that he

must give Phillis, and as he wished to avoid the surprise that she would

not fail to show if she saw him suddenly without hair and beard, he

would give this explanation before having them cut, in such a way that

all at once and without looking for another reason, she would understand

that this operation was indispensable.

And he went to dinner, furious with himself and with things, to see to

what miserable expedients he was reduced.

CHAPTER XXVIII. SANIEL VISITS A BARBER

The following day at five o’clock when Phillis rang, he opened the door

for her. Hardly had she entered when she was about to throw herself into

his arms as usual, with a quickness that told how happy she was to see

him. But he checked her with his hand.

“What is the matter?” she asked paralyzed and full of fears.

“Nothing; or, at least nothing much.”

“Against me?”

“Certainly not, dear one.”

“You are ill?”

“No, not ill, but I must take precautions which prevent me from

embracing you. I will explain; do not be uneasy, it is not serious.”

“Quick!” she cried, examining him, and trying to anticipate his thought.

“You have something to tell me?”

“Yes, good news. But I beg of you, speak first; do not leave me in

suspense.”

“I assure you that you need not be uneasy; and when I speak thus, you

know that you should believe me. You see that I am not uneasy.”

“It is for others that you are alarmed, never for yourself.”

“Do you know what the pelagre is?”

“No.”

“It is a special disease of the hair and beard, due to the presence in

the epidermis of a kind of mushroom. Well, it is probable that I have

this disease.”

“Is it serious?”

“Troublesome for a man, but disastrous for a woman, because, before any

treatment, the hair must be cut. You understand, therefore, that if I

have the pelagre, as I believe I have, I am not going to expose you to

the risk of catching it in embracing you. It is very easily transmitted,

and in that case you would be obliged, probably, to do for yourself

what I must do for myself; that is, to cut my hair. With me it is of no

consequence; but with you it would be murder to sacrifice your beautiful

hair.”

“You say ‘probably.’”

“Because I am not yet quite certain that I have the pelagre. For about

two weeks I have felt a slight itching in my head and, naturally, I paid

no attention to it. I had other things to do; and besides, I was not

going to believe I was attacked with a parasitic malady merely on

account of an itching. But, after some time, my hair became dry and

began to fall out. I had no time to attend to it, and the days passed;

besides, the excitement of my examinations was enough to make my hair

fall. To-day, just before you came, I had a few minutes to spare, and

I examined one of my hairs through a microscope; if I had not been

disturbed I should have finished by this time.”

“Continue your examination.”

“It would take some time to do it thoroughly. If it is really the

pelagre, as I have reason to believe, tomorrow you will see me without

hair and beard. I would not hesitate, in spite of the astonishment that

my appearance would cause.”

“What good will that do?”

“I cannot tell people that I had my hair and beard cut because I have a

parasitic disease. Every one knows it is contagious.”

“When the hair is cut, what will become of the disease?”

“With energetic treatment it will rapidly disappear. Before long you may

embrace me if--you do not find me too ugly.”

“O dearest!”

“And now for you; you have come from Madame Dammauville?”

He did not need to persist; Phillis accepted his story so readily that

he felt reassured on her side; she would not alarm herself about it. As

for others, the embarrassment of confessing a contagious malady would be

a sufficient explanation, if he were ever obliged to furnish one.

“What did she say to you?” he asked.

“Good and kind words to begin with, which show what an excellent woman

she is. After having presented myself twice at her house yesterday, you

understand that I was not quite easy on asking her to receive me again

to-day. As I tried to excuse myself, she said she was glad to see my

devotion to my brother, that I need never excuse myself for asking

her assistance, and that she would help me all she could. With this

encouragement I explained what we want her to do, but she did not appear

disposed to do it. Without giving her Monsieur Nougarede’s reasons, I

said we were obliged to conform to the counsels of those who directed

the affair, and I begged her to help us. Finally she was won over,

but reluctantly, and said she would do as we wished. But she could

not assure me that her servants had not talked about it, nor could she

promise to leave her bed to go to court, for she had not left her room

for a year.”

“Does she expect to be able to rise soon?”

“I repeat her words, to which I paid great attention in order not to

forget them: ‘I am promised that I shall be better next year, but who

can tell? I will urge my doctor to give me an answer, and when you come

again I will tell you what he says.’ Profiting by the door that she

opened to me, I kept the conversation on this doctor. It seems to me,

but I am not certain, that she has but little confidence in him. He was

the classmate of her husband and of her brother-in-law the notary; he is

the friend of every one, curing those who can be cured, or letting them

die by accident. You see what kind of a doctor he is.”

“I told you I knew him.”

“See if I deceive myself, and to what I tell you, add what you already

know. Frightened to see in whose hands she is, I undertook to find out,

and finished by learning--without asking her directly--that she has seen

no other physician during the year. When she was taken with paralysis a

consultation was held, and she has had Doctor Balzajette ever since. She

says he is very kind, and takes care of her as well as another would.”

Saniel improved the opportunity to refer to his stupidity in frankly

expressing his opinion on the solemn Balzajette.

“It is probable,” he said.

“It is certain? Do you believe that during one year nothing has appeared

in Madame Dammauville’s disease that should demand new treatment? Do you

think the solemn Balzajette is incapable of finding it all by himself?”

“He is not so dull as you suppose.”

“It is you who speak of dulness.”

“To diagnose a disease and to treat it are two things. It is the

consultation you speak of that settled the question of Madame

Dammauville’s disease, and prescribed the treatment that Balzajette had

only to apply; and his capacity, I assure you, is sufficient for this

task.”

As she appeared but little reassured, he persisted, for it would be

an imprudence to let Phillis become enamored of the idea that if he

attended Madame Dammauville, he would cure her, even if it required a

miracle.

“We have some time before us, since the ‘ordonnance de renvoi’ before

the assizes is not yet given out. Madame Dammauville has promised to

question her doctor, to learn if he hopes to put her in condition to

leave her bed soon. Let us wait, therefore.”

“Would it not be better to act than to wait?”

“At least let us wait for news from Balzajette. Either it will be

satisfactory, and then we shall have nothing to do, or it will not be,

and in that case I promise you to see Balzajette. I know him well enough

to speak to him of your patient, which, above all, enables me, in

making your brother intervene, to interest myself openly in his

reestablishment.”

“O dearest, dearest!” she murmured, in a spirit of gratitude.

“You cannot doubt my devotion to you first, and to your brother

afterward. You asked me an impossible thing, that I was obliged to

refuse, to my regret, precisely because it was impossible; but you know

that I am yours, and will do all I can for your family.”

“Forgive me.”

“I have nothing to forgive; in your place I should think as you do, but

I believe that in mine you would act as I do.”

“Be sure that I have never had an idea of blame in my heart for what is

with you an affair of dignity. It is because you are high and proud that

I love you so passionately.”

She rose.

“Are you going?” he asked.

“I want to carry Madame Dammauville’s words to mamma; you can imagine

with what anguish she awaits me.”

“Let us, go. I will leave you at the boulevard to go to see Nougarede.”

The interview with the advocate was short.

“You see, dear friend, that my plan is good; bring Madame Dammauville to

court, and we shall have some pleasant moments.”

This time Saniel had not the hesitation of the previous evening, and he

entered the first barber-shop he saw. When he returned to his rooms

he lighted two candles, and placing them on the mantle, he looked at

himself in the glass.

Coquetry had never been his sin, and often weeks passed without his

looking in a mirror, so indifferent was he when making his toilet.

However, as a young boy he sometimes looked in his small glass, asking

himself what he would become, and he could now recall his looks--an

energetic face with clearly drawn features, a physiognomy open and

frank, without being pretty, but not disagreeable. His beard had

concealed all this; but now that it was gone, he said to himself without

much reflection that he would find again, without doubt, the boy he

remembered.

What he saw in the glass was a forehead lined transversely; oblique

eyebrows, raised at the inside extremity, and a mouth with tightened

lips turned down at the corners; furrows were hollowed in the cheeks;

and the whole physiognomy, harassed, ravaged, expressed hardness.

What had become of that of the young man of other days? He had before

him the man that life had made, and of whom the violent contractions of

the muscles of the face had modelled the expression.

“Truly, the mouth of an assassin!” he murmured.

Then, looking at his shaved head, he added with a smile:

“And perhaps that of one condemned to death, whose toilet has just been

made for the guillotine.”

CHAPTER XXIX. A BROKEN NEGATIVE

To have made himself unrecognizable was, without doubt, a safe

precaution; but having started on this course, he would not be easy

until he had destroyed all traces of himself in such a way that Madame

Dammauville would never be able to find the man that she had seen so

clearly under Caffie’s lamp.

Precisely because he was not vain and had no pretension to beauty, he

had escaped the photograph mania. Once only he had been photographed

in spite of himself, simply to oblige a classmate who had abandoned

medicine for photography.

But now this once was too much, for there was danger that this portrait

taken three years before, and showing him with the hair and beard that

he wished to suppress, might be discovered. Without doubt there were few

chances that a copy of it would be seen by Madame Dammauville; but if

there existed only one against a hundred thousand, he must arrange it so

that he need have no fear.

He had had a dozen copies of this photograph, but as his relatives were

few, he kept the majority of them. One he sent to his mother, who was

living at that time; another went to the priest of his village, and

later he had given one to Phillis. He must, then, have nine in his

possession. He found them and burned them immediately.

Of the three that remained, only one might testify against him, the one

belonging to Phillis. But it would be easy for him to get it again on

inventing some pretext, while as to the others, truly he had nothing to

fear.

The real danger might come from the photographer, who perhaps had some

of the photographs, and who undoubtedly preserved the negative. This was

his first errand the next day.

On entering the studio of this friend, he experienced a disagreeable

feeling, which troubled him and made him uneasy; he had not given his

name, and counting on the change made by the cutting of his hair and

beard, he said to himself that his friend, who had not seen him for a

long time, certainly would not recognize him.

He had taken but a few steps, his hat in his hand, like a stranger who

is about to accost another, when the photographer came toward him with

outstretched hand, and a friendly smile on his face.

“You, my dear friend! What good fortune is worth the pleasure of your

visit tome? Can I be useful to you in any way?”

“You recognize me, then?”

“What! Do I recognize you? Do you ask that because you have cut

your hair and beard? Certainly it changes you and gives you a new

physiognomy; but I should be unworthy of my business if, by a different

arrangement of the hair, I could not recognize you.

“Besides, eyes of steel like yours are not forgotten; they are a

description and a signature.”

Then this means in which he placed so much confidence was only a new

imprudence, as the question, “You recognize me, then?” was a mistake.

“Come, I will pose you at once,” the photographer said. “Very curious,

this shaved head, and still more interesting, I think, than with the

beard and long hair. The traits of character are more clearly seen.”

“It is not for a new portrait that I have come, but for the old one.

Have you any of the proofs?”

“I think not, but I will see. In any case, if you wish some they are

easily made, since I have the plate.”

“Will you look them up? For I have not a single proof left of those you

gave me, and on looking at myself in the glass this morning I found such

changes between my face of to-day and that of three years ago, that I

would like to study them. Certain ideas came to me on the expression of

the physiognomy, that I wish to study, with something to support them.”

The search for the proofs made by an assistant led to no results; there

were no proofs.

“Exactly; and for several days I have thought of making some,” the

photographer said. “Because your day of glory will come, when your

portrait will be in a distinguished place in the shop-windows and

collections. Every one talks of your ‘concours’. Although I have

abandoned medicine without the wish to return to it, I have not become

indifferent to what concerns it, and I learned of your success. Which

portrait shall we put in circulation? The old or the new?”

“The new.”

“Then let us arrange the pose.”

“Not to-day; it is only yesterday that I was shaved, fearing an attack

of pelagre, and the skin covered by the beard has a crude whiteness that

will accentuate the hardness of my physiognomy, which is really useless.

We will wait until the air has tanned me a little, and then I will

return, I promise you.”

“How many proofs do you want of your old portrait?”

“One will do.”

“I will send you a dozen.”

“Do not take the trouble; I will take them when I come to pose. But in

the mean time, could you not show me the plate?”

“Nothing easier.”

When it was brought, Saniel took the glass plate with great care,

holding it with the tips of his fingers by the two opposite corners, in

order not to efface the portrait. Then, as he was standing in the shadow

of a blue curtain, he walked towards the chimney where the light was

strong, and began his examination.

“It is very good,” he said; “very curious.”

“Only a photograph can have this documentary value.”

To compare this document with the reality, Saniel approached the chimney

more closely, above which was a mirror. When his feet touched the

marble hearth he stopped, looking alternately at the plate which he held

carefully in his hands, and at his face reflected in the glass. Suddenly

he made an exclamation; he let fall the plate, which, falling flat on

the marble, broke into little pieces that flew here and there.

“How awkward I am!”

He showed a vexation that should not leave the smallest doubt in the

photographer’s mind as to its truth.

“You must get one of the proofs that you have given away,” his friend

said, “for I have not a single one left.”

“I will try and find one.”

What he did try to find on leaving was whether or no he had succeeded

in rendering himself unrecognizable, for he could not trust to

this experience, weakened by the fact that this old friend was a

photographer. With him it was a matter of business to note the typical

traits that distinguish one face from another, and in a long practice he

had acquired an accuracy Madame Dammauville could not possess.

Among the persons he knew, it seemed to him that the one in the best

condition to give certainty to the proof was Madame Cormier. He knew at

this hour she would be alone, and as she had not been, assuredly, warned

by her daughter that he intended to shave, the experiment would be

presented in a way to give a result as exact as possible.

In answer to his ring Madame Cormier opened the door, and he saluted her

without being recognized; but as the hall was dark this was not of great

significance. His hat in his hand, he followed her into the dining-room

without speaking, in order that his voice should not betray him.

Then, after she had looked at him a moment, with uneasy surprise at

first, she began to smile.

“It is Doctor Saniel!” she cried. “Mon Dieu! How stupid of me not to

recognize you; it changes you so much to be shaved! Pardon me.”

“It is because I am shaved that I come to ask a favor.”

“Of us, my dear sir? Ah! Speak quickly; we should be so happy to prove

our gratitude.”

“I would ask Mademoiselle Phillis to give me, if she has it, a

photograph that I gave her about a year ago.”

As Phillis wished the liberty to expose this photograph frankly, in

order to have it always before her, she had asked for it, and Saniel had

given it to her, in her mother’s presence.

“If she has it!” exclaimed Mme. Cormier. “Ah! my dear sir, you do not

know the place that all your goodness, and the services that you have

rendered us, have made for you in our hearts.”

And passing into the next room, she brought a small velvet frame in

which was the photograph. Saniel took it out, on explaining the study

for which he wanted it, and after promising to bring it back soon, he

returned to his rooms.

Decidedly, everything was going well. The plate was destroyed, Phillis’s

proof in his hands; he had nothing more to fear from this side. As to

the experiment made on the mother, it was decisive enough to inspire him

with confidence. If Madame Cormier, who had seen him so often and for so

long a time, and who thought of him at every instant, did not recognize

him, how was it possible that Madame Dammauville, who had only seen him

from a distance and for a few seconds, could recognize him after several

months?

Would he never accustom himself to the idea that his life could not have

the tranquil monotony of a bourgeois existence, that it would experience

shocks and storms, but that if he knew how to remain always master of

his force and will, it would bring him to a safe port?

The calm that was his before this vexation came back to him, and when

the last proofs of his concours, confirming the success of the first,

had given him the two titles that he so ardently desired and pursued

at the price of so many pains, so many efforts and privations, he could

enjoy his triumph in all security.

He held the present in his strong hands, and the future was his.

Now he could walk straight, boldly, his head high, jostling those who

annoyed him, according to his natural temperament.

Although these last months had been full of terrible agitation for

him, on account of everything connected with the affair of Caffie and

Florentin, and above all, on account of the fatigue, emotion, and the

fever of his ‘concours’, yet he had not interrupted his special works

for a day or even an hour, and his experiments followed for so many

years had at length produced important results, that prudence alone

prevented him from publishing. In opposition to the official teaching

of the school, these discoveries would have caused the hair to stand

upright on the old heads; and it was not the time, when he asked

permission to enter, to draw upon himself the hostility of these

venerable doorkeepers, who would bar the way to a revolutionist. But,

now that he was in the place for ten or twelve years, he need take no

precautions, either for persons or for ideas, and he might speak.

CHAPTER XXX. PHILLIS PRECIPITATES MATTERS

Saniel saw his colleague, the solemn Balzajette, and so adroitly as not

to provoke surprise or suspicion, he spoke of Madame Dammauville, in

whom he was interested incidentally; without persisting, and only to

justify his question, he explained the nature of this interest.

Although solemn, Balzajette was not the less a gossip, and it was his

solemnity that made him gossip. He listened to himself talk, and when,

his chest bulging, his pink chin freshly shaved resting on his white

cravat, his be-ringed hand describing in the air noble and demonstrative

gestures, one could, if one had the patience to listen to him, make

him say all that one wished; for he was convinced that his interlocutor

passed an agreeable moment, whose remembrance would never be forgotten.

His patients might wait in pain or anguish, he did not hasten the

majestic delivery of his high-sounding phrases with choice adjectives;

and unless it was to go to a dinner-party, which he did at least five

days in the week, he could not leave you until after he had made you

partake of the admiration that he professed for himself.

It was to an affection of the spinal cord that Mme. Dammauville’s

paralysis was due, and consequently it was perfectly curable; even

Balzajette was astonished that with his treatment and his care the cure

was delayed.

“But what shall I say to you, young ‘confrere’? You know better than I

that with women everything is possible--above all the impossible.”

And during a half-hour he complaisantly related the astonishment that

the fashionable women under his care had caused him, in spite of his

knowledge and experience.

“Well, to resume, what shall I tell you, young ‘confrere’?”

And he repeated and explained what he had already said and explained.

Although Balzajette read only a morning paper, and never opened a book,

he had heard of Saniel’s reputation, and because he was young he thought

he might manage this ‘confrere’, who seemed destined to make a good

position. In spite of the high esteem that he professed for his own

merits and person, he vaguely felt that the doctors of his generation

who were eminent did not treat him with all the consideration that he

accorded himself, and in order to teach his ancient comrades a lesson,

he was glad to enter into friendly relations with a young one ‘dans le

mouvement’. He would speak of his young confrere Saniel: “You know the

one who was appointed ‘agrege’,” and he would relate the advice that he,

Balzajette, had given him.

That Madame Dammauville would be well enough to go to court Saniel

doubted, above all, after Balzajette had explained his treatment; and as

far as he was concerned, he could not but rejoice. Doubtless, it would

be hard for Florentin not to have this testimony, and not to profit by

the ‘coup de theatre’ prepared by Nougarede; but for himself, he could

only feel happy over it. In spite of all the precautions he had taken,

it would be better not to expose himself to a meeting with Madame

Dammauville in the witness-chamber, or even in court. They must depend

upon a letter supported by Balzajette’s deposition, and Florentin would

be not the less acquitted. Only Nougarede would have to regret his ‘coup

de theatre’. But the satisfaction or disappointment of Nougarede was

nothing to him.

But he did not tell Phillis the ideas suggested by his interview with

Balzajette; he summed up the conclusions of this interview. Balzajette

said that Madame Dammauville would soon be on her feet, and one might

have faith in his word; Florentin would be saved, and there was nothing

to do but to let things go on as they were going.

Phillis, Madame Cormier, Nougarede, Florentin himself, whom the Mazas

cell had reconciled neither with hope nor with providential justice,

were all delighted with this idea.

Also, when the chamber of the prosecution sent Florent to the assizes,

the emotion of Madame Cormier and Phillis would not be too violent.

Madame Dammauville would be in a state to make her deposition, since the

evening before she had been able to leave her bed; and although she left

it for only an hour, and then to go from her bedroom to her parlor, that

was enough. Nougarede said that the affair would come on at the second

session in April; between then and now Madame Dammauville would be solid

enough on her legs to appear before the jury and carry the acquittal.

To Phillis, Saniel repeated that the cure was certain, and to her, also,

he rejoiced aloud. But he was troubled about this cure. This meeting,

only the idea of which had alarmed him to the point of losing his head,

would be brought about, and under conditions that could not but affect

him. Truly, the precautions he had taken should reassure him, but after

all there remained no less a troublesome uncertainty. Who could tell? He

preferred that she should not leave her room, and that Nougarede should

find a way to obtain her deposition without taking her to court; he

would then feel more reassured, more calm in mind, and with a more

impassive face he could go to court.

Was he really unrecognizable? This was the question that beset him now.

Many times he compared his reflection in the glass with the photograph

that he had given Phillis. The hair and beard were gone, but his eyes

of steel, as his friend said, still remained, and nothing could change

them. He might wear blue eyeglasses, or injure himself in a chemical

experiment and wear a bandage. But such a disguise would provoke

curiosity and questions just so much more dangerous, because it would

coincide with the disappearance of his hair and beard.

But these fears did not torment him long, for Phillis, who now passed a

part of every day in the Rue Sainte-Anne with Madame Dammauville, came

one evening in despair, and told him that that day the invalid had been

able to leave her bed for a few minutes only.

Then she would not go to court.

This apprehension of meeting Madame Dammauville face to face had begun

to exasperate him; he felt like a coward in yielding to it, and since he

had not the force to shake it off, he was happy to be relieved from it

by the intervention of chance, which, after having been against him so

long, now became favorable. The wheel turned.

“See Madame Dammauville often,” he said to Phillis, “and note all that

she feels; perhaps I shall find some way to repair this impediment,

something that I may suggest to Balzajette without his suspecting it.

Besides, it is reasonable to believe that the recrudescence of cold that

we are suffering from now may have something to do with the change in

her condition; it is probable that with the mild spring weather she may

improve.”

He hoped by this counsel to quiet Phillis’s uneasiness and to gain time.

But it had the opposite effect. In her anguish, which increased as the

time for the trial approached, it was not probabilities, any more than

the uncertain influence of the spring, that Phillis could depend on; she

must have something more and better; but fearing a refusal, she forbore

to tell him what she hoped to obtain.

It was only when she had succeeded that she spoke.

Every day, on leaving Madame Dammauville, she came to tell him what she

had learned, and for three successive days her story was the same:

“She was not able to leave her bed.”

And each day he made the same reply:

“It is the cold weather. Surely, we shall soon have a change; this frost

and wind will not continue beyond the end of March.”

He was pained at her desolation and anguish, but what could he do? It

was not his fault that this relapse occurred at a decisive moment; fate

had been against him long enough, and he was not going to counteract it

at the time when it seemed to take his side, by yielding to the desire

that Phillis dared not express, but which he divined, and by going to

see Madame Dammauville.

When she entered his office on the fourth day, he knew at once by her

manner that something favorable to Florentin had happened.

“Madame Dammauville is up,” he said.

“No.”

“I thought she must be, by your vivacity and lightness.” “It is because

I am happy; Madame Dammauville wishes to consult you.”

He took her hands roughly and shook them.

“You have done that!” he exclaimed.

She looked at him frightened.

“You! You!” he repeated with increasing fury.

“At least listen to me,” she murmured. “You will see that I have not

compromised you in anything.”

Compromised! It was professional dignity of which he thought, truly!

“I do not want to listen to you; I shall not go.”

“Do not say that.”

“It only needed that you should dispose of me in your own way.”

“Victor!”

Anger carried him away.

“I belong to you, then! I am your thing! You do with me what you wish!

You decide, and I have only to obey! There is too much of this! You can

go; everything is at an end between us.”

She listened, crushed; but this last word, which struck her in her

love, gave her strength. In her turn she took his hands, and although he

wished to withdraw them, she held them closely in her own.

“You may throw in my face all the angry words you please; you may

reproach me as much as you think I deserve it, and I will not complain.

Without doubt, I have done you wrong, and I feel the weight of it on

seeing how profoundly you are wounded; but to send me away, to tell me

that all is over between us, no, Victor, you will not do that. You

will not say it, for you know that never was a man loved as I love

you, adored, respected. And voluntarily, deliberately, even to save my

brother, that I should have compromised you!”

He pushed her from him.

“Go!” he said harshly.

She threw herself on her knees, and taking his hands that he had

withdrawn, she kissed them passionately.

“But listen to me,” she cried. “Before condemning me, hear my defence.

Even if I were a hundred times more guilty than I really am, you could

not drive me from you with this unmerciful hardness.”

“Go!”

“You lose your head; anger carries you away. What is the matter? It is

impossible that I, by my stupidity, through my fault, could put you in

such a state of mad exasperation. What is the matter, my beloved?”

These few words did more than Phillis’s despair of her expressions of

love. She was right, he lost his head. And however guilty she might be

towards him, it was evident that she could not admit that the fault

she committed threw him into this access of furious folly. It was not

natural; and in his words and actions all must be natural, all must be

capable of explanation.

“Very well, speak!” he said. “I am listening to you. Moreover, it is

better to know. Speak!”

CHAPTER XXXI. THE APPOINTMENT

“You should understand,” she said with a little more calmness--for,

since he permitted her to speak, she hoped to convince him--“that I have

done all I could to bring Madame Dammauville to the idea of calling, in

consultation with Monsieur Balzajette, a doctor--”

“Which would be myself.”

“You or another; I have not mentioned any name. You should not think me

awkward enough to put you forward clumsily; it would not be a good way

to make you acceptable to an intelligent woman, and I value your dignity

too much to lower it. I believed that another doctor than Monsieur

Balzajette would find a remedy, some way, a miracle if you will, to

enable Madame Dammauville to go to the Palais de justice, and I said

it. I said it in every tone, in every way, with as much persuasion as

I could put in my words. Was it not the life of my brother that I

defended, our honor? At first, I found Madame Dammauville much opposed

to this idea. She would be better soon, she felt it. Otherwise, if it

were her duty to be carried to the Palais de justice, she would not

hesitate.”

“She would do that?”

“Assuredly. No one has a stronger sense of justice. She would feel

guilty did she not give her testimony to save an innocent person; not to

save him when she could would be to take the responsibility of his loss.

It is therefore certain that if she cannot go to court alone, she will

do all she can to go, no matter how--on M. Balzajette’s arm, or on a

stretcher. I was, then, easy enough on this side, but I was not for the

stretcher. What would people think to see her in this condition? What

impression would she make on the jury? Would not her appearance weaken

the value of her testimony? As Madame Dammauville is fond of me, and

very kind to me, I determined to profit by this kindness to urge a

consultation, but without mentioning any name. I represented to her

that, since M. Balzajette might say with every appearance of truth he

had cured her, he should not be angry if she desired to ratify this

cure. That besides, there was an imperative motive that would not permit

her to wait, for it would be very disagreeable to her to present herself

at the court of assizes in a theatrical way, which was not at all

according to her character or habits. I easily discovered that the fear

of giving pain to this old friend of her husband was the chief reason

why she was opposed to this consultation. It was then that your name was

pronounced.”

“You acknowledge it, then?”

“You will see how, and you will not be angry about it. I have often

spoken to Madame Dammauville of mamma, and, consequently, of how you

cured her paralysis, that resembled hers. It was not wrong, was it, to

say what you have done for us? And without letting any one suspect my

love, I could praise you, which my gratitude prompted. She asked me many

questions, and naturally, as usual when I speak of you, when I have

the joy of pronouncing your name, I answered in detail. That is not a

crime?”

She waited a moment, looking at him. Without softening the hardness of

his glance, he made a sign to her to continue.

“When I persisted on the consultation, Madame Dammauville recalled what

I had said, and she was the first--you hear?--the first to pronounce

your name. As you had cured my mother, I had the right to praise you.

With a nature like hers, she would not have understood if I had not done

it; she would have believed me ungrateful. I spoke of your book on

the diseases of the spinal cord, which was quite natural; and as she

manifested a desire to read it, I offered to lend it to her.”

“Was that natural?”

“With any but Madame Dammauville, no; but she is not frivolous. I took

the book to her two days ago, and she has just told me that, after

reading it, she has decided to send for you.”

“I shall certainly not go; she has her own physician.”

“Do not imagine that I have come to ask you to pay her a visit; all is

arranged with Monsieur Balzajette, who will write to you or see you, I

do not know which.”

“That will be very extraordinary on the part of Balzajette!”

“Perhaps you judge him harshly. When Madame Dammauville spoke to him of

you he did not raise the smallest objection; on the contrary, he praised

you. He says that you are one of the rare young men in whom one may have

confidence. These are his own words that Madame Dammauville told me.”

“What do I care for the opinion of this old beast!”

“I am explaining how it happens that you are called into consultation;

it is not because I spoke of you, but because you have inspired Monsieur

Balzajette with confidence. However stupid he may be, he is just to you,

and knows your value.”

It was come then, the time for the meeting that he did not wish to

believe possible; and it was brought about in such a way that he did not

see how he could escape it. He might refuse Phillis; but Balzajette? A

colleague called him in consultation, and why should he not go? Had he

foreseen this blow he would have left Paris until the trial was over,

but he was taken unawares. What could he say to justify a sudden

absence? He had no mother or brothers who might send for him, and with

whom he would be obliged to remain. Besides, he wished to go to court;

and since his testimony would carry considerable weight with the jury,

it was his duty to be present on account of Florentin. It would be a

contemptible cowardice to fail in this duty, and more, it would be an

imprudence. In the eyes of the world he must appear to have nothing to

fear, and this assurance, this confidence in himself, was one of the

conditions of his safety. Now, if he went to court, and from every point

of view it was impossible that he should not go, he would meet Madame

Dammauville, as she intended to be carried there if she were unable to

go in any other way. Whether it was at her house, or at the Palais de

justice, the meeting was then certain, and in spite of what he had done,

circumstances stronger than his will had prepared it and brought it

about; nothing that he could do would prevent it.

The only question that deserved serious consideration just now was to

know where this meeting would be the least dangerous for him--at Madame

Dammauville’s or at the Palais?

He reflected silently, paying no more attention to Phillis than if she

were not present, his eyes fixed, his brow contracted, his lips tightly

closed, when the doorbell rang. As Joseph was at his post, Saniel did

not move.

“If it is a patient,” Phillis said, who did not wish to go yet, “I will

wait in the dining-room.”

And she rose.

Before she could leave the room, Joseph entered.

“Doctor Balzajette,” he said.

“You see!” Phillis cried.

Without replying, Saniel made a sign to Joseph to admit Doctor

Balzajette, and while Phillis silently disappeared, he went toward the

parlor.

Balzajette came forward with both hands extended.

“Good-day, my young ‘confrere’. I am enchanted to meet you.”

The reception was benevolent, amicable, and protecting, and Saniel

replied at his best.

“Since we met the other day,” Balzajette continued, “I have thought

of you. And nothing more natural than that, for you inspired me with

a quick sympathy. The first time you came to see me you pleased me

immediately, and I told you you would make your way. Do you remember?”

Assuredly he remembered; and of all the visits that he made to the

doctors and druggists of his quarter, that to Balzajette was the

hardest. It was impossible to show more pride, haughtiness, and disdain

than Balzajette had put into his reception of the then unknown young

man.

“I told you what I thought of you,” continued Balzajette. “It is with

regard to this patient of whom you spoke to me; you remember?”

“Madame Dammauville?”

“Exactly. I put her on her feet, as I told you, but since then this bad

weather has compelled her to take to her bed again. Without doubt, it

is only an affair of a few days; but in the mean time, the poor woman is

irritable and impatient. You know women, young ‘confrere’. To calm

this impatience, I spontaneously proposed a consultation, and naturally

pronounced your name, which is well known by your fine work on the

medullary lesions. I supported it, as was proper, with the esteem that

it has acquired, and I have the satisfaction to see it accepted.”

Saniel thanked him as if he believed in the perfect sincerity of this

spontaneous proposition.

“I like the young, and whenever an occasion presents itself, I shall be

happy to introduce you to my clientage. For Madame Dammauville, when can

you go with me to see her?”

As Saniel appeared to hesitate, Balzajette, mistaking the cause of his

silence, persisted.

“She is impatient,” he said. “Let us go the first day that is possible.”

He must reply, and in these conditions a refusal would be inexplicable.

“Will to-morrow suit you?” he asked.

“To-morrow, by all means. At what hour?”

Before replying, Saniel went to his desk and consulted an almanac, which

appeared perfectly ridiculous to Balzajette.

“Does he imagine, the young ‘confrere’, that I am going to believe his

time so fully occupied that he must make a special arrangement to give

me an hour?”

But it was not an arrangement of this kind that Saniel sought. His

almanac gave the rising and the setting of the sun, and it was the exact

hour of sunset that he wished: “26 March, 6h. 20m.” At this moment

it would not be dark enough at Madame Dammauville’s for lamps to be

lighted, and yet it would be dark enough to prevent her from seeing him

clearly in the uncertain light of evening.

“Will a quarter past six suit you? I will call for you at six o’clock.”

“Very well. Only I shall ask you to be very exact; I have a dinner at

seven o’clock in the Rue Royale.”

Saniel promised promptness. The dinner was a favorable circumstance,

enabling him to escape from Madame Dammauville’s before the lamps would

be lighted.

When Balzajette was gone, he rejoined Phillis in the dining-room.

“A consultation is arranged for to-morrow at six o’clock, at Madame

Dammauville’s.”

She threw herself on his breast.

“I knew that you would forgive me.”

CHAPTER XXXII. THE FATAL LIGHT

It was not without emotion that the next day Saniel saw the afternoon

slip away, and although he worked to employ his time, he interrupted

himself at each instant to look at the clock.

Sometimes he found the time passing quickly, and then all at once it

seemed to stand still.

This agitation exasperated him, for calmness had never been more

necessary than at this moment. A danger was before him, and it was only

in being master of himself that he could be saved. He must have the

coolness of a surgeon during an operation, the glance of a general in a

battle; and the coolness and the glance were not found among the nervous

and agitated.

Could he escape from this danger?

This was the question that he asked himself unceasingly, although he

knew the uselessness of it. What good was it to study the chances for or

against him?

Either he had succeeded in rendering himself unrecognizable or he had

not; but it was done, and now he could do nothing more. He did the best

he could in choosing an hour when the dim evening light put the chances

on his side; for the rest he must trust to Fortune.

All day he studied the sky, because for the success of his plan it

must be neither too bright nor too dark: if it were too bright Madame

Dammauville could see him clearly; if it were too dark the lamps would

be lighted. He remembered that it was by lamplight she had seen him.

Until evening the weather was uncertain, with a sky sometimes sunny,

sometimes cloudy; but at this hour the clouds were driven away by a wind

from the north, and the weather became decidedly cold, with the pink and

pale clearness of the end of March when it still freezes.

On examining himself he had the satisfaction to feel that he was calmer

than in the morning, and that as the moment of attack approached, his

agitation decreased; decision, firmness, and coolness came to him; he

felt master of his will, and capable of obeying it.

At six o’clock precisely he rang at Balzajette’s door, and they started

immediately for the Rue Sainte-Anne. Happy to have a complaisant

listener, Balzajette did all the talking, so that Saniel had only to

reply “yes” or “no” from time to time, and of course it was not

of Madame Dammauville that he spoke, but other matters--of a first

representation on the previous evening at the Opera Comique; of

politics; of the next salon.

At exactly a quarter past six they reached the house in the Rue

Sainte-Anne, where Saniel had not been since Caffies death. On passing

the old concierge’s lodge he felt satisfied with himself; his heart

did not beat too quickly, his ideas were firm and clear. Should danger

arrive, he felt assured of mastery over himself, without excitement, as

without brutality.

Balzajette rang the bell, and the door was opened by a maid, who was,

evidently, placed in the vestibule to await their arrival. Balzajette

entered first, and Saniel followed him, giving a hasty glance at the

rooms through which they passed. They reached a door at which Balzajette

knocked twice.

“Enter,” replied a feminine voice in a firm tone.

This was the decisive moment; the day was everything that could be

wished, neither too light nor too dark. What would Madame Dammauville’s

first glance mean?

“My confrere, Doctor Saniel,” Balzajette said on going toward Madame

Dammauville, and taking her hand.

She was lying on the little bed of which Phillis had spoken, but not

against the windows, rather in the middle of the room, placed there

evidently after the experience of a sick person who knows that to be

examined she must be easily seen.

Profiting by this arrangement, Saniel immediately passed between the

bed and the windows in such a way that the daylight was behind him, and

consequently his face was in shadow. This was done naturally, without

affectation, and it seemed that he only took this side of the bed

because Balzajette took the other.

Directed by Saniel, the examination commenced with a clearness and

a precision that pleased Balzajette. He did not lose himself in idle

words, the young ‘confrere’, any more than in useless details. He went

straight to the end, only asking and seeking the indispensable; and as

Madame Dammauville’s replies were as precise as his questions, while

listening and putting in a word from time to time he said to himself

that his dinner would not be delayed, which was the chief point of his

preoccupation. Decidedly, he understood life, the young ‘confrere’; he

might be called in consultation with his heavy appearance and careless

toilet, there was no danger of rivalry.

However, when Madame Dammauville began to speak of being sensitive

to cold, Balzajette found that Saniel let her lose herself in minute

details.

“Have you always been sensitive to cold?”

“Yes; and with a deplorable disposition to take cold if the temperature

is lowered one or two degrees.”

“Did you exercise in the open air?”

“Very little.”

“Were you ever advised to try shower-baths of cold water?”

“I should not have been able to bear it.”

“I must tell you,” Balzajette interrupted, “that before occupying this

house that belongs to her, Madame Dammauville lived in a more modern

apartment which was heated by a furnace, and where consequently it was

easier to maintain an even temperature to which she was accustomed.”

“On coming to live in this house, where it is not possible to have a

furnace,” Madame Dammauville went on, “I employed every means to shelter

me from the cold, which I am sure is my great enemy. You can see that I

have had weather-strips put at the doors, as well as at the windows.”

In spite of this invitation and the gesture which accompanied it, Saniel

was careful not to turn his head toward the window; he kept his face

in the shadow, contenting himself with looking at the door which was

opposite to him.

“At the same time,” she continued, “I had hangings put on the walls,

carpets on the floors, thick curtains at the windows and doors, and in

spite of the large fire in my fireplace, often I am unable to get warm.”

“Do you also have a fire in this little stove?” Saniel asked, pointing

to a small movable stove at the corner of the fireplace.

“Only at night, so that my servants need not get up every hour to

replenish the fire in the chimney. The fire is made in the evening

just before I go to sleep; the pipe is placed in the chimney, and it

maintains sufficient heat until morning.”

“I think it will be expedient to suppress this mode of heating, which

must be very inconvenient,” Saniel said; “and my ‘confrere’ and myself

will consider the question whether it will not be possible to give you

the heat you need with this chimney, without fatiguing your servants,

and without waking you too often to take care of the fire. But let us

continue.”

When he reached the end of his questions he rose to examine the patient

on her bed, but without turning round, and in such a way as still to

keep his back to the light.

As little by little the reflection of the setting sun faded, Balzajette

proposed asking for a lamp: without replying too hastily, Saniel

refused; it was useless, the daylight was sufficient.

They passed into the parlor, where they very quickly came to an amicable

conclusion, for at everything that Saniel said Balzajette replied:

“I am happy to see that you partake of my opinion. That is it. Truly,

that is so!”

And, besides, each had his reasons for hurrying--Saniel, for fear of

the lamps; Balzajette, uneasiness for his dinner. The diagnosis and the

treatment were rapidly settled; Saniel proposed, Balzajette approved.

The question of the movable stove was decided in two words: for the

night a grate would be placed in the chimney; a fire of coal covered

with damp coal-dust would keep the fire until morning.

“Let us return,” Balzajette said, who took the initiative and decided on

all material things.

Saniel, who kept his eyes on the windows, was calm; it was yet too light

to need lamps, besides, during their tete-a-tete, no servant had crossed

the salon to enter Madame Dammauville’s room.

But when Balzajette opened the door to return to the patient, a flood

of light filled the parlor and enveloped them. A lamp with a shade was

placed on the little table near the bed, and two other lighted lamps

with globes were on the mantel, reflecting their light in the

mirror. How had he not foreseen that there was another door to Madame

Dammauville’s room besides the door from the parlor? But if he had

foreseen it, it would not have lessened the danger of the situation.

He would have had time to prepare himself, that was all. But to prepare

himself for what? Either to enter the room and brave this danger, or to

fly. He entered.

“This is what we have decided,” Balzajette said, who never lost an

occasion to put himself forward and to speak.

While he spoke, Madame Dammauville seemed not to listen to him. Her eyes

were on Saniel, placed between her and the chimney with his back to the

lamps, and she looked at him with a characteristic fixedness.

Balzajette, who listened to himself, observed nothing; but Saniel, who

knew what there was behind this glance, could not but be struck with

it. Happily for him, he had only to let Balzajette talk, for if he had

spoken he would surely have betrayed himself by the quivering of his

voice.

However, Balzajette seemed coming to the end of his explanations.

Suddenly Saniel saw Madame Dammauville extend her hand toward the lamp

on the table, and raise the shade by lowering it toward her in such a

way as to form a reflector that threw the light on him. At the same time

he received a bright ray full on his face.

Madame Dammauville uttered a small, stifled cry.

Balzajette stopped; then his astonished eyes went from Madame

Dammauville to Saniel, and front Saniel to Madame Dammauville.

“Are you suffering?” he asked.

“Not at all.”

What, then, was the matter? But it was seldom that he asked for an

explanation of a thing that astonished him, preferring to divine and to

explain it himself.

“Ah! I understand it,” he said with a satisfied smile.

“The youth of my young ‘confrere’ astonishes you. It is his fault. Why

the devil did he have his long hair and his light curled beard cut?”

If Madame Dammauville had not released the lampshade, she would have

seen Saniel turned pale and his lips quiver.

“Mais voila!” continued Balzajette. “He made this sacrifice to his new

functions; the student has disappeared before the professor.”

He might have continued along time. Neither Madame Dammauville nor

Saniel listened to him; but, thinking of his dinner, he was not going

to launch into a discourse that at any other moment he would not have

failed to undertake. He rose to go.

As Saniel bowed, Madame Dammauville stopped him with a movement of her

hand.

“Did you not know this unfortunate who was assassinated opposite?” she

asked, pointing to the windows.

So serious as was an acknowledgment, Saniel could not answer in the

negative.

“I was called in to prove his death,” he said.

And he took several steps toward the door, but she stopped him again.

“Had you business with him?” she asked.

“I saw him several times.”

Balzajette cut short this conversation, which was idle talk to him.

“Good evening, dear Madame. I will see you tomorrow, but not in the

morning, for I go to the country at six o’clock, and shall not return

until noon.”

CHAPTER XXXIII. SUSPENSE

“Did you observe how I cut the conversation short?” Balzajette said, as

they went down-stairs. “If you listen to women they will never let you

go. I cannot imagine why she spoke to you of this assassinated man, can

you?”

“No.”

“I believe that this assassination has affected her brain to a certain

point. In any case, it has given her a horror of this house.”

He continued thus without Saniel listening to what he said. On reaching

the Rue Neuve-des-Petits-Champs, Balzajette hailed a passing cab.

“You have had the kindness not to delay me,” he said, pressing the hand

of his young ‘confrere’, “but I feel that I must hurry. ‘Au revoir’.”

A good riddance! This babbling gave Saniel the vertigo.

He must recover himself, look the situation in the face, and consider

that which might, which must, happen.

The situation was plain; Madame Dammauville’s cry revealed it. When the

lamplight struck him full in the face, she found in him the man whom

she had seen draw Caffies curtains. If, in her amazement, she at first

refused to believe it, her questions regarding Caffie, and Balzajette’s

explanations about his hair and beard, destroyed her hesitation and

replaced doubt by the horror of certainty. He was the assassin; she knew

it, she had seen him. And such as she revealed herself to him, it seemed

that she was not the woman to challenge the testimony of her eyes, and

to let the strength of her memory be shaken by simple denials, supported

by Balzajette’s words.

With a vivid clearness he saw to the bottom of the abyss open before

him; but what he did not see was in what way she would push him into

this giddy whirlpool, that is, to whom she would reveal the discovery

that she had made. To Phillis, to Balzajette, or to the judge?

It was almost a relief to think that for this evening, at least, it

would not be to Phillis, for at this moment she would be at his rooms,

anxiously awaiting his return. He felt a sadness and a revulsion at the

thought that she might be the first to learn the truth. He did not wish

that, and he would prevent it.

This preoccupation gave him an object; he reached the Rue Louis-le-Grand

thinking more of Phillis than of himself. What distress when she should

know all! How could she support this blow, and with what sentiments

would it inspire her, with what judgment for the man whom she loved?

Poor girl! He grew tender at the thought. As for him, he was lost,

and it was his fault; he bore the penalty of his own stupidity. But

Phillis--it would be a blow to her love that she must bear. And what a

blow to this sensitive heart, to this proud and noble soul!

Perhaps he would now see her for the last time, for this one hour, and

never again. Then he would be kind to her, and leave her a memory that,

later, would be an alleviation to her sorrow, a warm, bright ray in her

time of mourning. During these last few days he had been hard, brutal,

irritable, strange, and with her habitual serenity she had overlooked

it all. When he pushed her from him with his heavy hand, she had

kissed this hand, fastening on him her beautiful, tender eyes, full of

passionate caresses. He must make her forget that, and she must carry

from their last interview a tender impression that would sustain her.

What could he do for her? He remembered how happy she had been at their

impromptu dinners six months before, and he would give her this same

pleasure. He would see her happy again, and near her, under her glance,

perhaps he would forget tomorrow.

He went to the caterer who furnished him with breakfast, and ordered two

dinners to be sent to his rooms immediately.

Before he could put the key in the lock, his door was opened by Phillis,

who recognized his step on the landing.

“Well?”

“Your brother is saved.”

“Madame Dammauville will go to court?”

“I promise you that he is saved.”

“By you?”

“Yes, by me--exactly.”

In her access of joy, she did not notice the accent on these last words.

“Then you forgive me?”

He took her in his arms, and kissing her with deep emotion said:

“With all my heart, I swear it!”

“You see it was written that you should see Madame Dammauville, in spite

of yourself, in spite of all; it was providential.”

“It is certain that your friend Providence could not interfere more

opportunely in my affairs.”

This time she was struck by the tone of his voice; but she imagined that

it was only this allusion to superior intervention that had vexed him.

“It was of ourselves that I thought,” she said, “not of you.”

“I understood. But do not let us talk of that; you are happy, and I do

not wish to shadow your joy. On the contrary, I thought to associate

myself with it by giving you a surprise: we are going to dine together.”

“Oh, dearest!” she exclaimed, trembling, “how-good you are! I will set

the table,” she added joyously, “and you light the fire; for we must

have a bright fire to enliven us and to keep our dinner warm. What have

you ordered?”

“I do not know; two dinners.”

“So much the better! We will have surprises. We will leave the dishes

covered before the fire, and we will take them anyhow. Perhaps we shall

eat the roast before the entree, but that will be all the more funny.”

Light, quick, busy, graceful, and charming, she came and went around the

table.

When the dinner came, the table was ready, and they sat down opposite to

each other.

“What happiness to be alone!” she said. “To be able to talk and to look

at each other freely!”

He looked at her with a tenderness in his eyes that she had never before

seen, with a depth of serious contemplation that overwhelmed her. From

time to time little cries of happiness escaped her.

“Oh! Dearest, dearest!” she murmured.

Yet she knew him too well not to see that a cloud of sadness often

veiled these eyes full of love, and that also they were often without

any expression, as if they looked within. Suddenly she became quiet;

but she could not long remain silent when she was uneasy. Why this

melancholy at such a moment?

“What a difference between this dinner,” she said, “and those of the

end of October! At that time you were harassed by the most trying

difficulties, at war with creditors, menaced on all sides, without hope;

and now all is smooth. No more creditors, no more struggles. The cares

that I brought you are nearly at an end. Life opens easy and glorious.

The end that you pursued is reached; you have only to walk straight

before you, boldly and proudly. Yet there is a sadness in your face that

torments me. What is the matter? Speak, I beg you! To whom should you

confess, if not to the woman who adores you?”

He looked at her a long time without replying, asking himself if, for

the peace of his own heart, this confession would not be better than

silence; but courage failed him, pride closed his lips.

“What should be the matter?” he said. “If my face is sad, it does not

indicate faithfully what I feel; for what I feel at this moment is an

ineffable sentiment of tenderness for you, an inexpressible gratitude

for your love, and for the happiness that you have given me. If I have

been happy in my rough and struggling life, it is through you. What I

have had of joy, confidence, hope, memories, I owe to you; and if we

had not met I should have the right to say that I have been the most

miserable among the miserable. Whatever happens to us, remember these

words, my darling, and bury them in the depths of your heart, where you

will find them some day when you would judge me.”

“To judge you--I!”

“You love me, therefore you do not know me. But the hour will come when

you will wish to know exactly the man whom you have loved; when that

time comes remember this evening.”

“It is too radiant for me to forget it.”

“Whatever it may be, remember it. Life is so fragile and so ephemeral a

thing, that it is beautiful to be able to concentrate it, to sum it up

by remembrance, in one hour that marks it and gives it its scope.

Such an hour is this one, which passes while I speak to you with deep

sincerity.”

Phillis was not accustomed to these ‘elanas’, for, in the rare effusions

to which he sometimes abandoned himself, Saniel always observed a

certain reserve, as if he feared to commit himself, and to let her read

his whole nature. Many times he rallied her when she became sentimental,

as he said, and “chantait sa romance;” and now he himself sang it--this

romance of love.

Great as was her happiness to listen to him, she could not help

feeling an uneasy astonishment, and asked herself under what melancholy

impression he found himself at this moment.

He read her too well not to divine this uneasiness. Not wishing to

betray himself, he brought a smile to his eyes, and said:

“You do not recognize me, do you? I am sure you are asking yourself if I

am not ill.”

“Oh, dearest, do not jest, and do not harden yourself against the

sentiment that makes such sweet music on your lips! I am happy, so

happy, to hear you speak thus, that I would like to see your happiness

equal to mine; to dissipate the dark cloud that veils your glance. Will

you never abandon yourself? At this hour, above all, when everything

sings and laughs within us as about us! Nothing was more natural than

that you should be sad six months ago; but today what more do you want

to make you happy?”

“Nothing, it is true.”

“Is not the present the radiant morning of a glorious future?”

“What will you? There are sad physiognomies as there are happy ones;

mine is not yours. But let us talk no more of that, nor of the past, nor

of the future; let us talk of the present.”

He rose, and, taking her in his arms, made her sit next to him on the

sofa.

The sound of the doorbell made Saniel jump as if he had received an

electric shock.

“You will not open the door?” Phillis said. “Do not let any one take our

evening from us.”

But soon another ring, more decided, brought him to his feet.

“It is better to know,” he said, and he went to open the door, leaving

Phillis in his office.

A maid handed him a letter.

“From Madame Dammauville,” she said; “there is an answer.”

He left her in the vestibule, and returned to his office to read the

letter. The dream had not lasted long; reality seized him with its

pitiless hands. This letter, certainly, would announce the blow that

menaced him.

“If Dr. Saniel is disengaged, I beg that he will come to see me this

evening on an urgent affair; I will wait for him until ten o’clock.

If not, I count on seeing him to-morrow morning after nine o’clock.

“A. DAMMAUVILLE.”

He returned to the vestibule.

“Say to Madame. Dammauville that I shall be there in a quarter of an

hour.”

When he reentered the office he found Phillis before the glass, putting

on her hat.

“I heard,” she said. “What a disappointment! But I cannot wish you to

stay, since it is for Florentin that you leave me.”

As she walked toward the door he stopped her.

“Embrace me once more.”

Never had he pressed her in such a long and passionate embrace.

CHAPTER XXXIV. ON THE RACK

He had not a second of doubt; Madame Dammauville did not wish a

professional visit from him. She wished to speak to him of Caffie, and,

in the coming crisis, he said to himself that perhaps it was fortunate

that it was so; at least he would be first to know what she had decided

to do, and he could defend himself. Nothing is hopeless as long as a

struggle is possible.

He rang the bell with a firm hand, and the door was opened by the maid

who brought the letter. With a small lamp in her hand, she conducted him

through the dining-room and the salon to Madame Dammauville’s bedroom.

At the threshold, a glance showed him that some changes had been made in

the arrangement of the furniture. The small bed where he had seen Madame

Dammauville was placed between the two windows, and she was lying in a

large bed with canopy and curtains. Near her was a table on which were

a shaded lamp, some books, a blotting-book, a teapot, and a cup; on the

white quilt rested an unusually long bellrope, so that she might pull it

without moving. The fire in the chimney was out, but the movable stove

sent out a heat that denoted it was arranged for the night.

Saniel felt the heat, and mechanically unbuttoned his overcoat.

“If the heat is uncomfortable, will you not remove your overcoat?”

Madame Dammauville said.

While he disposed of it and his hat, placing them on a chair by the

fireplace, he heard Madame Dammauville say to her maid:

“Remain in the salon, and tell the cook not to go to bed.”

What did this mean? Was she afraid that he would cut her throat?

“Will you come close to my bed?” she said. “It is important that we

should talk without raising our voices.”

He took a chair and seated himself at a certain distance from the bed,

and in such a way that he was beyond the circle of light thrown by the

lamp. Then he waited.

A moment of silence, which he found terribly long, slipped away before

she spoke.

“You know,” she said at last, “how I saw, accidentally, from this

place”--she pointed to one of the windows--“the face of the assassin of

my unfortunate tenant, Monsieur Caffie.”

“Mademoiselle Cormier has told me,” he replied in a tone of ordinary

conversation.

“Perhaps you are astonished that at such a distance I saw the face

clearly enough to recognize it after five months, as if it were still

before me.”

“It is extraordinary.”

“Not to those who have a memory for faces and attitudes; with me this

memory has always been strongly developed. I remember the playmates of

my childhood, and I see them as they were at six and ten years of age,

without the slightest confusion in my mind.”

“The impressions of childhood are generally vivid and permanent.”

“This persistency does not only apply to my childish impressions. Today,

I neither forget nor confound a physiognomy. Perhaps if I had had many

acquaintances, and if I had seen a number of persons every day, there

might be some confusion in my mind; but such is not the case. My

delicate health has obliged me to lead a very quiet life, and I remember

every one whom I have met. When I think of such a one, it is not of the

name at first, but of the physiognomy. Each time that I have been to

the Senate or to the Chamber, I did not need to ask the names of

the deputies or senators who spoke; I had seen their portraits and I

recognized them. If I go into these details it is because they are of

great importance, as you will see.”

It was not necessary for her to point out their importance; he

understood her only too well.

“In fine, I am thus,” she continued. “It is, therefore, not astonishing

that the physiognomy and the attitude of the man who drew the curtains

in Monsieur Caffie’s office should not leave my memory. You admit this,

do you not?”

“Since you consult me, I must tell you that the operations of the memory

are not so simple as people imagine. They comprise three things: the

conservation of certain states, their reproduction and localization in

the past, which should be reunited to constitute the perfect memory.

Now this reunion does not always take place, and often the third is

lacking.”

“I do not grasp your meaning very well. But what is the third thing?”

“Recognition.”

“Well, I can assure you that in this case it is not lacking!”

The action beginning in this way, it was of the utmost importance for

Saniel that he should throw doubts in Madame Dammauville’s mind, and

should make her think that this memory of which she felt so sure was

not, perhaps, as strong or as perfect as she imagined.

“It is,” he said, “exactly this third thing that is the most delicate,

the most complex of the three, since it supposes, besides the state of

consciousness, some secondary states, variable in number and in degree,

which, grouped around it, determine it.”

Madame Dammauville remained silent a moment, and Saniel saw that she

made an effort to explain these obscure words to herself.

“I do not understand,” she said at last.