Since then a strange circumstance happened. They came to relieve my good
old gendarme, with whom, ungrateful egotist that I am, I did not even
shake hands. Another took his place; a man with a low forehead, heavy
features, and stupid countenance. Beyond this I paid no attention, but
seated myself at the table, my forehead resting on my hands, and my
mind troubled by thought. A light touch on my shoulder made me look
round. It was the new gendarme, with whom I was alone, and who addressed
me pretty nearly in these terms:--
“Criminal, have you a kind heart?”
“No!” answered I, impatiently. The abruptness of my answer seemed to
disconcert him. Nevertheless, he began again, hesitatingly,--
“People are not wicked for the pleasure of being so?”
“Why not?” answered I. “If you have nothing but that to say to me, leave
me in peace. What is your aim?”
“I beg your pardon, Criminal,” he returned; “I will only say two words,
which are these: If you could cause the happiness of a poor man, and
that it cost you nothing, would you not do so?”
I answered gravely, “Surely, you cannot allude to me as having power to
confer happiness?”
He lowered his voice and assumed a mysterious air, which ill-suited with
his idiotic countenance.
“Yes, Criminal, yes,--happiness! fortune!” whispered he; “all this can
come to me through you. Listen here, I am a poor gendarme; the service
is heavy, the pay is light; my horse is my own, and ruins me. So I put
into the lottery as a counterbalance. Hitherto I have only missed by not
having the right numbers. I am always very near them. If I buy
seventy-six, number seventy-seven comes up a prize. Have a little
patience, if you please; I have almost done. Well, here is a lucky
opportunity for me. It appears, Criminal, begging your pardon, that you
are to be executed to-day. It is a certain fact that the dead who are
destroyed that way see the lottery before it is drawn on earth. Promise
that your spirit shall appear to me to-morrow evening, to give me three
numbers,--three good ones, eh? What trouble will it be to you? and I am
not afraid of ghosts. Be easy on that point. Here’s my address:
Popincourt Barracks, staircase A, No. 26, at the end of the corridor.
You will know me again, won’t you? Come even to-night, if it suits you
better.”
I would have disdained to reply to such an imbecile, if a mad hope had
not crossed my mind. In my desperate position there are moments when one
fancies that a chain may be broken by a hair.
“Listen,” said I to him, acting my part as well as a dying wretch could.
“I can indeed render thee richer than the King. I can make thee gain
millions, on one condition.”
He opened his stupid eyes.
“What, what? I will do anything to please you, Criminal.”
“Then instead of three numbers I promise to tell you four. Change coats
with me.”
“Oh, is that all?” cried he, undoing the first hooks of his uniform
cheerfully.
I rose from my chair; I watched all his movements with a beating heart.
I already fancied the doors opening before the uniform of a gendarme;
and then the prison--the street--the town--left far behind me! But
suddenly he turned round with indecision, and asked,--
“I say,--it is not to go out of this?”
I saw that all was lost; nevertheless, I tried one last effort, useless
as it was foolish.
“Yes, it is,” said I to him; “but as thy fortune will be made--”
He interrupted me.
“Oh, law, no! on account of my numbers! To make them good, you must be
dead, you know!”
I sat down again, silent, and more desponding, from all the hope that I
had conceived.