Schlüssel shoved me into a large and very dreary hall, with benches
arranged in a semicircle. The appearance of this deserted hall, with
its two high grated windows, and its Christ carved in old brown oak
with His arms extended and His head sorrowfully inclined upon His
shoulder, inspired me with I do not know what kind of religious fear
that accorded with my actual situation.
All my ideas of false accusation disappeared, and my lips tremblingly
murmured a prayer.
I had not prayed for a long time; but misfortune always brings us to
thoughts of submission. Man is so little in himself!
Opposite me, on an elevated seat, two men were sitting, with their
backs to the light, and consequently their faces were in shadow.
However, I recognized Van Spreckdal by his acquiline profile,
illuminated by an oblique reflection from the window. The other
person was fat, he had round, chubby cheeks and short hands, and he
wore a robe, like Van Spreckdal.
Below was the clerk of the court, Conrad; he was writing at a low
table and was tickling the tip of his ear with the feather-end of his
pen. When I entered, he stopped to look at me curiously.
They made me sit down, and Van Spreckdal, raising his voice, said to
me:
"Christian Vénius, where did you get this sketch?"
He showed me the nocturnal sketch which was then in his possession.
It was handed to me. After having examined it, I replied:
"I am the author of it."
A long silence followed; the clerk of the court, Conrad, wrote down
my reply. I heard his pen scratch over the paper, and I thought:
"Why did they ask me that question? That has nothing to do with the
kick I gave Rap in the back."
"You are the author of it?" asked Van Spreckdal. "What is the
subject?"
"It is a subject of pure fancy."
"You have not copied the details from some spot?"
"No, sir; I imagined it all."
"Accused Christian," said the judge in a severe tone, "I ask you to
reflect. Do not lie."
"I have spoken the truth."
"Write that down, clerk," said Van Spreckdal.
The pen scratched again.
"And this woman," continued the judge--"this woman who is being
murdered at the side of the well--did you imagine her also?"
"Certainly."
"You have never seen her?"
"Never."
Van Spreckdal rose indignantly; then, sitting down again, he seemed
to consult his companion in a low voice.
These two dark profiles silhouetted against the brightness of the
window, and the three men standing behind me, the silence in the
hall--everything made me shiver.
"What do you want with me? What have I done?" I murmured.
Suddenly Van Spreckdal said to my guardians:
"You can take the prisoner back to the carriage; we will go to
Metzerstrasse."
Then, addressing me:
"Christian Vénius," he cried, "you are in a deplorable situation.
Collect your thoughts and remember that if the law of men is
inflexible, there still remains for you the mercy of God. This you
can merit by confessing your crime."
These words stunned me like a blow from a hammer. I fell back with
extended arms, crying:
"Ah! what a terrible dream!"
And I fainted.
When I regained consciousness, the carriage was rolling slowly down
the street; another one preceded us. The two officers were always
with me. One of them on the way offered a pinch of snuff to his
companion; mechanically I reached out my hand toward the snuff-box,
but he withdrew it quickly.
My cheeks reddened with shame, and I turned away my head to conceal
my emotion.
"If you look outside," said the man with the snuff-box, "we shall be
obliged to put handcuffs on you."
"May the devil strangle you, you infernal scoundrel!" I said to
myself. And as the carriage now stopped, one of them got out, while
the other held me by the collar; then, seeing that his comrade was
ready to receive me, he pushed me rudely to him.
These infinite precautions to hold possession of my person boded no
good; but I was far from predicting the seriousness of the accusation
that hung over my head until an alarming circumstance opened my eyes
and threw me into despair.
They pushed me along a low alley, the pavement of which was unequal
and broken; along the wall there ran a yellowish ooze, exhaling a
fetid odor. I walked down this dark place with the two men behind
me. A little further there appeared the chiaroscuro of an interior
courtyard.
I grew more and more terror-stricken as I advanced. It was no
natural feeling: it was a poignant anxiety, outside of nature--like
the nightmare. I recoiled instinctively at each step.
"Go on!" cried one of the policemen, laying his hand on my shoulder;
"go on!"
But what was my astonishment when, at the end of the passage, I saw
the courtyard that I had drawn the night before, with its walls
furnished with hooks, its rubbish-heap of old iron, its
chicken-coops, and its rabbit-hutch. Not a dormer window, high or
low, not a broken pane, not the slightest detail had been omitted.