The surprising way in which Van Spreckdal had appeared to me threw me
into a deep wonderment. "Yesterday," I said to myself, as I
contemplated the pile of ducats glittering in the sun, "yesterday I
formed the wicked intention of cutting my throat, all for the want of
a few miserable florins, and now to-day Fortune has showered them
from the clouds. Indeed it was fortunate that I did not open my
razor; and, if the same temptation ever comes to me again, I will
take care to wait until the morrow."
After making these judicious reflections, I sat down to finish the
sketch; four strokes of the pencil and it would be finished. But
here an incomprehensible difficulty awaited me. It was impossible
for me to make those four sweeps of the pencil; I had lost the thread
of my inspiration, and the mysterious personage no longer stood out
in my brain. I tried in vain to evoke him, to sketch him, and to
recover him; he no longer accorded with the surroundings than with a
figure by Raphael in a Teniers inn-kitchen. I broke out into a
profuse perspiration.
At this moment, Rap opened the door without knocking, according to
his praiseworthy custom. His eyes fell upon my pile of ducats and in
a shrill voice he cried:
"Eh! eh! so I catch you. Will you still persist in telling me, Mr.
Painter, that you have no money?"
And his hooked fingers advanced with that nervous trembling that the
sight of gold always produces in a miser.
For a few seconds I was stupefied.
The memory of all the indignities that this individual had inflicted
upon me, his covetous look, and his impudent smile exasperated me.
With a single bound, I caught hold of him, and pushed him out of the
room, slamming the door in his face.
This was done with the crack and rapidity of a spring snuff-box.
But from outside the old usurer screamed like an eagle:
"My money, you thief, my money!"
The lodgers come out of their rooms, asking:
"What is the matter? What has happened?"
I opened the door suddenly and quickly gave Mister Rap a kick in the
spine that sent him rolling down more than twenty steps.
"That's what's the matter!" I cried, quite beside myself. Then I
shut the door and bolted it, while bursts of laughter from the
neighbors greeted Mister Rap in the passage.
I was satisfied with myself; I rubbed my hands together. This
adventure had put new life into me; I resumed my work, and was about
to finish the sketch when I heard an unusual noise.
Butts of muskets were grounded on the pavement. I looked out of my
window and saw three soldiers in full uniform with grounded arms in
front of my door.
I said to myself in my terror: "Can it be that that scoundrel of a
Rap has had any bones broken?"
And here is the strange peculiarity of the human mind: I, who the
night before had wanted to cut my own throat, shook from head to
foot, thinking that I might well be hanged if Rap were dead.
The stairway was filled with confused noises. It was an ascending
flood of heavy footsteps, clanking arms, and short syllables.
Suddenly somebody tried to open my door. It was shut.
Then there was a general clamor.
"In the name of the law--open!"