It was four o'clock in the afternoon on the following day, when I
presented myself at the hotel on the Boulevard de Latour-Maubourg.
I knew that my mother would most probably be out. I also thought
it likely my stepfather would he feeling none the better of his
early excursion to the Grand Hotel on the previous day, and I
therefore hoped to find him at home, perhaps in his bed. I was
right; my mother was out, and he had remained at home. He was in
his study, the room in which our first explanation had taken place.
That upon which I was now bent was of far greater importance, and
yet I was less agitated than on the former occasion. At last I was
completely certain of the facts, and with that certainty a strange
calmness had come to me. I can recall my having talked for a few
moments with the servant who announced me, about a child of his who
was ill. I also remember to have observed for the first time that
the smoky chimney of some manufacturing works at the back of the
garden, built, no doubt, during the last winter, was visible
through the window of the staircase.
I record these things because I am bound to recognize that my mind
was quite clear and free--for I will be sincere to the end--when I
entered the spacious room.
My stepfather was reclining in a deep armchair at the far side of
the fireplace, and occupied in cutting the pages of a new book with
a dagger. The blade of this weapon was broad, short, and strong.
He had brought the knife back from Spain, with several other kinds
of arms, which lay about in the rooms he habitually occupied. I
now understood the order of ideas which this singular taste
indicated. He was dressed for walking; but his altered looks bore
witness to the intensity of the crisis through which he had passed.
It had affected his whole being.
Very likely my face was expressive of an extraordinary resolution,
for I saw by his eyes, as our looks met, that he had read the
depths of my thoughts at a glance. Nevertheless, he said: "Ah, is
it you, Andre? It is very kind of you to come," thus exhibiting
once more the power of his self-control, and he put out his hand.
I did not take it, and my refusal, contrasting with his gesture of
welcome, the silence which I kept for some minutes, the contraction
of my features, and, no doubt, the menace in my eyes, entirely
enlightened him as to the mood in which I came to him. Very
quietly, he laid down his book and the Spanish knife he had been
using, on a large table within his reach, and then he rose from his
chair, leaned his back against the mantelpiece, and crossing his
arms, looked at me with the haughty stare I knew so well, and which
had so often humiliated me in my boyhood. I was the first to break
the silence; replying to his polite greeting in a harsh tone, and
looking him straight in the face, I said:
"The time of lies is past. You have guessed that I know all?"
He bent his brows into the stern frown he always assumed when he
felt anger he was bound to suppress, his eyes met mine with
indomitable pride, and he merely replied:
"I do not understand you."
"You do not understand me? Very well, I am about to enlighten
you." My voice shook in uttering these words; my coolness was
forsaking me. The day before, and in my conversation with the
brother, I had come in contact with the vile infamy of a knave and
a coward; but the enemy whom I was now facing, although a greater
scoundrel than the other, found means to preserve a sort of moral
superiority, even in that terrible hour when he knew well he was
face to face with his crime.
Yes, this man was a criminal, but of a grand kind, and there was no
cowardice in him. Pride sat upon that brow so laden with dark
thoughts, but fear set no mark upon it, any more than did
repentance. In his eyes--exactly like those of his brother--a
fierce resolution shone; I felt that he would defend himself to the
end. He would yield to evidence only, and such strength of mind
displayed at such a moment had the effect of exasperating me. The
blood flew to my head, and my heart beat rapidly, as I went on:
"Allow me to take up the matter a little farther back. In 1864,
there was in Paris a man who loved the wife of his most intimate
friend. Although that friend was very trusting, very noble, very
easily duped, he became aware of this love, and he began to suffer
from it. He grew jealous--although he never doubted his wife's
purity of heart--jealous as everyone is who loves too well.
"The man who was the object of his jealousy perceived it,
understood that he was about to be forbidden the house, knew that
the woman whom he loved would never degrade herself by listening to
a lover, and this is the plan which be conceived:
"He had a brother somewhere in a distant land, an infamous
scoundrel who was supposed to be dead, a creature sunk in shame, a
thief, a forger, a deserter, and he bethought him of this brother
as an instrument ready to his hand wherewith to rid himself of the
friend who stood in the way of his passion. He sent for the fellow
secretly, he appointed to meet him in one of the loneliest corners
of Paris--in a street adjoining the Jardin des Plantes, and at
night--you see I am well informed. It is easy to imagine how he
persuaded the former thief to play the part of bravo. A few months
after, the husband was assassinated by this brother, who eluded
justice. The felon-friend married almost immediately the woman
whom he loved; he is now a man in society, wealthy and respected,
and his pure and pious wife loves, admires, nay, worships him. Do
you now begin to understand?"
"No more than before," he answered, with the same impassive face.
He did well not to flinch. What I had said might be only an
attempt to wrest his secret from him by feigning to know all.
Nevertheless, the detail concerning the place where he had
appointed to meet his brother had made him start. That was the
spot to hit, and quickly.
"The cowardly assassin," I continued, "yes, the coward, because he
dared not commit the crime himself, had carefully calculated all
the circumstances of the murder; but he had reckoned without
certain little accidents, for instance, that his brother would keep
the three letters he had received, the first two at New York, the
last at Liverpool, and which contained instructions relating to the
stages of this clandestine journey. Neither had he taken into
account that the son of his victim would grow up, would become a
man, would conceive certain suspicions of the true cause of his
father's death, and would succeed in procuring overwhelming proof
of the dark conspiracy. Come, then," I added fiercely, "off with
the mask! M. Jacques Termonde, it is you who had my unhappy father
killed by your brother Edmond. I have in my possession the letters
you wrote him in January, 1864, to induce him to come to Europe,
first under the false name of Rochester and afterwards under that
of Rochdale. It is not worth your while to play the indignant or
the astonished with me--the game is up."
He had turned frightfully pale; but his arms still remained
crossed, and his bold eyes did not droop. He made one last attempt
to parry the straight blow I had aimed at him, and he had the
hardihood to say:
"How much did that wretch Edmond ask as the price of the forgery
which he fabricated in revenge for my refusal to give him money?"
"Be silent, you--" said I still more fiercely. "Is it to me that
you dare to speak thus--to me? Did I need those letters in order
to learn all? Have we not known for weeks past, I, that you had
committed the crime, and you, that I had divined your guilt? What
I still needed was the written, indisputable, undeniable proof,
that which can be laid before a magistrate. You refused him money?
You were about to give him money, only that you mistrusted him, and
chose to wait until the day of his departure. You did not suspect
that I was upon your track. Shall I tell you when it was you saw
him for the last time? Yesterday, at ten o'clock in the morning,
you went out, you changed your cab first at the Place de la
Concorde, and a second time at the Palais Royal. You went to the
Grand Hotel, and you asked whether Mr. Stanbury was in his room. A
few hours later I, myself, was in that same room. Ah! how much did
Edmond Termonde ask from me for the letters? Why, I tore them from
him, pistol in hand, after a struggle in which I was nearly killed.
You see now that you can deceive me no more, and that it is no
longer worth your while to deny."
I thought he was about to drop dead before me. His face changed,
until it was hardly human, as I went on, on, on, piling up the
exact facts, tracking his falsehood, as one tracks a wild beast,
and proving to him that his brother had defended himself after his
fashion, even as he had done. He clasped his hands about his head,
when I ceased to speak, as though to compress the maddening
thoughts which rushed upon him; then, once more looking me in the
face, but this time with infinite despair in his eyes, he uttered
exactly the same sentence as his brother had spoken, but with quite
another expression and tone:
"This hour too was bound to come. What do you want from me now?"
"That you should do justice on yourself," I answered. "You have
twenty-four hours before you. If, to-morrow at this hour, you are
still living, I place the letters in my mother's hands."
Every sort of feeling was depicted upon his livid face while I
placed this ultimatum before him, in a firm voice which admitted of
no farther discussion. I was standing up, and I leaned against the
large table; he came towards me, with a sort of delirium in his
eyes as they strove to meet mine.
"No," he cried, "no, Andre, not yet! Pity me, Andre, pity me! See
now, I am a condemned man, I have not six months to live. Your
revenge! Ah! you had no need to undertake it. What! If I have
done a terrible deed, do you think I have not been punished for it?
Look at me, only look at me; I am dying of this frightful secret.
It is all over; my days are numbered. The few that remain, leave,
oh, leave them to me! Understand this, I am not afraid to die; but
to kill myself, to go away, leaving this grief to her whom you love
as I do! It is true that, to win her, I have done an atrocious
deed; but say, answer, has there ever been an hour, a minute since,
in which her happiness was not my only aim? And you would have me
leave her thus, inflict upon her the torment of thinking that while
I might have grown old by her side, I preferred to go away, to
forsake her before the time? No, Andre--this last year, leave it
to me! Ah, leave it to me, leave it to us, for I assure you that I
am hopelessly ill, that I know it, that the doctors have not hidden
it from me. In a few months--fix a date--if the disease has not
carried me off, you can come back. But I shall be dead. She will
weep for me, without the horror of that idea that I have
forestalled my hour, she who is so pious! You only will be there
to console her, to love her. Have pity upon her, if not upon me.
See, I have no more pride towards you, I entreat you in her name,
in the name of her dear heart, for well you know its tenderness.
You love her, I know that; I have guessed truly that you hid your
suspicions to spare her pain. I tell you once again, my life is a
hell, and I would joyfully give it to you in expiation of what I
have done; but she, Andre, she, your mother, who has never, never
cherished a thought that was not pure and noble, no, do not inflict
this torture upon her."
"Words, words!" I answered, moved to the bottom of my soul in spite
of myself, by the outburst of an anguish in which I was forced to
recognize sincerity. "It is because my mother is noble and pure
that I will not have her remain the wife of a vile murderer for a
day longer. You shall kill yourself, or she shall know all."
"Do it then if you dare," he replied, with a return to the natural
pride of his character, at the ferocity of my answer. "Do it if
you dare! Yes, she is my wife, yes, she loves me; go and tell her,
and kill her yourself with the words. Ha, you see! You turn pale
at the mere thought. I have allowed you to live, yes, I, on
account of her, and do you suppose I do not hate you as much as you
hate me? Nevertheless, I have respected you because you were dear
to her, and you will have to do the same with me. Yes, do you
hear, it must be so--"
It was he who was giving orders now, he who was threatening. How
plainly had he read my mind, to stand up before me in such an
attitude! Furious passion broke loose in me; I took in the facts
of the situation. This man had loved my mother madly enough to
purchase her at the cost of the murder of his most intimate friend,
and he loved her after all those years passionately enough to
desire that not one of the days he had still to pass with her might
be lost to him. And it was also true that never, never should I
have the courage to reveal the terrific truth to the poor woman.
I was suddenly carried away by rage to the point of losing all
control over my frenzy. "Ah!" I cried, "since you will not do
justice on yourself, die then, at once!" I stretched out my hand
and seized the dagger which he had recently placed upon the table.
He looked at me without flinching, or recoiling; indeed presenting
his breast to me, as though to brave my childish rage. I was on
his left bending down, and ready to spring. I saw his smile of
contempt, and then with all my strength I struck him with the knife
in the direction of the heart.
The blade entered his body to the hilt.
No sooner had I done this thing than I recoiled, wild with terror
at the deed. He uttered a cry. His face was distorted with
terrible agony, and he moved his right hand towards the wound, as
though he would draw out the dagger. He looked at me, convulsed; I
saw that he wanted to speak; his lips moved, but no sound issued
from his mouth. The expression of a supreme effort passed into his
eyes, he turned to the table, took a pen, dipped it into the
inkstand, and traced two lines on a sheet of paper within his
reach. He looked at me again, his lips moved once more, then he
fell down like a log.
I remember--I saw the body stretched upon the carpet, between the
table and the tall mantelpiece, within two feet of me. I
approached him, I bent over his face. His eyes seemed to follow me
even after death.
Yes, he was dead.
The doctor who certified the death explained afterwards that the
knife had passed through the cardiac muscle without completely
penetrating the left cavity of the heart, and that, the blood not
being shed all at once, death had not been instantaneous.
I cannot tell how long he lived after I struck him, nor do I know
how long I remained in the same place, overwhelmed by the thought:
"Someone will come, and I am lost." It was not for myself that I
trembled. What could be done to a son who had but avenged his
murdered father? But, my mother? This was what all my resolutions
to spare her at any cost, my daily solicitude for her welfare, my
unseen tears, my tender silence, had come to in the end! I must
now, inevitably, either explain myself, or leave her to think I was
a mere murderer. I was lost. But if I called, if I cried out
suddenly that my stepfather had just killed himself in my presence,
should I be believed? And, besides, had he not written what would
convict me of murder, on that sheet of paper lying on the table?
Was I going to destroy it, as a practiced criminal destroys every
vestige of his presence before he leaves the scene of his crime?
I seized the sheet of paper; the lines were written upon it in
characters rather larger than usual. How it shook in my hand while
I read these words: "Forgive me, Marie. I was suffering too much.
I wanted to be done with it." And he had had the strength to affix
his signature!
So then, his last thought had been for her. In the brief moments
that had elapsed between my blow with the knife, and his death, he
had perceived the dreadful truth, that I should be arrested, that I
would speak to explain my deed, that my mother would then learn his
crime--and he had saved me by compelling me to silence.
But was I going to profit by this means of safety? Was I going to
accept the terrible generosity by which the man, whom I had so
profoundly detested, would stand acquitted towards me for evermore?
I must render so much justice to my honor; my first impulse was to
destroy that paper, to annihilate with it even the memory of the
debt imposed upon my hatred by the atrocious but sublime action of
the murderer of my father.
At that moment I caught sight of a portrait of my mother, on the
table, close to where he had been sitting. It was a photograph,
taken in her youth; she was represented in brilliant evening
attire, her bare arms shaded with lace, pearls in her hair, gay,
ay, better than gay, happy, with an ineffably pure expression
overspreading her face. My stepfather had sacrificed all to save
her from despair on learning the truth, and was she to receive the
fatal blow from me, to learn at the same moment that the man she
loved had killed her first husband, and that he had been killed by
her son?
I desire to believe, so that I may continue to hold myself in some
esteem, that only the vision of her grief led me to my decision. I
replaced the sheet of paper on the table, and turned away from the
corpse lying on the carpet, without casting a glance at it. The
remembrance of my flight from the Grand Hotel, on the previous day,
gave me courage; I must try a second time to get away without
betraying discomposure.
I found my hat, left the room, and closed the door carelessly. I
crossed the hall and went down the staircase, passing by the
footman who stood up mechanically, and then the concierge who
saluted me. The two servants had not even put me out of
countenance.
I returned to my room as I had done the day before, but in a far
more tragic state of suspense. Was I saved? Was I lost? All
depended on the moment at which somebody might go into my
stepfather's room. If my mother were to return within a few
minutes of my departure; if the footman were to go upstairs with
some letter, I should instantly be suspected, in spite of the
declaration written by M. Termonde. I felt that my courage was
exhausted. I knew that, if accused, I should not have moral
strength to defend myself, for my weariness was so overwhelming
that I did not suffer any longer. The only thing I had strength to
do was to watch the swing of the pendulum of the timepiece on the
mantelshelf, and to mark the movement of the hands. A quarter of
an hour elapsed, half an hour, a whole hour.
It was an hour and a half after I had left the fatal room, when the
bell at the door was rung. I heard it through the walls. A
servant brought me a laconic note from my mother scribbled in
pencil and hardly legible. It informed me that my stepfather had
destroyed himself in an attack of severe pain. The poor woman
implored me to go to her immediately. Ah, she would now never know
the truth!