CHAPTER XIV.
M. GINORY was not without uneasiness when he thought of the detention ofJacques Dantin. Without doubt, all prisoners, all accused persons arereticent; they try to hide their guilt under voluntary silence. They donot speak, because they have sworn not to. They are bound, one knows notby whom, by an oath which they cannot break. It is the ordinary systemof the guilty who cannot defend themselves. Mystery seems to themsafety.
But Dantin, intimately acquainted with Rovere's life, might beacquainted with some secret which he could not disclose and which didnot pertain to him at all. What secret? Had not an examining magistratea right to know everything? Had not an accused man a right to speak?Either Dantin had nothing to reveal and he was playing a comedy and wasguilty, or, if by a few words, by a confidence made to the magistrate hecould escape an accusation, recover his liberty, without doubt he wouldspeak after having kept an inexplicable silence. How could one supposethat an innocent man would hold, for a long time, to this mute system?
The discovery of the portrait in Mme. Colard's shop ought, naturally, togive to the affair a new turn. The arrest of Charles Prades brought animportant element to these researches. He would be examined by M. Ginorythe next morning, after having been questioned by the Commissary ofPolice.
Bernardet, spruce, freshly shaven, was there, and seemed in hiswell-brushed redingote, like a little abbe come to assist at somecurious ceremony.
On the contrary, Prades, after a sleepless night, a night of agony,paler than the evening before, his face fierce and its musclescontracted, had a haggard expression, and he blinked his eyes like anight bird suddenly brought into glaring sunlight. He repeated beforethe Examining Magistrate what he had said to the brigadier. But hisvoice, vibrant a few hours before, had become heavy, almost raucous, asthe haughty expression of his face had become sullen and tragic.
The Examining Magistrate had cited Mme. Colard, the shopkeeper, toappear before him. She instantly recognized in this Prades the man whohad sold her the little panel by Paul Baudry.
He denied it. He did not know of what they were talking. He had neverseen this woman. He knew nothing about any portrait.
"It belonged to M. Rovere," the magistrate replied, "M. Rovere, themurdered man; M. Rovere, who was consul at Buenos Ayres, and you spoke,yesterday, of Buenos Ayres, in the examination at the station house inthe Rue de la Rochefoucauld."
"M. Rovere? Buenos Ayres?" repeated the young man, rolling his sombreroaround his fingers.
He repeated that he did not know the ex-Consul, that he had never beenin South America, that he had come from Sydney.
Bernardet, at this moment, interrupted him by taking his hat from himwithout saying a word, and Prades cast a very angry look at the littleman.
M. Ginory understood Bernardet's move and approved with a smile. Helooked in the inside of the sombrero which Bernardet handed to him.
The hat bore the address of Gordon, Smithson & Co., Berner Street,London.
"But, after all," thought the Magistrate, "Buenos Ayres is one of themarkets for English goods."
"That is a hat bought at Sydney," Prades (who had understood) explained.
Before the bold, decided, almost violent affirmations which Mme. Colardmade that this was certainly the seller of the portrait, the young manlost countenance a little. He kept saying over and over: "You deceiveyourself. Madame, I have never spoken to you, I have never seen you."
When M. Ginory asked her if she still persisted in saying that this wasthe man who had sold her the picture, she said:
"Do I still persist? With my neck under the guillotine I would persist,"and she kept repeating: "I am sure of it! I am sure of it!"
This preliminary examination brought about no decisive result. It wascertain that, if this portrait had been in the possession of this youngman and been sold by him, that he, Charles Prades, was an accomplice ofDantin's, if not the author of the crime. They ought, then, to bebrought face to face, and, possibly, this might bring about an immediateresult. And why not have this meeting take place at once, before Pradeswas sent where Dantin was, at Mazas?
M. Ginory, who had uttered this word "Mazas," noticed the expression ofterror which flashed across and suddenly transfigured the young man'sface.
Prades stammered:
"Then--you will hold me? Then--I am not free?"
M. Ginory did not reply. He gave an order that this Prades should beguarded until the arrival of Dantin from Mazas.
In Mazas, in that walled prison, in the cell which had already made himill, Jacques Dantin sat. This man, with the trooper's air, seemed almostto be in a state of collapse. When the guard came to his cell he drewhimself up and endeavored to collect all his energy; and when the doorwas opened and he was called he appeared quite like himself. When he sawthe prison wagon which had brought him to Mazas and now awaited to takehim to the Palais de Justice he instinctively recoiled; then, recoveringhimself, he entered the narrow vehicle.
The idea, the sensation that he was so near all this life--yet sofar--that he was going through these streets, filled with carriages,with men and women who were free, gave him a desperate, a nervous senseof irritation.
The air which they breathed, he breathed and felt fan his brow--butthrough a grating. They arrived at the Palais and Jacques Dantinrecognized the staircases which he had previously mounted, that led tothe Examining Magistrate's room. He entered the narrow room where M.Ginory awaited him. Dantin saluted the Magistrate with a gesture which,though courteous, seemed to have a little bravado in it; as a salutationwith a sword before a duel. Then he glanced around, astonished to see,between two guards, a man whom he did not recognize.
M. Ginory studied them. If he knew this Prades, who also curiouslyreturned his look, Jacques Dantin was a great comedian, because noindication, not the slightest involuntary shudder, not the faintesttrace of an expression of having seen him before, crossed his face. EvenM. Ginory's keen eyes could detect nothing. He had asked that Bernardetbe present at the meeting, and the little man's face, become serious,almost severe, was turned, with eager interrogation in its expression,toward Dantin. Bernardet also was unable to detect the faintest emotionwhich could be construed into an acknowledgment of ever having seen thisyoung man before. Generally prisoners would, unconsciously, permit agesture, a glance, a something, to escape them when they were brusquelyconfronted, unexpectedly, with some accomplice. This time not a muscleof Dantin's face moved, not an eyelash quivered.
M. Ginory motioned Jacques Dantin to a seat directly in front of him,where the light would fall full upon his face. Pointing out Prades, heasked:
"Do you recognize this man?"
Dantin, after a second or two, replied:
"No; I have never seen him."
"Never?"
"I believe not; he is unknown to me!"
"And you, Prades, have you ever seen Jacques Dantin?"
"Never," said Prades, in his turn. His voice seemed hoarse, comparedwith the brief, clear response made by Dantin.
"He is, however, the original of the portrait which you sold to Mme.Colard."
"The portrait?"
"Look sharply at Dantin. Look at him well," repeated M. Ginory. "Youmust recognize that he is the original of the portrait in question."
"Yes;" Prades replied. His eyes were fixed upon the prisoner.
"Ah!" the Magistrate joyously exclaimed, asking: "And how, tell me, didyou so quickly recognize the original of the portrait which you saw onlyan instant in my room?"
"I do not know," stammered Prades, not comprehending the gravity of aquestion put in an insinuating, almost amiable tone.
"Oh, well!" continued M. Ginory, still in a conciliating tone, "I amgoing to explain to you. It is certain that you recognize thesefeatures, because you had a long time in which to contemplate them;because you had it a long time in your hands when you were trying topull off the frame."
"The frame? What frame?" asked the young man stupefied, not taking hiseyes
from the Magistrate's face, which seemed to him endowed with someoccult power. M. Ginory went on:
"The frame which you had trouble in removing, since the scratches showin the wood. And what if, after taking the portrait to Mme. Colard'sshop, we should find the frame in question at another place, at someother shop--that would not be very difficult," and M. Ginory smiled atBernardet. "What if we could add another new deposition to that of Mme.Colard's? Yes; what if to that clear, decisive deposition we could addanother--what would you have to say?"
Silence! Prades turned his head around, his eyes wandered about, as ifsearching to find an outlet or a support; gasping like a man who hasbeen injured.
Jacques Dantin looked at him at the same moment when the Magistrate,with a glance keener, more piercing than ever, seemed to search his verysoul. The young man was now pallid and unmanned.
At length Prades pronounced some words. What did he want of him? Whatframe was he talking of? And who was this other dealer of whom theMagistrate spoke and whom he had called a second time? Where was thiswitness with "the new deposition?"
"One is enough!" he said, casting a ferocious look at Mme. Colard, who,on a sign from M. Ginory, had entered, pale and full of fear.
He added in a menacing tone:
"One is even too much!"
The fingers of his right hand contracted, as if around a knife handle.At this moment Bernardet, who was studying each gesture which the manmade, was convinced that the murderer of Rovere was there. He saw thathand armed with the knife, the one which had been found in his pocket,striking his victim, gashing the ex-Consul's throat.
But then, "Dantin?" An accomplice, without doubt. The head, of which theadventurer was the arm. Because, in the dead man's eye, Dantin's imageappeared, reflected as clear proof, like an accusation, showing theperson who was last seen in Rovere's supreme agony. Jacques Dantin wasthere--the eye spoke.
Mme. Colard's testimony no longer permitted M. Ginory to doubt. ThisCharles Prades was certainly the man who sold the portrait.
Nothing could be proved except that the two men had never met. No signof emotion showed that Dantin had ever seen the young man before. Thelatter alone betrayed himself when he was going to Mazas with theoriginal of the portrait painted by Baudry.
But, however, as the Magistrate underlined it with precision, the factalone of recognizing Dantin constituted against Prades a new charge.Added to the testimony, to the formal affirmation of the shopkeeper,this charge became grave.
Coldly, M. Ginory said to his registrar:
"An order!"
Then, when Favarel had taken a paper engraved at the top, which Pradestried to decipher, the Magistrate began to question him. And as M.Ginory spoke slowly, Favarel filled in the blank places which made afree man, a prisoner.
"You are called?" demanded M. Ginory.
"Prades."
"Your first name?"
"Henri."
"You said Charles to the Commissary of Police."
"Henri-Charles--Charles--Henri."
The Magistrate did not even make a sign to Favarel, seated before thetable, and who wrote very quickly without M. Ginory dictating to him.
"Your profession?" continued the Magistrate.
"Commission merchant."
"Your age?"
"Twenty-eight."
"Your residence?"
"Sydney, Australia."
And, upon this official paper, the replies were filled in, one by one,in the blank places:
COURT OF THE FIRST INSTANCE OF THE DEPARTMENT OF THE SEINE:
Warrant of Commitment against Prades.
* * * * *
Note.--Write exactly the names, Christian names, professions, age, residence and nature of charge.
* * * * *
Description Height metre centimetres
Forehead Nose
Eyes Mouth
Chin Eyebrows
Hair
General Appearance
We, Edme-Armand-Georges Ginory, Examining Magistrate of the Court of the First Instance of the Department of the Seine, command and enjoin all officers and guards of the Public Force to conduct to the Prison of Detention, called the Mazas, in conformity to the Law, Prades (Charles Henri), aged 28 years, Commission Merchant from Sydney. Accused of complicity in the murder of Louis-Pierre Rovere. We direct the Director of said house of detention to receive and hold him till further orders. We command every man in the Public to lend assistance in order to execute the present order, in case such necessity arises, to which we attach our name and seal.
Made at the Palais de Justice, in Paris, the 12th of February, 1896.
And below, the seal was attached to the order by the registrar. M.Ginory signed it, saying to Favarel:
"The description must be left blank. They will fill it out after themeasurements are taken."
Then, Prades, stupefied till now, not seeming to realize half that waspassing around him, gave a sudden, violent start. A cry burst from him.
"Arrested! Have you arrested me?"
M. Ginory leaned over the table. He was calm and held his pen with whichhe had signed the order, suspended in the air. The young man rushedforward wild with anger, and if the guards had not held him back, hewould have seized M. Ginory's fat neck with both hands. The guards heldPrades back, while the Examining Magistrate, carelessly pricking thetable with his pen, gently said, with a smile:
"All the same, more than one malefactor has betrayed himself in a fit ofanger. I have often thought that it would take very little to get myselfassassinated, when I had before me an accused person whom I felt wasguilty and who would not confess. Take away the man!"
While they were pushing Prades toward the corridor he shouted:"_Canailles_." M. Ginory ordered that Dantin should be left alone withhim. "Alone," he said to Bernardet, whose look was a little uneasy. Theregistrar half rose from his chair, picking up his papers and pushingthem into the pockets of his much worn paper case.
"No; you may remain, Favarel."
"Well," said the Magistrate in a familiar tone, when he found himselfface to face with Jacques Dantin. "Have you reflected?"
Jacques Dantin, his lips pressed closely together, did not reply.
"It is a counsellor--a counsellor of an especial kind--the cell. He whoinvented it"----
"Yes;" Dantin brusquely interrupted. "The brain suffers between thosewalls. I have not slept since I went there. Not slept at all. Insomniais killing me. It seems as if I should go crazy!"
"Then?" asked M. Ginory.
"Then"----
Jacques Dantin looked fiercely at the registrar, who sat waiting, hispen over his ear, his elbows on the table, his chin on his hands.
"Then, oh, well! Then, here it is, I wish to tell you all--all. But toyou--to you"----
"To me alone?"
"Yes," said Dantin, with the same fierce expression.
"My dear Favarel," the Magistrate began.
The registrar had already risen. He slowly bowed and went out.
"Now," said the Magistrate to Jacques Dantin, "you can speak."
The man still hesitated.
"Monsieur," he asked, "will any word said here be repeated, ought it ormust it be repeated in a courtroom, at the Assizes, I know notwhere--anywhere before the public?"
"That depends," said M. Ginory. "But what you know you owe to justice,whether it be a revelation, an accusation or a confession, I ask it ofyou."
Still Dantin hesitated. Then the Magistrate spoke these words: "I demandit!"
With a violent effort the prisoner began. "So be it! But it is to a manof honor, rather than to a Magistrate, to whom I address these words. IfI have hesitated to speak, if I have allowed myself to be suspected andto be accused, it is because it seemed to me impossible, absolutelyimpossible, that this same truth should not be revealed--I do not knowin what way--that
it would become known to you without compelling me todisclose a secret which was not mine."
"To an Examining Magistrate one may tell everything," said M. Ginory."We have listened to confessions in our offices which are as inviolableas those of the confessional made to a priest."
And now, after having accused Dantin of lying, believing that he wasacting a comedy, after smiling disdainfully at that common invention--avow which one could not break--the perception of a possibility enteredthe Magistrate's mind that this man might be sincere. Hitherto he hadclosed his heart against sympathy for this man; they had met in themutual hostility.
The manner in which Jacques Dantin approached the question, theresolution with which he spoke, no longer resembled the obstinateattitude which he had before assumed in this same room.
Reflection, the prison--the cell, without doubt--a frightful andstifling cell--had done its work. The man who had been excited to thepoint of not speaking now wished to tell all.
"Yes," he said, "since nothing has happened to convince you that I amnot lying."
"I am listening to you," said the Magistrate.
Then, in a long, close conference, Jacques Dantin told M. Ginory hisstory. He related how, from early youth, he and Rovere had been closefriends; of the warm affection which had always existed between them; ofthe shams and deceptions of which he had been guilty; of the bitternessof his ruined life; of an existence which ought to have been beautiful,and which, so useless, the life of a _viveur_, had almost madehim--why?--how?--through need of money and a lack of moral sense--almostdescend to crime.
This Rovere, whom he was accused of killing, he loved, and, to tell thetruth, in that strange and troublous existence which he had lived,Rovere had been the only true friend whom he had known. Rovere, a sortof pessimistic philosopher, a recluse, lycanthropic, after a life spentin feasting, having surfeited himself with pleasure, recognized also inhis last years that disinterested affection is rare in this world, andhis savage misanthropy softened before Jacques Dantin's warmfriendship.
"I continued to search for, in what is called pleasure and what as one'shair whitens becomes vice; in play; in the uproar of Paris,forgetfulness of life, of the dull life of a man growing old, alone,without home or family, an old, stupid fellow, whom the young peoplelook at with hate and say to each other: 'Why is he still here?' Rovere,more and more, felt the need of withdrawing into solitude, thinking overhis adventurous life, as bad and as ruined as mine, and he wished to seeno one. A wolf, a wild boar in his lair! Can you understand thisfriendship between two old fellows, one of whom tried in every way todirect his thoughts from himself, and the other, waiting death in acorner of his fireside, solitary, unsociable?"
"Perfectly! Go on!"
And the magistrate, with eyes riveted upon Jacques Dantin, saw this man,excited, making light of this recital of the past; evoking remembrancesof forgotten events, of this lost affection; lost, as all his life was.
"This is not a conference; is it not so? You no longer believe that itis a comedy? I loved Rovere. Life had often separated us. He searchedfor fortune at the other end of the world. I made a mess of mine and ateit in Paris. But we always kept up our relations, and when he returnedto France we were happy in again seeing each other. The grayer turnedthe hair, the more tender the heart became. I had always found himmorose--from his twentieth year he always dragged after him a sinistercompanion--ennui. He had chosen a Consular career, to live far away, andin a fashion not at all like ours. I have often laughingly said to himthat he probably had met with unrequited love; that he had experiencedsome unhappy passion. He said, no! I feigned to believe it. One is notsombre and melancholy like that without some secret grief. After all,there are others who do not feel any gayer with a smile on the lips.Sadness is no sign. Neither is gayety!"
His face took on a weary, melancholy expression, which at firstastonished the Magistrate; then he experienced a feeling of pity; helistened, silent and grave.
"I will pass over all the details of our life, shall I not? My monologuewould be too long. The years of youth passed with a rapidity trulyastonishing; we come to the time when we found ourselves--he weary oflife, established in his chosen apartments in the Boulevard de Clichy,with his paintings and books; sitting in front of his fire and awaitingdeath--I continuing to spur myself on like a foundered horse. Roveremoralized to me; I jeered at his sermons, and I went to sit by hisfireside and talk over the past. One of his joys had been this portraitof me, painted by Paul Baudry. He had hung it up in his salon, at thecorner of the chimney piece, at the left, and he often said to me:
"'Dost thou know that when thou art not here I talk to it?'
"I was not there very often. Parisian life draws us by its thousandattractions. The days which seem interminable when one is twenty rush byas if on wings when one is fifty. One has not even time to stop to seethe friends one loves. At the last moment, if one is right, one ought tosay, 'How I have cast to the winds everything precious which life hasgiven me. How foolish I have been--how stupid.' Pay no attention to myphilosophisms--the cell! Mazas forces one to think!
"One day--it was one morning--on returning from the club where I hadpassed the night stupidly losing sums which would have given joy tohundreds of families, I found on my desk a message from Rovere. If onewould look through my papers one would find it there--I kept it. Roverebegged me to come to him immediately. I shivered--a sharp presentimentof death struck me. The writing was trembling, unlike his own. I struckmy forehead in anger. This message had been waiting for me since thenight before, while I was spending the hours in gambling. If, when Ihurried toward the Boulevard de Clichy, I had found Rovere dead on myarrival, I could not, believe me, have experienced greater despair. Hisassassination seemed to me atrocious; but I was at least able to assurehim that his friendship was returned. I hastily read the telegram, threwmyself into a fiacre, and hastened to his apartments. The woman whoacted as housekeeper for him, Mme. Moniche, the portress, raising herarms as she opened the door for me, said:
"'Ah! Monsieur, but Monsieur has waited for you. He has repeated yourname all night. He nearly died, but he is better now.'
"Rovere, sitting the night before by his fire, had been stricken bylateral paralysis, and as soon as he could hold a pen, in spite of theorders of the physician who had been quickly called, had written andsent the message to me some hours before.
"As soon as he saw me he--the strong man, the mad misanthrope, silentand sombre--held me in his arms and burst into tears. His embrace wasthat of a man who concentrates in one being all that remains of hope.
"'Thou! thou art here!' he said in a low tone. 'If thou knewest!'
"I was moved to the depths of my heart. That manly face, usually soenergetic, wore an expression of terror which was in some way almostchildish, a timorous fright. The tears rose in his eyes.
"'Oh! how I have waited for thee! how I have longed for thee!'
"He repeated this phrase with anxious obstinacy. Then he seemed to besuffocating. Emotion! The sight of me recalled to him the long agony ofthat night when he thought that he was about to die without parting withme for the last time.
"'For what I have to tell thee'----
"He shook his head.
"'It is the secret of my life!'
"He was lying on a sort of sick chair or lounge, in the library where hepassed his last days with his books. He made me sit down beside him. Hetook my hand and said:
"'I am going to die. I believed that the end had come last night. Icalled thee. Oh, well, if I had died there is one being in the world whowould not have had the fortune which--I have'----
"He lowered his voice as if he thought we were spied upon, as if someone could hear.
"'I have a daughter. Yes, even from thee I have hidden this secret,which tortures me. A daughter who loves me and who has not the right toconfess this tenderness, no more than I have the right to give her myname. Ah! our youth, sad youth! I might have had a home to-day, afireside of my own, a dear one near me, and in
stead of that, anaffection of which I am ashamed and which I have hidden even from thee,Jacques, from thee, dost thou comprehend?'
"I remember each of Rovere's words as if I was hearing them now. Thisconversation with my poor friend is among the most poignant yet mostprecious of my remembrances. With much emotion, which distressed me, thepoor man revealed to me the secret which he had believed it his duty tohide from me so many years, and I vowed to him--I swore to him on myhonor, and that is why I hesitated to speak, or rather refused to speak,not wishing to compromise any one, neither the dead nor living--I sworeto him, Monsieur le Juge, to repeat nothing of what he told me to anyone, to any one but to her"----
"Her?" interrogated M. Ginory.
"His daughter," Dantin replied.
The Examining Magistrate recalled that visitor in black, who had beenseen occasionally at Rovere's apartments, and the little romance ofwhich Paul Rodier had written in his paper--the romance of the Woman inBlack!
"And this daughter?"
"She bears," said Dantin, with a discouraged gesture, "the name of thefather which the law gives her, and this name is a great name, anillustrious name, that of a retired general officer, living in one ofthe provinces, a widower, and who adores the girl who is another man'schild. The mother is dead. The father has never known. When dying, themother revealed the secret to her daughter. She came, by command of thedead, to see Rovere, but as a Sister of Charity, faithful to the namewhich she bears. She does not wish to marry; she will never leave thecrippled old soldier who calls her his daughter, and who adores her."
"Oh!" said M. Ginory, remaining mute a moment before this very simpledrama, and in which, in that moment of reflection, he comprehended, heanalyzed, nearly all of the hidden griefs, the secret tears, the stifledsobs, the stolen kisses. "And that is why you kept silent?" he asked.
"Yes, Monsieur. Oh! but I could not endure the torture any longer, andnot seeing the expected release any nearer, I would have spoken, I wouldhave spoken to escape that cell, that sense of suffocation, I enduredthere. It seemed to me, however, that I owed it to my dead friend not toreveal his secret to any one, not even to you. I shall never forgetRovere's joy, when relieved of the burden, by the confidence which hehad reposed in me, he said to me, that now that she who was hisdaughter, and was poor, living at Blois only on the pension of a retiredofficer to whom she had appointed herself nurse, knowing that she wasnot his daughter, this innocent child, who was paying with a life ofdevotion for the sins of two guilty ones, would at least have happinessat last.
"She is young, and the one for whom she cares cannot live always. Myfortune will give her a dowry. And then!"
"It was to me to whom he confided this fortune. He had very little moneywith his notary. Erratic and distrustful, Rovere kept his valuables inhis safe, as he kept his books in his library. It seemed that he was acollector, picking up all kinds of things. Avaricious? No; but he wishedto have about him, under his hand, everything which belonged to him. Hepossibly may have wished to give what he had directly to the one to whomit seemed good to him to give it, and confide it to me in trust.
"I regret not having asked him directly that day what he counted ondoing with his fortune and how he intended enriching his child, whom hehad not the right to recognize. I dared, or, rather, I did not think ofit. I experienced a strong emotion when I saw my friend enfeebled andalmost dying. I had known him so different, so handsome. Oh! those poor,sad, restless eyes, that lowered voice, as if he feared an enemy waslistening! Illness had quickly, brutally changed that vigorous man,suddenly old and timorous.
"I went away from that first interview much distressed, carrying asecret which seemed to me a heavy and cruel one; and which made me thinkof the uselessness, the wickedness, the vain loves of a ruined life. ButI felt that Rovere owed truly his fortune to that girl who, the nextday after the death of the one whom she had piously attended, foundherself poor and isolated in a little house in a steep street, near theChateau, above Blois. I felt that, whatever this unknown father left,ought not to go to distant relatives, who cared nothing for him; did noteven know him; were ignorant of his sufferings and perhaps even of hisexistence, and who by law would inherit.
"A dying man, yes! There could be no question about it, and Dr.Vilandry, whom I begged to accompany me to see my friend, did not hideit from me. Rovere was dying of a kidney difficulty, which had maderapid progress.
"It was necessary, then, since he was not alone in the world, that heshould think of the one of whom he had spoken and whom he loved.
"'For I love her, that child whom I have no right to name. I love her!She is good, tender, admirable. If I did not see that she resembledme--for she does resemble me--I should tell thee that she was beautiful.I would be proud to cry aloud: "This is my daughter!" To promenade withher on my arm--and I must hide this secret from all the world. That ismy torture! And it is the chastisement of all that has not been right inmy life. Ah! sad, unhappy loves!' That same malediction for the pastcame to his lips as it had come to his thoughts. The old workman,burdened with labor throughout the week, who could promenade on theBoulevard de Clichy on Sunday, with his daughter on his arm, was happierthan Rovere. And--a strange thing, sentiment of shame andremorse--feeling himself traveling fast to his last resting-place in thecemetery, he expressed no wish to see that child, to send for her tocome from Blois under some pretext or other, easy enough to find.
"No, he experienced a fierce desire for solitude, he shrunk from aninterview, in which he feared all his grief would rush to his lips in atorrent of words. He feared for himself, for his weakness, for thestrange feeling he experienced in his head.
"'It seems as if it oscillated upon my shoulders,' he said. 'If Marthecame (and he repeated the name as a child would have pronounced it whowas just learning to name the letters of a word) I would give her butthe sad spectacle of a broken-down man, and leave on her mind only theimpression of a human ruin. And then--and then--not to see her! not tohave the right to see her! that is all right--it is my chastisement!'
"Let it be so! I understood. I feared that an interview would be mortal.He had been so terribly agitated when he had sent for me that othertime.
"But I, at least, wished to recall to him his former wish which he hadexpressed of providing for the girl's future. I desired that he shouldmake up for the past, since money is one of the forms of reparation. ButI dared not speak to him again in regard to it, or of that trust ofwhich he had spoken.
"He said to me, this strong man whom Death had never frightened, andwhom he had braved many times, he said to me now, weakened by thisillness which was killing him hour by hour:
"If I knew that my end was near I would decide--but I have time."
"Time! Each day brought him a little nearer to that life about which Ifeared to say to him: 'The time has come!' The fear, in urging him to alast resolution, of seeming like an executioner whose presence seemed tosay: 'To-day is the day!' prevented me. You understand, Monsieur? Andwhy not? I ought to wait no longer. Rovere's confidence had made of me asecond Rovere who possessed the strength and force of will which thefirst one now lacked. I felt that I held in my hands, so to speak,Marthe's fate. I did not know her, but I looked upon her as a martyr inher vocation of nurse to the old paralytic to whom she was paying, inlove, the debt of the dead wife. I said to myself: 'It is to me, to mealone, that Rovere must give instructions of what he wishes to leave tohis daughter, and it is for me to urge him to do this, it is for me tobrace his weakened will! I was resolved! It was a duty! Each day theunhappy man's strength failed. I saw it--this human ruin! One morning,when I went to his apartments, I found him in a singular state ofterror. He related me a story, I knew not what, of a thief, whose victimhe was; the lock of his door had been forced, his safe opened. Then,suddenly, interrupting himself, he began to laugh, a feeble laugh, whichmade me ill.
"'I am a fool,' he said. 'I am dreaming, awake--I continue in thedaytime the nightmares of the night--a thief here! No one has come--Mme.Moniche has watche
d--but my head is so weak, so weak! I have known somany rascals in my life! Rascals always return, _hein!_'
"He made a sad attempt at a laugh.
"It was delirium! A delirium which soon passed away, but whichfrightened me. It returned with increased force each day, and at shorterintervals.
"Well, I said to myself, during a lucid interview, 'he must do what hehas resolved to do, what he had willed to do--what he wishes to do!' AndI decided--it was the night before the assassination--to bring him tothe point, to aid his hesitation. I found him calmer that day. He waslying on his lounge, enveloped in his dressing gown, with a travelingrug thrown across his thin legs. With his black skull-cap and hisgrayish beard he looked like a dying Doge.
"He held out his bony hand to me, giving me a sad smile, and said thathe felt better. A period of remission in his disease, a feeling ofcomfort pervading his general condition.
"'What if I should recover?' he said, looking me full in the face.
"I comprehended by that ardent look, which was of singular vitality,that this man, who had never feared death, still clung to life. It wasinstinct.
"I replied that certainly he might, and I even said that he would surelyrecover, but--with what grievous repugnance did I approach thesubject--I asked him if, experiencing the general feeling of ease andcomfort which pervaded his being, whether he would not be even morecomfortable and happy if he thought of what he ought to do for thatchild of whom he had spoken, and for whose future he wished to provide.
"'And since thou art feeling better, my dear Rovere, it is perhaps theopportunity to put everything in order in that life which thou art aboutto recover, and which will be a new life.'
"He looked fixedly at me with his beautiful eyes. It was a profoundregard, and I saw that he divined my thought.
"'Thou art right!' he said firmly; 'no weakness.'
"Then, gathering all his forces, he arose, stood upright, refusing eventhe arm which I held out to him, and in his dressing gown, which hungabout him, he seemed to me taller, thinner, even handsomer. He took twoor three steps, at first a little unsteady, then, straightening up, hewalked directly to his safe, turned the letters, and opened it, afterhaving smiled, and said:
"'I had forgotten the word--four letters; it is, however, a littlething. My head is empty.'
"Then, the safe opened, he took out papers--of value, withoutdoubt--papers which he took back to his lounge, spread out on a tablenear at hand, and said:
"'Let us see! This which I am going to give thee is for her----A will,yes, I could make a will----but it would create talk----it would beasked what I had done----it would be searched out, dug out of the past,it would open a tomb----I cannot!----What I have shall be hers, thouwilt give it to her--thou'----
"And his large, haggard eyes searched through the papers.
"'Ah! here!' he said; 'here are some bonds! Egyptian--of a certain valueto the holder, at 3 per cent. I hid that--where did I put it?'
"He picked up the papers, turned them over and over, became alarmed,turned pale.
"'But,' I said to him, 'is it not among those papers?'
"He shrugged his shoulders, displayed with an ironical smile theengraved papers.
"'Some certificates of decorations! The bric-a-brac of a Consular life.'
"Then with renewed energy he again went to the safe, opened the till,pulled it out, and searched again and again.
"Overcome with fright, he exclaimed: 'It is not there!'
"'Why is it not there?'
"And he gave me another look--haggard! terrible! His face was fearfullycontracted. He clasped his head with both hands, and stammered, as ifcoming out of a dream.
"'It is true, I remember--I have hidden it! Yes, I hid it! I do not knowwhere--in some book! In which one?'
"He looked around him with wild eyes. The cerebral anaemia which had madehim fear robbery again seized him, and poor Rovere, my old friend,plainly showed that he was enduring the agony of a man who is drowning,and who does not know where to cling in order to save himself.
"He was still standing, but as he turned around, he staggered.
"He repeated in a hoarse, frightened voice: 'Where, where have I hiddenthat? Fool! The safe did not seem to me secure enough! Where, wherehave I put it?'
"It was then, Monsieur, yes, at that moment, that the concierge enteredand saw us standing face to face before those papers of which she hadspoken. I must have looked greatly embarrassed, very pale, showing theviolent emotion which seized me by the throat. Rovere said to her ratherroughly: 'What are you here for?' and sent her away with a gesture. Mme.Moniche had had time to see the open safe and the papers spread out,which she supposed were valuable. I understand how she deceived herself,and when I think of it, I accuse myself. There was something tragictaking place between Rovere and me. This woman could not know what itwas, but she felt it.
"And it was more terrible, a hundred times more terrible, when she haddisappeared. There seemed to be a battle raging in Rovere's brain, asbetween his will and his weakness. Standing upright, striving not togive way, struggling to concentrate all his brain power in his effort toremember, to find some trace of the hidden place where he had foolishlyput his fortune, between the leaves of some huge book. Rovere calledviolently, ardently to his aid his last remnant of strength to combatagainst this anaemia which took away the memory of what he had done. Herolled his eyes desperately, found nothing, remembered nothing.
"It was awful--this combat against memory, which disappeared, fled; thisaspect of a panting beast, a hunted boar which seemed to seize thisman--and I shivered when, with a rage, I shall never forget, the dyingman rushed, in two steps, to the table, bent over the papers, snatchedthem up with his thin hands, crumpled them up, tore them in two andthrew them under his feet, with an almost maniacal laugh, saying instrident tones:
"'Ah! Decorations! Brevets, baubles! Childish foolishness! What good arethey? Would they give her a living?'
"And he kept on laughing. He excited himself over the papers, which hestamped under his feet until he had completely exhausted himself. Hegasped, 'I stifle!' and he half fell over the lounge, upon which I laidhim. I fully believed that he was dying. I experienced a horriblesensation, which was agonizing. He revived, however. But how, after thatswoon and that crisis, could I speak to him again of his daughter, ofthat which he wished to leave her, to give, in trust, to me? He becamepreoccupied with childish things, returning to the dreams of a rich man;he spoke of going out the next day. We would go together in the Bois. Wewould dine at the Pavilion. He would like to travel. And thus he rambledon.
"I said to myself, 'Wait! Let us wait! To-morrow, after a good night'ssleep, he will perhaps remember. I surely have some days before me. Tospeak to him to-day would be to provoke a new crisis.'
"And I helped him to put back in the safe the crushed, torn papers,without his asking me, or even himself questioning how they had comethere, who had thrown them on the floor, or who had opened the safe. Hisface wore a slight smile, his gestures were automatic. Very weary, he atlast said:
"'I am very tired. I would like to sleep.' I left him. He had stretchedhimself out and covered himself up. He closed his eyes and said:
"'It is so good to sleep!'
"I would see him to-morrow. I would try to again to-morrow awaken in himthe desire which now seemed dulled. To-morrow his memory would havereturned, and in some of his books where he had (like the Arabs who puttheir harvests in silos) placed his treasure he would find the fortuneintended for his daughter.
"To-morrow! It is the word one repeats most often, and which one has theleast right to use.
"I saw Rovere only after he was dead, with his throat cut--assassinatedby whom? The man whom you have arrested has traveled much; he comes froma distance. Rovere was Consul at Buenos Ayres, and you know that he saidto me the last day I saw him: 'I have known many rascals in my life!'Which seemed very simple when one thinks of the way he had lived.
"This is the truth, Monsieur. I ought to have t
old you sooner. I repeatthat I had the weakness of wishing to keep the vow given to my deadfriend. I had the name of a woman to betray, the name of a man, too;innocent of Rovere's fault. And then, again, it seemed to me that thistruth ought to become known of itself. When I was arrested, a sort offoolish bravado urged me to see how far the absurdity of the chargecould accumulate against me seeming proofs. I am a gambler. That was apart I played against you, or rather against the foolishness of destiny.I did not take a second thought that the error could be a lasting one. Ihad, moreover, only a word to say, but this word, I repeat, I hesitatedto speak, and I willingly supported the consequence of this hesitation,even because this word was a name."
"That name," said M. Ginory, "I have not asked you."
"I refused it to the Magistrate," said Jacques Dantin, "but I confide itto the man of honor!"
"There is only a Magistrate here," M. Ginory replied, "but the legalinquiry has its secrets, as life has."
And Jacques Dantin gave the name which the one whom Louis-Pierre Roverecalled, Marthe, bore as her rightful name.