WHEREIN WE ARE LED TO MARVEL AT THE READINESS WITH WHICH AN
HONEST MAN OF TIMID AND GENTLE NATURE CAN COMMIT A HORRIBLE
CRIME
Profoundly distressed by the dark utterances of young Maurice, Monsieur
Sariette took a motor-omnibus, and went to see Père Guinardon, his
friend, his only friend, the one person in the whole world whom it gave
him pleasure to see and hear. When Monsieur Sariette entered the shop in
the Rue de Courcelles, Guinardon was alone, dozing in the depths of an
antique arm-chair. His face, surrounded by his curly hair and luxuriant
beard, was crimson in hue. Little violet filaments spread a network
about the fleshy part of his nose, to which the wines of Burgundy had
imparted a purple tint; for there was no longer any disguising the fact,
Père Guinardon drank. Two feet away from him, on the fair Octavie's
work-table, a rose, all but withered, drooped in an empty vase, and in a
basket a piece of embroidery was lying unfinished and neglected. The
young Octavie's absences from the shop were growing more and more
frequent, and Monsieur Blancmesnil never called when she was not there.
The reason of this was that they were meeting three times a week at five
o'clock in a house close to the Champs Élysées. Père Guinardon knew
nothing of that. He did not know the full extent of his misfortune, but
he suffered.
Monsieur Sariette shook his old friend by the hand; but he did not
enquire for the young Octavie, for he refused to recognise the
connexion. He would sooner have talked about Zéphyrine, who had been so
cruelly deserted, and whom he hoped the old man would make his lawful
wife. But Monsieur Sariette was prudent. He contented himself with
asking Guinardon how he was.
"Perfectly well," was Guinardon's reply; but he felt ill, for either age
and love-making had undermined his sturdy constitution, or else young
Octavie's faithlessness had dealt her lover a fatal blow. "God be
praised," he went on, "I still retain my powers of mind and body. I am
chaste. Be chaste, Sariette. Chastity is strength."
That evening Père Guinardon had taken some specially valuable books out
of the king-wood cabinet to show to a distinguished bibliophile,
Monsieur Victor Meyer, and after the latter's departure he had dropped
off to sleep without putting them back in their places. Books had an
attraction for Monsieur Sariette, and seeing these particular volumes
on the marble top of the cabinet, he began to examine them with
interest. The first one he looked at was _La Pucelle_, in morocco, with
the English continuation. Doubtless it pained his patriotic and
Christian heart to admire its text and illustrations, but a good copy
was always virtuous and pure in his sight. Continuing to chat very
affectionately with Guinardon, he picked up, one by one, the books which
the antiquary had, for one reason or another--binding, illustrations,
distinguished ownership, or scarcity--added to his stock.
Suddenly a glorious shout of joy and love broke from his lips. He had
discovered the _Lucretius_ of the Prior de Vendôme, his _Lucretius_, and
he was clasping it to his bosom.
"Once again I behold you," he sighed, as he pressed it to his lips.
At first Père Guinardon could not quite make out what his old friend was
talking about; but when the latter declared to him that the volume was
from the d'Esparvieu collection, that it belonged to him, Sariette, and
that he was going to take it away without further ado, the antiquary
completely woke up, got on his legs, declared emphatically that the book
belonged to him, Guinardon, by right of true and lawful purchase, and
that he would not part with it unless he got five thousand francs for it
cash down.
"You don't take in what I am telling you," answered Sariette. "The book
belongs to the d'Esparvieu library; I must restore it to its place."
"_Pas de ça, Lisette_"---- hummed Guinardon.
"The book belongs to me, I tell you!"
"You are crazy, my good Sariette!"
And noticing that, as a matter of fact, the librarian had a wandering
look in his eye, he took the book from him, and tried to change the
conversation.
"Have you seen, Sariette, that the rascals are going to rip up the
Palais Mazarin, and cover up the very heart and centre of the Old Town,
the finest and most venerable place in the whole of Paris, with the
deuce knows what works of art of theirs? They are worse than the
Vandals, for the Vandals, although they destroyed the buildings of
antiquity, did not replace them with hideous and disgusting erections
and atrocious bridges like the Pont d'Alexandre. And your poor Rue
Garancière, Sariette, has fallen a prey to the barbarians. What have
they done with the pretty bronze mask of the Palace fountain?"
Monsieur Sariette never listened to a word of all this.
"Guinardon, you have not understood me. Now listen. This book belongs to
the d'Esparvieu library. It was taken away, how or by whom I know not.
Dreadful and mysterious things went on in that library. But, anyhow, the
book was stolen. I need scarcely appeal to your sentiments of scrupulous
probity, my dear friend. You would not like to be regarded as the
receiver of stolen goods. Give me the book. I will return it to Monsieur
d'Esparvieu, who will duly requite you; of that you may be sure. Rely on
his generosity, and you will be acting like the downright good fellow
that you are."
The antiquary smiled a bitter smile.
"Catch me relying on the generosity of that old curmudgeon of a
d'Esparvieu. Why, he'd skin a flea to get its coat. Look at me,
Sariette, old boy, and tell me if I look like a dunderhead. You know
perfectly well that d'Esparvieu refused to give fifty francs in a
second-hand shop for a portrait of Alexandre d'Esparvieu, the founder of
the family, by Hersent, and that consequently the founder of the family
has had to remain on the Boulevard Montparnasse, propped against a Jew
hawker's stall, just opposite the cemetery, where all the dogs of the
neighbourhood come and make water on him. Catch me trusting to Monsieur
d'Esparvieu's liberality! You've got some bright ideas in your head, you
have!"
"Very well, Guinardon, I myself will undertake to pay you any indemnity
that a board of arbitrators may fix upon. Do you hear?"
"Now don't go and do the handsome for people who won't give you so much
as a thank-you. This man, d'Esparvieu, has taken your knowledge, your
energies, your whole life for a salary that even a valet wouldn't
accept. So leave that idea alone. In any case it is too late. The book
is sold."
"Sold? To whom?" asked Sariette in agonized tones.
"What does that matter? You'll never see it again. You'll hear no more
about it; it's off to America."
"To America! The _Lucretius_ with the arms of Philippe de Vendôme and
marginalia in Voltaire's own hand! My _Lucretius_ off to America!"
Père Guinardon began to laugh.
"My dear Sariette, you remind me of the Chevalier des Grieux when he
learns that his darling mistress is to be transported to the
Mississippi. 'My dear mistress going to the Mississippi!' says he."
"No! no!" answered Sariette, very pale, "this book shall not go to
America. It shall return, as it ought, to the d'Esparvieu library. Let
me have it, Guinardon."
The antiquary made a second attempt to put an end to an interview that
now looked as if it might take an ugly turn.
"My good Sariette, you haven't told me what you think of my Greco. You
never so much as glanced at it. It is an admirable piece of work all
the same."
And Guinardon, putting the picture in a good light, went on:
"Now just look at Saint Francis here, the poor man of the Lord, the
brother of Jesus. See how his fuliginous body rises heavenward like the
smoke from an agreeable sacrifice, like the sacrifice of Abel."
"Give me the book, Guinardon," said Sariette, without turning his head;
"give me the book."
The blood suddenly flew to Père Guinardon's head.
"That's enough of it," he shouted, as red as a turkey-cock, the veins
standing out on his forehead.
And he dropped the _Lucretius_ into his jacket pocket.
Straightway old Sariette flew at the antiquary, assailed him with sudden
fury, and, frail and weakly as he was, butted him back into young
Octavie's arm-chair.
Guinardon, in furious amazement, belched forth the most horrible abuse
on the old maniac and gave him a punch that sent him staggering back
four paces against the _Coronation of the Virgin_, by Fra Angelico,
which fell down with a crash. Sariette returned to the charge, and tried
to drag the book out of the pocket in which it lay hid. This time Père
Guinardon would really have floored him had he not been blinded by the
blood that was rushing to his head, and hit sideways at the work-table
of his absent mistress. Sariette fastened himself on to his bewildered
adversary, held him down in the arm-chair, and with his little bony
hands clutched him by the neck, which, red as it was already, became a
deep crimson. Guinardon struggled to get free, but the little fingers,
feeling the mass of soft, warm flesh about them, embedded themselves in
it with delicious ecstasy. Some unknown force made them hold fast to
their prey. Guinardon's throat began to rattle, saliva was oozing from
one corner of his mouth. His enormous frame quivered now and again
beneath the grasp; but the tremors grew more and more intermittent and
spasmodic. At last they ceased. The murderous hands did not let go their
hold. Sariette had to make a violent effort to loose them. His temples
were buzzing. Nevertheless he could hear the rain falling outside,
muffled steps going past on the pavement, newspaper men shouting in the
distance. He could see umbrellas passing along in the dim light. He drew
the book from the dead man's pocket and fled.
The fair Octavie did not go back to the shop that night. She went to
sleep in a little entresol underneath the bric-a-brac stores which
Monsieur de Blancmesnil had recently bought for her in this same Rue de
Courcelles. The workman whose task it was to shut up the shop found the
antiquary's body still warm. He called Madame Lenain, the concierge,
who laid Guinardon on the couch, lit a couple of candles, put a sprig of
box in a saucer of holy water, and closed the dead man's eyes. The
doctor who was called in to certify the death ascribed it to apoplexy.
Zéphyrine, informed of what had happened by Madame Lenain, hastened to
the house, and sat up all night with the body. The dead man looked as if
he were sleeping. In the flickering light of the candles El Greco's
Saint mounted upwards like a wreath of smoke, the gold of the Primitives
gleamed in the shadows. Near the deathbed a little woman by Baudouin was
plainly discernible giving herself a douche. All through the night
Zéphyrine's lamentations could be heard fifty yards away.
"He's dead, he's dead!" she kept saying. "My friend, my divinity, my
all, my love---- But no! he is not dead, he moves. It is I, Michel; I,
your Zéphyrine. Awake, hear me! Answer me; I love you; if ever I caused
you pain, forgive me. Dead! dead! O my God! See how beautiful he is. He
was so good, so clever, so kind. My God! My God! My God! If I had been
there he would not now be lying dead. Michel! Michel!"
When morning came she was silent. They thought she had fallen asleep.
She was dead too.