"Goodness knows. I imagine that this charming, generous, and independent
creature had never known in her life a single genuine thought; I mean a
single thought detached from small human vanities, or whose source was
not in some conventional perception. All I know is that after advancing
a few steps she extended her hand towards the motionless Sevrin. And
that at least was no gesture. It was a natural movement. As to what
she expected him to do, who can tell? The impossible. But whatever she
expected, it could not have come up, I am safe to say, to what he had
made up his mind to do, even before that entreating hand had appealed to
him so directly. It had not been necessary. From the moment he had seen
her enter that cellar, he had made up his mind to sacrifice his future
usefulness, to throw off the impenetrable, solidly fastened mask it had
been his pride to wear--"
"What do you mean?" I interrupted, puzzled. "Was it Sevrin, then, who
was--"
"He was. The most persistent, the most dangerous, the craftiest, the
most systematic of informers. A genius amongst betrayers. Fortunately
for us, he was unique. The man was a fanatic, I have told you.
Fortunately, again, for us, he had fallen in love with the accomplished
and innocent gestures of that girl. An actor in desperate earnest
himself, he must have believed in the absolute value of conventional
signs. As to the grossness of the trap into which he fell, the
explanation must be that two sentiments of such absorbing magnitude
cannot exist simultaneously in one heart. The danger of that other and
unconscious comedian robbed him of his vision, of his perspicacity, of
his judgment. Indeed, it did at first rob him of his self-possession.
But he regained that through the necessity--as it appeared to him
imperiously--to do something at once. To do what? Why, to get her out of
the house as quickly as possible. He was desperately anxious to do that.
I have told you he was terrified. It could not be about himself. He had
been surprised and annoyed at a move quite unforeseen and premature. I
may even say he had been furious. He was accustomed to arrange the
last scene of his betrayals with a deep, subtle art which left his
revolutionist reputation untouched. But it seems clear to me that at
the same time he had resolved to make the best of it, to keep his mask
resolutely on. It was only with the discovery of her being in the house
that everything--the forced calm, the restraint of his fanaticism, the
mask--all came off together in a kind of panic. Why panic, do you ask?
The answer is very simple. He remembered--or, I dare say, he had never
forgotten--the Professor alone at the top of the house, pursuing his
researches, surrounded by tins upon tins of Stone's Dried Soup. There
was enough in some few of them to bury us all where we stood under
a heap of bricks. Sevrin, of course, was aware of that. And we must
believe, also, that he knew the exact character of the man. He had
gauged so many such characters! Or perhaps he only gave the Professor
credit for what he himself was capable of. But, in any case, the effect
was produced. And suddenly he raised his voice in authority.
"'Get the lady away at once.'
"It turned out that he was as hoarse as a crow; result, no doubt, of
the intense emotion. It passed off in a moment. But these fateful words
issued forth from his contracted throat in a discordant, ridiculous
croak. They required no answer. The thing was done. However, the man
personating the inspector judged it expedient to say roughly:
"'She shall go soon enough, together with the rest of you.'
"These were the last words belonging to the comedy part of this affair.
"Oblivious of everything and everybody, Sevrin strode towards him and
seized the lapels of his coat. Under his thin bluish cheeks one could
see his jaws working with passion.
"'You have men posted outside. Get the lady taken home at once. Do you
hear? Now. Before you try to get hold of the man upstairs.'
"'Oh! There is a man upstairs,' scoffed the other, openly. 'Well, he
shall be brought down in time to see the end of this.'
"But Sevrin, beside himself, took no heed of the tone.
"'Who's the imbecile meddler who sent you blundering here? Didn't you
understand your instructions? Don't you know anything? It's incredible.
Here--'
"He dropped the lapels of the coat and, plunging his hand into his
breast, jerked feverishly at something under his shirt. At last he
produced a small square pocket of soft leather, which must have been
hanging like a scapulary from his neck by the tape whose broken ends
dangled from his fist.
"'Look inside,' he spluttered, flinging it in the other's face. And
instantly he turned round towards the girl. She stood just behind him,
perfectly still and silent. Her set, white face gave an illusion of
placidity. Only her staring eyes seemed bigger and darker.
"He spoke rapidly, with nervous assurance. I heard him distinctly
promise her to make everything as clear as daylight presently. But that
was all I caught. He stood close to her, never attempting to touch her
even with the tip of his little finger--and she stared at him stupidly.
For a moment, however, her eyelids descended slowly, pathetically,
and then, with the long black eyelashes lying on her white cheeks, she
looked ready to fall down in a swoon. But she never even swayed where
she stood. He urged her loudly to follow him at once, and walked towards
the door at the bottom of the cellar stairs without looking behind him.
And, as a matter of fact, she did move after him a pace or two. But,
of course, he was not allowed to reach the door. There were angry
exclamations, a short, fierce scuffle. Flung away violently, he came
flying backwards upon her, and fell. She threw out her arms in a gesture
of dismay and stepped aside, just clear of his head, which struck the
ground heavily near her shoe.
"He grunted with the shock. By the time he had picked himself up,
slowly, dazedly, he was awake to the reality of things. The man into
whose hands he had thrust the leather case had extracted therefrom a
narrow strip of bluish paper. He held it up above his head, and, as
after the scuffle an expectant uneasy stillness reigned once more, he
threw it down disdainfully with the words, 'I think, comrades, that this
proof was hardly necessary.'
"Quick as thought, the girl stooped after the fluttering slip. Holding
it spread out in both hands, she looked at it; then, without raising her
eyes, opened her fingers slowly and let it fall.
"I examined that curious document afterwards. It was signed by a very
high personage, and stamped and countersigned by other high officials
in various countries of Europe. In his trade--or shall I say, in his
mission?--that sort of talisman might have been necessary, no doubt.
Even to the police itself--all but the heads--he had been known only as
Sevrin the noted anarchist.
"He hung his head, biting his lower lip. A change had come over him,
a sort of thoughtful, absorbed calmness. Nevertheless, he panted. His
sides worked visibly, and his nostrils expanded and collapsed in weird
contrast with his sombre aspect of a fanatical monk in a meditative
attitude, but with something, too, in his face of an actor intent upon
the terrible exigencies of his part. Before him Horne declaimed, haggard
and bearded, like an inspired denunciatory prophet from a wilderness.
Two fanatics. They were made to understand each other. Does this
surprise you? I suppose you think that such people would be foaming at
the mouth and snarling at each other?"
I protested hastily that I was not surprised in the least; that I
thought nothing of the kind; that anarchists in general were simply
inconceivable to me mentally, morally, logically, sentimentally, and
even physically. X received this declaration with his usual woodenness
and went on.
"Horne had burst out into eloquence. While pouring out scornful
invective, he let tears escape from his eyes and roll down his black
beard unheeded. Sevrin panted quicker and quicker. When he opened his
mouth to speak, everyone hung on his words.
"'Don't be a fool, Horne,' he began. 'You know very well that I have
done this for none of the reasons you are throwing at me.' And in a
moment he became outwardly as steady as a rock under the other's lurid
stare. 'I have been thwarting, deceiving, and betraying you--from
conviction.'
"He turned his back on Horne, and addressing the girl, repeated the
words: 'From conviction.'
"It's extraordinary how cold she looked. I suppose she could not think
of any appropriate gesture. There can have been few precedents indeed
for such a situation.
"'Clear as daylight,' he added. 'Do you understand what that means? From
conviction.'
"And still she did not stir. She did not know what to do. But the
luckless wretch was about to give her the opportunity for a beautiful
and correct gesture.
"'I have felt in me the power to make you share this conviction,' he
protested, ardently. He had forgotten himself; he made a step towards
her--perhaps he stumbled. To me he seemed to be stooping low as if to
touch the hem of her garment. And then the appropriate gesture came. She
snatched her skirt away from his polluting contact and averted her
head with an upward tilt. It was magnificently done, this gesture of
conventionally unstained honour, of an unblemished high-minded amateur.
"Nothing could have been better. And he seemed to think so, too, for
once more he turned away. But this time he faced no one. He was again
panting frightfully, while he fumbled hurriedly in his waistcoat pocket,
and then raised his hand to his lips. There was something furtive in
this movement, but directly afterwards his bearing changed. His laboured
breathing gave him a resemblance to a man who had just run a desperate
race; but a curious air of detachment, of sudden and profound
indifference, replaced the strain of the striving effort. The race was
over. I did not want to see what would happen next. I was only too well
aware. I tucked the young lady's arm under mine without a word, and made
my way with her to the stairs.
"Her brother walked behind us. Half-way up the short flight she seemed
unable to lift her feet high enough for the steps, and we had to pull
and push to get her to the top. In the passage she dragged herself
along, hanging on my arm, helplessly bent like an old woman. We issued
into an empty street through a half-open door, staggering like besotted
revellers. At the corner we stopped a four-wheeler, and the ancient
driver looked round from his box with morose scorn at our efforts to get
her in. Twice during the drive I felt her collapse on my shoulder in a
half faint. Facing us, the youth in knickerbockers remained as mute as a
fish, and, till he jumped out with the latch-key, sat more still than I
would have believed it possible.
"At the door of their drawing-room she left my arm and walked in first,
catching at the chairs and tables. She unpinned her hat, then, exhausted
with the effort, her cloak still hanging from her shoulders, flung
herself into a deep armchair, sideways, her face half buried in a
cushion. The good brother appeared silently before her with a glass of
water. She motioned it away. He drank it himself and walked off to a
distant corner--behind the grand piano, somewhere. All was still in this
room where I had seen, for the first time, Sevrin, the anti-anarchist,
captivated and spellbound by the consummate and hereditary grimaces that
in a certain sphere of life take the place of feelings with an excellent
effect. I suppose her thoughts were busy with the same memory. Her
shoulders shook violently. A pure attack of nerves. When it quieted down
she affected firmness, 'What is done to a man of that sort? What will
they do to him?'
"'Nothing. They can do nothing to him,' I assured her, with perfect
truth. I was pretty certain he had died in less than twenty minutes
from the moment his hand had gone to his lips. For if his fanatical
anti-anarchism went even as far as carrying poison in his pocket, only to
rob his adversaries of legitimate vengeance, I knew he would take care
to provide something that would not fail him when required.
"She drew an angry breath. There were red spots on her cheeks and a
feverish brilliance in her eyes.
"'Has ever any one been exposed to such a terrible experience? To think
that he had held my hand! That man!' Her face twitched, she gulped down
a pathetic sob. 'If I ever felt sure of anything, it was of Sevrin's
high-minded motives.'
"Then she began to weep quietly, which was good for her. Then through
her flood of tears, half resentful, 'What was it he said to me?--"From
conviction!" It seemed a vile mockery. What could he mean by it?'
"'That, my dear young lady,' I said, gently, 'is more than I or anybody
else can ever explain to you.'"
Mr. X flicked a crumb off the front of his coat.
"And that was strictly true as to her. Though Horne, for instance,
understood very well; and so did I, especially after we had been to
Sevrin's lodging in a dismal back street of an intensely respectable
quarter. Horne was known there as a friend, and we had no difficulty in
being admitted, the slatternly maid merely remarking, as she let us in,
that 'Mr Sevrin had not been home that night.' We forced open a couple
of drawers in the way of duty, and found a little useful information.
The most interesting part was his diary; for this man, engaged in such
deadly work, had the weakness to keep a record of the most damnatory
kind. There were his acts and also his thoughts laid bare to us. But the
dead don't mind that. They don't mind anything.
"'From conviction.' Yes. A vague but ardent humanitarianism had urged
him in his first youth into the bitterest extremity of negation and
revolt. Afterwards his optimism flinched. He doubted and became lost.
You have heard of converted atheists. These turn often into dangerous
fanatics, but the soul remains the same. After he had got acquainted
with the girl, there are to be met in that diary of his very queer
politico-amorous rhapsodies. He took her sovereign grimaces with deadly
seriousness. He longed to convert her. But all this cannot interest you.
For the rest, I don't know if you remember--it is a good many years ago
now--the journalistic sensation of the 'Hermione Street Mystery'; the
finding of a man's body in the cellar of an empty house; the inquest;
some arrests; many surmises--then silence--the usual end for many
obscure martyrs and confessors. The fact is, he was not enough of an
optimist. You must be a savage, tyrannical, pitiless, thick-and-thin
optimist, like Horne, for instance, to make a good social rebel of the
extreme type.
"He rose from the table. A waiter hurried up with his overcoat; another
held his hat in readiness.
"But what became of the young lady?" I asked.
"Do you really want to know?" he said, buttoning himself in his fur coat
carefully. "I confess to the small malice of sending her Sevrin's diary.
She went into retirement; then she went to Florence; then she went into
retreat in a convent. I can't tell where she will go next. What does it
matter? Gestures! Gestures! Mere gestures of her class."
"He fitted on his glossy high hat with extreme precision, and casting
a rapid glance round the room, full of well-dressed people, innocently
dining, muttered between his teeth:
"And nothing else! That is why their kind is fated to perish."
I never met Mr. X again after that evening. I took to dining at my club.
On my next visit to Paris I found my friend all impatience to hear of
the effect produced on me by this rare item of his collection. I
told him all the story, and he beamed on me with the pride of his
distinguished specimen.
"Isn't X well worth knowing?" he bubbled over in great delight. "He's
unique, amazing, absolutely terrific."
His enthusiasm grated upon my finer feelings. I told him curtly that the
man's cynicism was simply abominable.
"Oh, abominable! abominable!" assented my friend, effusively. "And then,
you know, he likes to have his little joke sometimes," he added in a
confidential tone.
I fail to understand the connection of this last remark. I have been
utterly unable to discover where in all this the joke comes in.