The door was opened, and the narrow court, the glass porch, the red
carpet of the staircase, were before me. The concierge, who
saluted me, was not he by whom I had fancied myself slighted in my
childhood; but the old valet de chambre who opened the door to me
was the same. His close-shaven face wore its former impassive
expression, the look that used to convey to me such an impression
of insult and insolence when I came home from school. What
childish absurdity!
To my question the man replied that my mother was in, also H.
Termonde, and Madame Bernard, a friend of theirs. The latter name
brought me back at once to the reality of the situation. Madame
Bernard was a prettyish woman, very slight and very dark, with a
"tip-tilted" nose, frizzy hair worn low upon her forehead, very
white teeth which were continually shown by a constant smile, a
short upper lip, and all the manners and ways of a woman of society
well up to its latest gossip. I fell at once from my fancied
height as an imaginary Grand Judiciary into the shallows of
Parisian frivolity. I felt about to hear chatter upon the last new
play, the latest suit for separation, the latest love affairs, and
the newest bonnet. It was for this that I had eaten my heart out
all these days!
The servant preceded me to the hall I knew so well, with its
Oriental divan, its green plants, its strange furniture, its
slightly faded carpet, its Meissonier on a draped easel, in the
place formerly occupied by my father's portrait, its crowd of
ornamental trifles, and the wide-spreading Japanese parasol open in
the middle of the ceiling. The walls were hung with large pieces
of Chinese stuff embroidered in black and white silk. My mother
was half-reclining in an American rocking-chair, and shading her
face from the fire with a hand-screen; Madame Bernard, who sat
opposite to her, was holding her muff with one hand and
gesticulating with the other; M. Termonde, in walking-dress, was
standing with his back to the chimney, smoking a cigar, and warming
the sole of one of his boots.
On my appearance, my mother uttered a little cry of glad surprise,
and rose to welcome me. Madame Bernard instantly assumed the air
with which a well-bred woman prepares to condole with a person of
her acquaintance upon a bereavement. All these little details I
perceived in a moment, and also the shrug of M. Termonde's
shoulders, the quick flutter of his eyelids, the rapidly-dismissed
expression of disagreeable surprise which my sudden appearance
called forth. But what then? Was it not the same with myself? I
could have sworn that at the same moment he experienced sensations
exactly similar to those which were catching me at the chest and by
the throat. What did this prove but that a current of antipathy
existed between him and me? Was it a reason for the man's being a
murderer? He was simply my stepfather, and a stepfather who did
not like his stepson.
Matters had stood thus for years, and yet, after the week of
miserable suspicion I had lived through, the quick look and shrug
struck me strangely, even while I took his hand after I had kissed
my mother and saluted Madame Bernard. His hand? No, only his
finger tips as usual, and they trembled a little as I touched them.
How often had my own hand shrunk with unconquerable repugnance from
that contact! I listened while he repeated the same phrases of
sympathy with my sorrow which he had already written to me while I
was at Compiegne. I listened while Madame Bernard uttered other
phrases to the same effect; and then the conversation resumed its
course, and, during the half-hour that ensued, I looked on,
speaking hardly at all, but mentally comparing the physiognomy of
my stepfather with that of the visitor, and that of my mother. The
contemplation of those three faces produced a curious impression
upon me; it was that of their difference, not only of age, but of
intensity, of depth. There was no mystery in my mother's face, it
was as easy to read as a page in dear handwriting! The mind of
Madame Bernard, a worldly, trumpery, poor mind, but harmless
enough, was readily to be discerned in her features which were at
once refined and commonplace. How little there was of reflection,
of decision, of exercise of will, in short of individuality, behind
the poetic grace of the one and the pretty affectations of the
other! What a face, on the contrary, was that of my stepfather,
with its strong individuality, and its vivid expression! In this
man of the world, as he stood there talking with two women of the
world, in his blue, furtive eyes, too wide apart, and always
seeming to shun observation, in his prematurely gray hair, his
mouth set round with deep wrinkles, in his dark, blotched, bilious
complexion, there seemed to be a creature of another race. What
passions had worn those furrows? what vigils had hollowed those
eyeballs? Was this the face of a happy man, with whom everything
had succeeded, who, having been born to wealth and of an excellent
family, had married the woman he loved; who had known neither the
wearing cares of ambition, the toil of money-getting, nor the
stings of wounded self-love? It is true, he suffered from liver
complaint; but why was it that, although I had hitherto been
satisfied with this answer, it now appeared to me childish and even
foolish? Why did all these marks of trouble and exhaustion
suddenly strike me as effects of a secret cause, and why was I
astonished that I had not sooner sought for it? Why was it that in
his presence, contrary to my expectations, contrary to what had
happened about my mother, I was plunged more deeply into the gulf
of suspicion from which I had hoped to emerge with a free mind?
Why, when our eyes met for just one second, was I afraid that he
might read my thoughts in my glance, and why did I shift them with
a pang of shame and terror? Ah! coward that I was, triple coward!
Either I was wrong to think thus, and at any price I must know that
I was wrong; or, I was right and I must know that too. The sole
resource henceforth remaining to me for the preservation of my
self-respect was ardent and ceaseless search after certainty.
That such a search was beset with difficulty I was well aware. How
was I to get at facts? The very position of the problem which I
had before me forbade all hope of discovering anything whatsoever
by a formal inquiry. What, in fact, was the matter in question?
It was to make myself certain whether M. Termonde was or was not
the accomplice of the man who had led my father into the trap in
which he had lost his life. But I did not know that man himself; I
had no data to go upon except the particulars of his disguise and
the vague speculations of a Judge of Instruction. If I could only
have consulted that Judge, and availed myself of his experience?
How often since have I taken out the packet containing the
denunciatory letters, with the intention of showing them to him and
imploring advice, support, suggestions, from him. But I have
always stopped short before the door of his house; the thought of
my mother barred its entrance against me. What if he, the Judge of
Instruction in the case, were to suspect her as my aunt had done?
Then I would go back to my own abode, and shut myself up for hours,
lying on the divan in my smoking-room and drugging my senses with
tobacco. During that time I read and re-read the fatal letters,
although I knew them by heart, in order to verify my first
impression with the hope of dispelling it. It was, on the
contrary, deepened. The only gain I obtained from my repeated
perusals was the knowledge that this certainty, of which I had made
a point of honor to myself, could only be psychological. In short,
all my fancies started from the moral data of the crime, apart from
physical data which I could not obtain. I was therefore obliged to
rely entirely, absolutely, upon those moral data, and I began again
to reason as I had done at Compiegne. "Supposing," said I to
myself, "that M. Termonde is guilty, what state of mind must he be
in? This state of mind being once ascertained, how can I act so as
to wrest some sign of his guilt from him?" As to his state of mind
I had no doubt. Ill and depressed as I knew him to be, his mind
troubled to the point of torment, if that suffering, that gloom,
that misery were accompanied by the recollection of a murder
committed in the past, the man was the victim of secret remorse.
The point was then to invent a plan which should give, as it were,
a form to his remorse, to raise the specter of the deed he had done
roughly and suddenly before him. If guilty, it was impossible but
that he would tremble; if innocent, he would not even be aware of
the experiment. But how was this sudden summoning-up of his crime
before the man whom I suspected to be accomplished? On the stage
and in novels one confronts an assassin with the spectacle of his
crime, and keeps watch upon his face for the one second during
which he loses his self-possession; but in reality there is no
instrument except unwieldy, unmanageable speech wherewith to probe
a human conscience. I could not, however, go straight to M.
Termonde and say to his face: "You had my father killed!" Innocent
or guilty, he would have had me turned from the door as a madman!
After several hours of reflection, I came to the conclusion that
only one plan was reasonable, and available: this was to have a
private talk with my stepfather at a moment when he would least
expect it, an interview in which all should be hints, shades,
double meanings, in which each word should be like the laying of a
finger upon the sorest spots in his breast, if indeed his
reflections were those of a murderer.
Every sentence of mine must be so contrived as to force him to ask
himself: "Why does he say this to me if he knows nothing? He does
know something. How much does he know?"
So well acquainted was I with every physical trait of his, the
slightest variations of his countenance, his simplest gestures,
that no sign of disturbance on his part, however slight, could
escape me. If I did not succeed in discovering the seat of the
malady by this process, I should be convinced of the baselessness
of those suspicions which were constantly springing up afresh in my
mind since the death of my aunt. I would then admit the simple and
probable explanation--nothing in my father's letters discredited
it--that M. Termonde had loved my mother without hope in the
lifetime of her first husband, and had then profited by her
widowhood, of which he had not even ventured to think.
If, on the contrary, I observed during our interview that he was
alive to my suspicions, that he divined them, and anxiously
followed my words; if I surprised that swift gleam in his eye which
reveals the instinctive terror of an animal, attacked at the moment
of its fancied security, if the experiment succeeded, then--then--I
dared not think of what then?
The mere possibility was too overwhelming.
But should I have the strength to carry on such a conversation? At
the mere thought of it my heart-beats were quickened, and my nerves
thrilled. What! this was the first opportunity that had been
offered to me of action, of devoting myself to the task of
vengeance, so coveted, so fully accepted during all my early years,
and I could hesitate?
Happily, or unhappily, I had near me a counsellor stronger than my
doubts, my father's portrait, which was hung in my smoking-room.
When I awoke in the night and plunged into those thoughts, I would
light my candle and go to look at the picture. How like we were to
each other, my father and I, although I was more slightly built!
How exactly the same we were! How near to me I felt him, and how
dearly I loved him! With what emotion I studied those features,
the lofty forehead, the brown eyes, the rather large mouth, the
rather long chin, the mouth especially half-hidden by a black
moustache cut like my own; it had no need to open, and cry out:
"Andre, Andre, remember me!" Ah, no, my dear dead father, I could
not leave you thus, without having done my utmost to avenge you,
and it was only an interview to be faced, only an interview!
My nervousness gave way to determination at once feverish and
fixed--yes, it was both--and it was in a mood of perfect self-
mastery, that, after a long period of mental conflict, I repaired
to the hotel on the boulevard, with the plan of my discourse
clearly laid out. I felt almost sure of finding my stepfather
alone; for my mother was to breakfast on that day with Madame
Bernard. M. Termonde was at home, and, as I expected, alone in his
study.
When I entered the room, he was sitting in a low chair, close to
the fire, looking chilly, and smoking. Like myself in my dark
hours, he drugged himself with tobacco. The room was a large one,
and both luxurious and ordinary. A handsome bookcase lined one of
the walls. Its contents were various, ranging from grave works on
history and political economy, to the lightest novels of the day.
A large, flat writing-table, on which every kind of writing-
material was carefully arranged, occupied the middle of the room,
and was adorned with photographs in plain leather cases. These
were portraits of my mother and M. Termonde's father and mother.
At least one prominent trait of its owner's character, his
scrupulous attention to order and correctness of detail, was
revealed by the aspect of my stepfather's study; but this quality,
which is common to so many persons of his position in the world,
may belong to the most commonplace character as well as to the most
refined hypocrite. It was not only in the external order and
bearing of his life that my stepfather was impenetrable, none could
tell whether profound thoughts were or were not hidden behind his
politeness and elegance of manner. I had often reflected on this,
at a period when as yet I had no stronger motive for examining into
the recesses of the man's character than curiosity, and the
impression came to me with extreme intensity at the moment when I
entered his presence with a firm resolve to read in the book of his
past life.
We shook hands, I took a seat opposite to his on the other side of
the hearth, lighted a cigar, and said, as if to explain my
unaccustomed presence:
"Mamma is not here?"
"Did she not tell you, the other day, that she was to breakfast
with Madame Bernard? There's an expedition to Lozano's studio"
(Lozano was a Spanish painter much in vogue just then), "to see a
portrait he is painting of Madame Bernard. Is there anything you
want to have told to your mother?" he added, simply.
These few words were sufficient to show me that he had remarked the
singularity of my visit. Ought I to regret or to rejoice at this?
He was, then, already aware that I had some particular motive for
coming; but this very fact would give all their intended weight to
my words. I began by turning the conversation on an indifferent
matter, talking of the painter Lozano and a good picture of his
which I knew, "A Gipsy-dance in a Tavern-yard at Grenada." I
described the bold attitudes, the pale complexions, the Moorish
faces of the "gitanas," and the red carnations stuck into the heavy
braids of their black hair, and I questioned him about Spain.
He answered me, but evidently out of mere politeness.
While continuing to smoke his cigar, he raked the fire with the
tongs, taking up one small piece of charred wood after another
between their points. By the quivering of his fingers, the only
sign of his nervous sensitiveness which he was unable entirely to
keep down, I could observe that my presence was then, as it always
was, disagreeable to him. Nevertheless he talked on with his
habitual courtesy, in his low voice, almost without tone or accent,
as though he had trained himself to talk thus. His eyes were fixed
on the flame, and his face, which I saw in profile, wore the
expression of infinite weariness that I knew well, in indescribable
stillness and sadness, with long deep lines, and the mouth was
contracted as though by some bitter thought ever present.
Suddenly, I looked straight at that detested profile, concentrating
all the attention I had in me upon it, and, passing from one
subject to another without transition, I said:
"I paid a very interesting visit this morning."
"In that you are agreeably distinguished from me," was his reply,
made in a tone of utter indifference, "for I wasted my morning in
putting my correspondence in order."
"Yes," I continued, "very interesting. I passed two hours with M.
Massol."
I had reckoned a good deal on the effect of this name, which must
have instantly recalled the inquiry into the mystery of the
Imperial Hotel to his memory. The muscles of his face did not
move. He laid down the tongs, leaned back in his chair, and said
in an absent manner:
"The former Judge of Instruction? What is he doing now?"
Was it possible that he really did not know where the man, whom, if
he were guilty, he ought to have dreaded most of all men, was then
living? How was I to know whether this indifference was feigned?
The trap I had set appeared to me all at once a childish notion.
Admitting that my stepfather's pulses were even now throbbing with
fever, and that he was saying to himself with dread: "What is he
coming to? What does he mean?" why, this was a reason why he
should conceal his emotion all the more carefully. No matter. I
had begun; I was bound to go on, and to hit hard.
"M. Massol is Counsellor to the Court," I replied, and I added--
although this was not true--"I see him often. We were talking this
morning of criminals who have escaped punishment. Only fancy his
being convinced that Troppman had an accomplice. He founds his
belief on the details of the crime, which presuppose two men, he
says. If this be true it must be admitted that 'Messieurs les
assassins' have a kind of honor of their own, however odd that may
appear, since the child-killing monster let his own head be cut off
without denouncing the other. Nevertheless, the accomplice must
have put some bad time over him, after the discovery of the bodies
and the arrest of his comrade. I, for my part, would not trust to
that honor, and if the humor took me to commit a crime, I should do
it by myself. Would you?" I asked jestingly.
These two little words meant nothing, were merely an insignificant
jest, if the man to whom I put my odd question was innocent. But,
if he were guilty, those two little words were enough to freeze the
marrow in his bones. He surrounded himself with smoke while
listening to me, his eye-lids half veiled his eyes; I could no
longer see his left hand, which hung over the far side of his
chair, and he had put the right into the pocket of his morning-
coat. There was a short pause before he answered me--very short--
but the interval, perhaps a minute, that divided his reply from my
question, was a burning one for me. But what of this? It was not
his way to speak in a hurry; and besides, my question had nothing
interesting in it if he were not guilty, and if he were, would he
not have to calculate the bearing of the phrase which he was about
to utter with the quickness of thought? He closed his eyes
completely--his constant habit--and said, in the unconcerned tone
of a man who is talking generalities:
"It is a fact that scraps of conscience do remain intact in very
depraved individuals. One sees instances of this especially in
countries where habits and morals are more genuine and true to
nature than ours. There's Spain, for instance, the country that
interests you so much; when I lived in Spain, it was still infested
by brigands. One had to make treaties with them in order to cross
the Sierras in safety; there was no case known in which they broke
the contract. The history of celebrated criminal cases swarms with
scoundrels who have been excellent friends, devoted sons, and
constant lovers. But I am of your opinion, and I think it is best
not to count too much upon them."
He smiled as he uttered the last words, and now he looked full at
me with those light blue eyes which were so mysterious and
impassible. No, I was not of stature to cope with him, to read his
heart by force. It needed capacity of another kind than mine to
play in the case of this personage the part of the magnate of
police who magnetizes a criminal. And yet, why did my suspicions
gather force as I felt the masked, dissimulating, guarded nature of
the man in all its strength? Are there not natures so constituted
that they shut themselves up without cause, just as others reveal
themselves; are there not souls that love darkness as others love
daylight? Courage, then, let me strike again.
"M. Massol and I," I resumed, "have been talking about what kind of
life Troppmann's accomplice must be leading; and also Rochdale's;
for neither of us has relinquished the intention of finding him.
Before M. Massol's retirement he took the precaution to bar the
limitation by a formal notice, and we have several years before us
in which to search for the man. Do these criminals sleep in peace?
Are they punished by remorse, or by the apprehension of danger,
even in their momentary security? It would be strange if they were
both at this moment good, quiet citizens, smoking their cigars like
you and me, loved and loving. Do you believe in remorse?"
"Yes, I do believe in remorse," he answered.
Was it the contrast between the affected levity of my speech, and
the seriousness with which he had spoken, that caused his voice to
sound grave and deep to my ears? No, no; I was deceiving myself,
for without a thrill he had heard the news that the limitation had
been barred, that the case might be reopened any day--terrible news
for him if he were mixed up with the murder--and he added, calmly,
referring to the philosophic side of my question only:
"And does M. Massol believe in remorse?"
"M. Massol," said I, "is a cynic. He has seen too much wickedness,
known too many terrible stories. He says that remorse is a
question of stomach and religious education, and that a man with a
sound digestion, who had never heard anything about hell in his
childhood, might rob and kill from morning to night without feeling
any other remorse than fear of the police. He also maintains,
being a sceptic, that we do not know what part that question of the
other life plays in solitude; and I think he is right, for I often
begin to think of death, at night, and I am afraid;-- yes, I, who
don't believe in anything very much, am afraid. And you," I
continued, "do you believe in another world?"
"Yes." This time I was sure that there was an alteration in his
voice.
"And in the justice of God?"
"In His justice and His mercy," he answered, in a strange tone.
"Singular justice," I said vehemently, "which is able to do
everything, and yet delays to punish! My poor aunt used always to
say to me when I talked to her about avenging my father: 'I leave
it to God to punish,' but, for my part, if I had got hold of the
murderer, and he was there before me--if I were sure--no, I would
not wait for the hour of that tardy justice of God."
I had risen while uttering these words, carried away by involuntary
excitement which I knew to be unwise. M. Termonde had bent over
the fire again, and once more taken up the tongs. He made no
answer to my outburst. Had he really felt some slight disturbance,
as I believed for an instant, at hearing me speak of that
inevitable and dreadful morrow of the grave which fills myself with
such fear now that there is blood upon my hands?