M. GINORY, M. Leriche, the chief; Bernardet, and, in fact, all the
judiciary, believed that Charles Prades was guilty of the murder of
Rovere. Bernardet, who had been an actor in this drama, had now become a
spectator.
Paul Rodier, a good reporter, had learned before his confreres of the
arrest of the young man, and, abandoning what he had called his trail of
the Woman in Black, he abruptly whirled about and quickly invented a
sensational biography of the newcomer. Charles-Henri Prades, or rather
Carlos Prades, as he called himself, had been a _gaucho_, a buffalo
tamer, a cowboy, using, turn by turn, the American revolver against the
Redskins and the Mexican lasso against the Yankees.
The journalist had obtained a signature, picked up by the lodging-house
keeper where the guilty man had been hunted down, and published in his
paper the autographic characters; he had deduced from them some dramatic
observations. Cooper, of former times; Gustave Aymard, of yesterday;
Rudyard Kipling or Bret Harte, of to-day, had never met a personage more
dreadful, and at the same time more heroic. Carlos Prades used the
navaja (Spanish knife) with the terrible rapidity of a Catalan. He had
felt since the days of Buenos Ayres a fierce hate for the ex-Consul, and
this crime, which some of his brother reporters, habitually
indifferently informed (it was Paul Rodier who spoke), now attributed
alone to the avarice of this Cambrioleur from over the sea; he, Rodier,
gave this note as the cause of vengeance, and built thereupon a romance
which made his readers shiver. Or, rather, he said nothing outright. He
permitted one a glimpse into, he outlined, one knows not what, dark
history. Soon he made this Carlos Prades the instrument and the arm of
an association of vengeance. He could even believe that there was
anarchy in the affair. Then he had the young man mixed in some love
affair, a drama of passion, with Argentine Republic for the theatre.
As a result he had succeeded in making interesting the man whom
Bernardet had pushed a few nights before into the station house.
And, what was a singular thing, the reporter had divined part of the
truth. It was still another episode in his past that Rovere expiated
when he found himself one day, in his salon in the Boulevard de Clichy,
face to face with the man who was to be his murderer. At Buenos Ayres,
the ex-Consul had been associated in a large agricultural enterprise
with a man whose hazardous speculations, play and various adventures had
completely ruined him, and who had left two children--a young girl whom
Rovere thought for a moment of marrying, and a son, younger--poor beings
of whom the Consul, paying his partner's debts, seemed the natural
protector. Jean Prades, in committing suicide--he had killed himself,
frightened at the magnitude of his debts--had commended his children to
Rovere's care.
If Carlotta had lived, without doubt Rovere would have made her his
wife. He loved her with a deep and respectful tenderness. The poor girl
died very suddenly, and there remained to Rovere only his dream. One of
those remembrances of a fireside, one of those spectres which brush the
forehead with their wings or the folds of their winding sheets, when in
the solitude in which he has voluntarily buried himself the searcher
after adventures recalls the past. The past of yesterday. Illusions,
disillusions, old loves, miseries!
Rovere gave to this brother of the dead girl the affection which he had
felt for her. He remembered, also, the father's request. Prades's son,
passionate, eager to live, tempted in all his appetites, accepted as his
due Rovere's truly paternal devotion, worked on the sympathy of this
man, who, through pity and duty, too, gave to Charles a little of the
affection which he had felt for the sister, almost his fiancee, and for
the father, dead by his own hand.
But, little by little, the solicitations, the unreasonable demands of
Prades, who, believing that he had a just claim on his father's old
partner, found it very natural that Rovere should devote himself to
him--these continual and pressing demands became for the Consul
irritating obsessions. Rovere seemed to this young man, who was a
spendthrift and a gambler--a gambler possessed with atavistic frenzy--a
sort of living savings bank, from which he could draw without counting.
His importunities at last seemed fatiguing and excessive, and Prades was
advised one beautiful day that he no longer need count from that moment
on the generosity of his benefactor. All this happened at Buenos Ayres,
and about the time of the Consul's departure for France. Rovere added to
this very curt declaration a last benefit. He gave to the brother of the
dead girl, to the son of Prades, of the firm of Rovere and Prades, a sum
sufficient to enable him to live while waiting for better things, and he
told the young man in proper terms that, as he had now no one to depend
upon, that he had better take himself elsewhere to be hung. The word
could not be, with the appetites and habits of Charles Prades, taken in
a figurative sense, and the young man continued his life of adventures,
as tragic in their reality and as improbable as the reporters'
melodramatic inventions.
Then, at the end of his resources, after having searched for fortune
among miners, weary of tramping about in America, he embarked one
morning for Havre, with the idea that the best gold mine was still that
living placer which he had exploited in Buenos Ayres, and which was
called Pierre Rovere.
At Paris, where he knew the Consul had retired, Prades soon found trace
of him, and learned where was the retreat of his brother-in-law. His
brother-in-law! He pronounced the word with a wicked sneer, as if it had
for him a something understood about the sweet and maiden remembrance of
the dead girl. There, in gay Paris, with some resources which allowed
him to pay for his board and lodging in a third-rate hotel, he searched,
asked, discovered, at last, the address of the ex-Consul, and presented
himself to Rovere, who felt, at sight of this spectre, his anger return.
The first time that Charles Prades had asked at the lodge if M. Rovere
was at home, the Moniches had permitted him to go upstairs, and perhaps
Mme. Moniche would have suspected the man in the sombrero if she had not
surprised Jacques Dantin before the open safe and the papers.
Prades, moreover, had appeared only three times at Rovere's house, and
on the day of the murder he had entered at the moment when Mme. Moniche
was sweeping the upper floors, and Moniche was working in his shop in
the rear of the lodge, and the staircase was empty. He rang, and
Rovere, with dragging steps, came to open the door. Rovere was ill and
was a little ennuied, and he believed, or instinctively hoped, that it
was the woman in black--his daughter!
Everything served Prades's projects. He had come not to kill, but by
some means to gain entrance to Rovere's apartments, and, when once
there, to find some resource--a loan, more or less freely given, more or
less forced--and he would leave with it.
Rovere, already worn out, weary of his former supplications, felt
tempted to shut the door in his face, but Prades pushed it back,
entered, closed it, and said:
"A last interview! You will never see me again! But listen to me!"
Then, Rovere allowed him to enter the salon, and despite the terrible
weakness which he experienced wished to make this a final, decisive
interview; to disembarrass himself once for all of this everlasting
beggar, sometimes whining, sometimes threatening.
"Will you not let me die in peace?" he said. "Have I not paid my debt?"
But Prades had seated himself in a fauteuil, crossed his legs and hung
over his knee his sombrero, on which he drummed a minstrel march.
"My dear Monsieur Rovere, it is a last appeal for funds. I believe that
America is better than Paris. And in order to return there or to do
what I ought here, I must have what I have not--money!"
"I am tired of giving you money!" Rovere quickly replied.
And between these two men, bound by the remembrance of the dead girl--a
bond burdensome to the one, imposed upon by the other--a storm of bitter
words and harsh sentiments arose and kindled fierce anger in both.
"I tried to let you remain in peace, my dear Consul. But hunger has
driven the wolf out of the woods. I am very hungry. And here I am!"
"I have nothing with which to feed your appetites. You are nothing but a
burden to me."
"Oh! Ingratitude!" and Prades, with his Argentine accent, spoke his
sister's name.
"My father died and Carlotta herself entrusted me to your care, my dear
brother-in-law!"
It seemed to the sick man, irritated as he was, that this name--which he
had buried deep in his heart with chaste tenderness--was a supreme
insult.
"I forbid you to evoke that memory! You do not see, then, that the
memory of that dear and saintly creature is one of the griefs of my
life!"
"And it is one of my heritages! Brother-in-law of a consul, _Senor mia_,
but it is a title, and I hold it!"
Rovere experienced a strong desire to call, to ring, to give an order to
have this troublesome visitor put out. But energetic and fearless as he
had been but a short time before, now weakened by illness, he trembled
before a possible scandal. Then he, unaided, attempted to push the young
man out of the salon. Prades resisted, and, at the first touch, gave a
bound, and all that was evil in him suddenly awoke.
A struggle ensued, without a word being pronounced by either; a quick,
brutal struggle. Rovere counted on his past strength, taking by the
collar this Prades who threatened him, and Prades, while clutching the
ex-Consul with his left hand, searched in his pocket for a weapon--the
one which Bernardet had taken from him.
This was a sinister moment! Prades pushed Rovere back; he staggered and
fell against a piece of furniture, while the young man disengaging
himself, stepped back, quickly opened his Spanish knife, then, with a
bound, caught Rovere, shook him, and holding the knife uplifted, said:
"Thou hast willed it!"
It was at this instant that Rovere, whose hands were contracted, dug his
nails into the assassin's neck--the nails which the Commissary Desbriere
and M. Jacquelin Audrays had found still red with blood.
Prades, who had come there either to supplicate or threaten, now had
only one thought, hideous and ferocious--to kill! He did not reason. It
was no more than an unchained instinct. The noise of the organs upon the
Boulevard, which accompanied with their musical, dragging notes this
savage scene, like a tremulo undertone to a melodrama at the theatre, he
did not hear. The whole intensity of his life seemed to be concentrated
in his fury, in his hand armed with the knife. He threw himself on
Rovere; he struck the flesh, opening the throat, as across the water
among the Gauchos he had been accustomed to kill sheep or cut the throat
of an ox.
Rovere staggered, wavered, freed from the hand which held him, and
Prades stepping back, looked at him.
Livid, the dying man seemed to live only in his eyes. He had cast upon
the murderer a last meaning look--now, in a sort of supreme agony, he
looked around, his eyes searched for a support, for aid, yes, they
called, while from that throat horrible sounds issued.
Prades saw with a kind of fright, Rovere, with a superhuman tragic
effort, step back, staggering like a drunken man, pull with his poor
contracted hands from above the chimney piece an object which the
murderer had not noticed and upon which, with an ardent, prayerful
expression he fixed his eyes, stammering some quick inarticulate words
which Prades could not hear or understand.
It seemed to Prades that between his victim and himself there was a
witness, and whether he thought of the value of the stones imbedded in
the frame or whether he wished to take from Rovere this last support in
his distress, he went to him and attempted to tear the portrait from his
hands. But an extraordinary strength seemed to come to the dying man and
Rovere resisted, fastening his eyes upon the portrait, casting upon it a
living flame, like the last flare of a dying lamp, and with this last,
despairing, agonizing look the ex-Consul breathed his last. He fell.
Prades tore the portrait from the fingers which clutched it. That frame,
he could sell it. He picked up here and there some pieces which seemed
to him of value, as if on a pillaging tour on the prairies. He was about
to enter the library where the safe was, when the noise of the opening
of the entrance door awakened his trapper's instinct. Some one was
coming. Who it could be was of little importance. To remain was to
expose himself, to be at once arrested. The corpse once seen, the person
would cry aloud, rush out, close the door and send for the police.
Hesitating between a desire to pillage and the necessity for fright,
Prades did not wait long to decide. Should he hide? Impossible! Then,
stepping back to the salon door, he flattened himself as much as
possible against the wall and waited until the door should be opened
when he would be completely hidden behind it. As Mme. Moniche stepped
into the room and cried out as she saw Rovere lying on the floor, Prades
slipped into the ante-chamber, found himself on the landing, closed the
door, rapidly descended the stairs and stepped out upon the Boulevard de
Clichy among the passers-by, even before Mme. Moniche, terrified, had
called for help.