Le crime d'Orcival. English

by Emile Gaboriau

  XIII

  The Count de Tremorel, having reached the street, ascended theboulevard. All of a sudden he bethought him of his friends. The story ofthe execution must have already spread.

  "No; not that way," he muttered.

  This was because, on the boulevard, he would certainly meet some of hisvery dear cronies, and he desired to escape their condolence and offersof service. He pictured to himself their sorry visages, concealing ahidden and delicious satisfaction. He had wounded so many vanities thathe must look for terrible revenges. The friends of an insolentlyprosperous man are rejoiced in his downfall.

  Hector crossed the street, went along the Rue Duphot, and reached thequays. Where was he going? He did not know, and did not even askhimself. He walked at random, enjoying the physical content whichfollows a good meal, happy to find himself still in the land of theliving, in the soft April sunlight.

  The weather was superb, and all Paris was out of doors. There was aholiday air about the town. The flower-women at the corners of thebridges had their baskets full of odorous violets. The count bought abouquet near the Pont Neuf and stuck it in his button-hole, and withoutwaiting for his change, passed on. He reached the large square at theend of the Bourdon boulevard, which is always full of jugglers andcuriosity shows; here the noise, the music, drew him from his torpor,and brought his thoughts back to his present situation.

  "I must leave Paris," thought he.

  He crossed toward the Orleans station at a quicker pace. He entered thewaiting-room, and asked what time the train left for Etampes. Why did hechoose Etampes? A train had just gone, and there would not be anotherone for two hours. He was much annoyed at this, and as he could not waitthere two hours, he wended his way, to kill time, toward the Jardin desPlantes. He had not been there for ten or twelve years--not since, whenat school, his teachers had brought him there to look at the animals.Nothing had changed. There were the groves and parterres, the lawns andlanes, the beasts and birds, as before. The principal avenue was nearlydeserted. He took a seat opposite the mineralogical museum. He reflectedon his position. He glanced back through the departed years, and did notfind one day among those many days which had left him one of thosegracious memories which delight and console. Millions had slippedthrough his prodigal hands, and he could not recall a single usefulexpenditure, a really generous one, amounting to twenty francs. He, whohad had so many friends, searched his memory in vain for the name of asingle friend whom he regretted to part from. The past seemed to himlike a faithful mirror; he was surprised, startled at the folly of thepleasures, the inane delights, which had been the end and aim of hisexistence. For what had he lived? For others.

  "Ah, what a fool I was!" he muttered, "what a fool!"

  After living for others, he was going to kill himself for others. Hisheart became softened. Who would think of him, eight days hence? Not oneliving being. Yes--Jenny, perhaps. Yet, no. She would be consoled with anew lover in less than a week.

  The bell for closing the garden rang. Night had come, and a thick anddamp mist had covered the city. The count, chilled to the bones, lefthis seat.

  "To the station again," muttered he.

  It was a horrible idea to him now--this of shooting himself in thesilence and obscurity of the forest. He pictured to himself hisdisfigured body, bleeding, lying on the edge of some ditch. Beggars orrobbers would despoil him. And then? The police would come and take upthis unknown body, and doubtless would carry it, to be identified, tothe Morgue. "Never!" cried he, at this thought, "no, never!"

  How die, then? He reflected, and it struck him that he would killhimself in some second-class hotel on the left bank of the Seine.

  "Yes, that's it," said he to himself.

  Leaving the garden with the last of the visitors, he wended his waytoward the Latin Quarter. The carelessness which he had assumed in themorning gave way to a sad resignation. He was suffering; his head washeavy, and he was cold.

  "If I shouldn't die to-night," he thought, "I shall have a terrible coldin the morning."

  This mental sally did not make him smile, but it gave him theconsciousness of being firm and determined. He went into the RueDauphine and looked about for a hotel. Then it occurred to him that itwas not yet seven o'clock, and it might arouse suspicions if he askedfor a room at that early hour. He reflected that he still had over onehundred francs, and resolved to dine. It should be his last meal. Hewent into a restaurant and ordered it. But he in vain tried to throw offthe anxious sadness which filled him. He drank, and consumed threebottles of wine without changing the current of his thoughts.

  The waiters were surprised to see him scarcely touch the dishes setbefore him, and growing more gloomy after each potation. His dinner costninety francs; he threw his last hundred-franc note on the table, andwent out. As it was not yet late, he went into another restaurant wheresome students were drinking, and sat down at a table in the farthercorner of the room. He ordered coffee and rapidly drank three or fourcups. He wished to excite himself, to screw up his courage to do what hehad resolved upon; but he could not; the drink seemed only to make himmore and more irresolute.

  A waiter, seeing him alone at the table, offered him a newspaper. Hetook it mechanically, opened it, and read:

  "Just as we are going to press, we learn that a well-known person hasdisappeared, after announcing his intention to commit suicide. Thestatements made to us are so strange, that we defer details tillto-morrow, not having time to send for fuller information now."

  These lines startled Hector. They were his death sentence, not to berecalled, signed by the tyrant whose obsequious courtier he had alwaysbeen--public opinion.

  "They will never cease talking about me," he muttered angrily. Then headded, firmly, "Come, I must make an end of this."

  He soon reached the Hotel Luxembourg. He rapped at the door, and wasspeedily conducted to the best room in the house. He ordered a fire tobe lighted. He also asked for sugar and water, and writing materials. Atthis moment he was as firm as in the morning.

  "I must not hesitate," he muttered, "nor recoil from my fate."

  He sat down at the table near the fireplace, and wrote in a firm hand adeclaration which he destined for the police.

  "No one must be accused of my death," he commenced; and he went on byasking that the hotel-keeper should be indemnified.

  The hour by the clock was five minutes before eleven; he placed hispistols on the mantel.

  "I will shoot myself at midnight," thought he. "I have yet an hour tolive."

  The count threw himself in an arm-chair and buried his face in hishands. Why did he not kill himself at once? Why impose on himself thishour of waiting, of anguish and torture? He could not have told. Hebegan again to think over the events of his life, reflecting on theheadlong rapidity of the occurrences which had brought him to thatwretched room. How time had passed! It seemed but yesterday that hefirst began to borrow. It does little good, however, to a man who hasfallen to the bottom of the abyss, to know the causes why he fell.

  The large hand of the clock had passed the half hour after eleven.

  He thought of the newspaper item which he had just read. Who furnishedthe information? Doubtless it was Jenny. She had come to her senses,tearfully hastened after him. When she failed to find him on theboulevard, she had probably gone to his house, then to his club, then tosome of his friends. So that to-night, at this very moment, the worldwas discussing him.

  "Have you heard the news?"

  "Ah, yes, poor Tremorel! What a romance! A good fellow, only--"

  He thought he heard this "only" greeted with laughter and innuendoes.Time passed on. The ringing vibration of the clock was at hand; the hourhad come.

  The count got up, seized his pistols, and placed himself near the bed,so as not to fall on the floor.

  The first stroke of twelve; he did not fire.

  Hector was a man of courage; his reputation for bravery was high. He hadfought at least ten duels; and his cool bearing on the ground had alwaysb
een admiringly remarked. One day he had killed a man, and that night heslept very soundly.

  But he did not fire.

  There are two kinds of courage. One, false courage, is that meant forthe public eye, which needs the excitement of the struggle, the stimulusof rage, and the applause of lookers-on. The other, true courage,despises public opinion, obeys conscience, not passion; success does notsway it, it does its work noiselessly.

  Two minutes after twelve--Hector still held the pistol against hisforehead.

  "Am I going to be afraid?" he asked himself.

  He was afraid, but would not confess it to himself. He put his pistolsback on the table and returned to his seat near the fire. All his limbswere trembling.

  "It's nervousness," he muttered. "It'll pass off."

  He gave himself till one o'clock. He tried to convince himself of thenecessity of committing suicide. If he did not, what would become ofhim? How would he live? Must he make up his mind to work? Besides, couldhe appear in the world, when all Paris knew of his intention? Thisthought goaded him to fury; he had a sudden courage, and grasped hispistols. But the sensation which the touch of the cold steel gave him,caused him to drop his arm and draw away shuddering.

  "I cannot," repeated he, in his anguish. "I cannot!"

  The idea of the physical pain of shooting himself filled him withhorror. Why had he not a gentler death? Poison, or perhapscharcoal--like the little cook? He did not fear the ludicrousness ofthis now; all that he feared was, that the courage to kill himself wouldfail him.

  He went on extending his time of grace from half-hour to half-hour. Itwas a horrible night, full of the agony of the last night of thecriminal condemned to the scaffold. He wept with grief and rage andwrung his hands and prayed. Toward daylight he fell exhausted into anuneasy slumber, in his arm-chair. He was awakened by three or four heavyraps on the door, which he hastily opened. It was the waiter, who hadcome to take his order for breakfast, and who started back withamazement on seeing Hector, so disordered was his clothing and so lividthe pallor of his features.

  "I want nothing," said the count. "I'm going down."

  He had just enough money left to pay his bill, and six sous for thewaiter. He quitted the hotel where he had suffered so much, without endor aim in view. He was more resolved than ever to die, only he yearnedfor several days of respite to nerve himself for the deed. But how couldhe live during these days? He had not so much as a centime left. An ideastruck him--the pawnbrokers!

  He knew that at the Monte-de-Piete* a certain amount would be advancedto him on his jewelry. But where find a branch office? He dared not ask,but hunted for one at hazard. He now held his head up, walked with afirmer step; he was seeking something, and had a purpose to accomplish.He at last saw the sign of the Monte-de-Piete on a house in the RueConde, and entered. The hall was small, damp, filthy, and full ofpeople. But if the place was gloomy, the borrowers seemed to take theirmisfortunes good-humoredly. They were mostly students and women, talkinggayly as they waited for their turns. The Count de Tremorel advancedwith his watch, chain, and a brilliant diamond that he had taken fromhis finger. He was seized with the timidity of misery, and did not knowhow to open his business. A young woman pitied his embarrassment.

  [* The public pawnbroker establishment of Paris, which has branchbureaus through the city.]

  "See," said she, "put your articles on this counter, before that windowwith green curtains."

  A moment after he heard a voice which seemed to proceed from the nextroom:

  "Twelve hundred francs for the watch and ring."

  This large amount produced such a sensation as to arrest all theconversation. All eyes were turned toward the millionnaire who was goingto pocket such a fortune. The millionnaire made no response.

  The same woman who had spoken before nudged his arm.

  "That's for you," said she. "Answer whether you will take it or not."

  "I'll take it," cried Hector.

  He was filled with a joy which made him forget the night's torture.Twelve hundred francs! How many days it would last! Had he not heardthere were clerks who hardly got that in a year?

  Hector waited a long time, when one of the clerks, who was writing at adesk, called out:

  "Whose are the twelve hundred francs?"

  The count stepped forward.

  "Mine," said he.

  "Your name?"

  Hector hesitated. He would never give his name aloud in such a place asthis. He gave the first name that occurred to him.

  "Durand."

  "Where are your papers?"

  "What papers?"

  "A passport, a receipt for lodgings, a license to hunt--"

  "I haven't any."

  "Go for them, or bring two well-known witnesses."

  "But--"

  "There is no 'but.' The next--"

  Hector was provoked by the clerk's abrupt manner.

  "Well, then," said he, "give me back the jewelry."

  The clerk looked at him jeeringly.

  "Can't be done. No goods that are registered, can be returned withoutproof of rightful possession." So saying, he went on with his work. "OneFrench shawl, thirty-five francs, whose is it?"

  Hector meanwhile went out of the establishment. He had never suffered somuch, had never imagined that one could suffer so much. After this rayof hope, so abruptly put out, the clouds lowered over him thicker andmore hopelessly. He was worse off than the shipwrecked sailor; thepawnbroker had taken his last resources. All the romance with which hehad invested the idea of his suicide now vanished, leaving bare thestern and ignoble reality. He must kill himself, not like the gaygamester who voluntarily leaves upon the roulette table the remains ofhis fortune, but like the Greek, who surprised and hunted, knows thatevery door will be shut upon him. His death would not be voluntary; hecould neither hesitate nor choose the fatal hour; he must kill himselfbecause he had not the means of living one day longer.

  And life never before seemed to him so sweet a thing as now. He neverfelt so keenly the exuberance of his youth and strength. He suddenlydiscovered all about him a crowd of pleasures each more enviable thanthe others, which he had never tasted. He who flattered himself that hehad squeezed life to press out its pleasures, had not really lived. Hehad had all that is to be bought or sold, nothing of what is given orachieved. He already not only regretted giving the ten thousand francsto Jenny, but the two hundred francs to the servants--nay the six sousgiven to the waiter at the restaurant, even the money he had spent onthe bunch of violets. The bouquet still hung in his buttonhole, fadedand shrivelled. What good did it do him? While the sous which he hadpaid for it--! He did not think of his wasted millions, but could notdrive away the thought of that wasted franc!

  True, he might, if he chose, find plenty of money still, and easily. Hehad only to return quietly to his house, to discharge the bailiffs, andto resume the possession of his remaining effects. But he would thusconfront the world, and confess his terrors to have overcome him at thelast moment; he would have to suffer glances more cruel than thepistol-ball. The world must not be deceived; when a man announces thathe is going to kill himself--he must kill himself.

  So Hector was going to die because he had said he would, because thenewspapers had announced the fact. He confessed this to himself as hewent along, and bitterly reproached himself.

  He remembered a pretty spot in Viroflay forest, where he had once foughta duel; he would commit the deed there. He hastened toward it. Theweather was fine and he met many groups of young people going into thecountry for a good time. Workmen were drinking and clinking theirglasses under the trees along the river-bank. All seemed happy andcontented, and their gayety seemed to insult Hector's wretchedness. Heleft the main road at the Sevres bridge, and descending the embankmentreached the borders of the Seine. Kneeling down, he took up some waterin the palm of his hand, and drank--an invincible lassitude crept overhim. He sat, or rather fell, upon the sward. The fever of despair came,and death now seemed to him a refuge, which
he could almost welcome withjoy. Some feet above him the windows of a Sevres restaurant openedtoward the river. He could be seen from there, as well as from thebridge; but he did not mind this, nor anything else.

  "As well here, as elsewhere," he said to himself.

  He had just drawn his pistol out, when he heard someone call:

  "Hector! Hector!"

  He jumped up at a bound, concealed the pistol, and looked about. A manwas running down the embankment toward him with outstretched arms. Thiswas a man of his own age, rather stout, but well shaped, with a fineopen face and, large black eyes in which one read frankness andgood-nature; one of those men who are sympathetic at first sight, whomone loves on a week's acquaintance.

  Hector recognized him. It was his oldest friend, a college mate; theyhad once been very intimate, but the count not finding the other fastenough for him, had little by little dropped his intimacy, and had nowlost sight of him for two years.

  "Sauvresy!" he exclaimed, stupefied.

  "Yes," said the young man, hot, and out of breath, "I've been watchingyou the last two minutes; what were you doing here?"

  "Why--nothing."

  "How! What they told me at your house this morning was true, then! Iwent there."

  "What did they say?"

  "That nobody knew what had become of you, and that you declared to Jennywhen you left her the night before that you were going to blow yourbrains out. The papers have already announced your death, with details."

  This news seemed to have a great effect on the count.

  "You see, then," he answered tragically, "that I must kill myself!"

  "Why? In order to save the papers from the inconvenience of correctingtheir error."

  "People will say that I shrunk--"

  "Oh, 'pon my word now! According to you, a man must make a fool ofhimself because it has been reported that he would do it. Absurd, oldfellow. What do you want to kill yourself for?"

  Hector reflected; he almost saw the possibility of living.

  "I am ruined," answered he, sadly.

  "And it's for this that--stop, my friend, let me tell you, you are anass! Ruined! It's a misfortune, but when a man is of your age herebuilds his fortune. Besides, you aren't as ruined as you say, becauseI've got an income of a hundred thousand francs."

  "A hundred thousand francs--"

  "Well, my fortune is in land, which brings in about four per cent."

  Tremorel knew that his friend was rich, but not that he was as rich asthis. He answered with a tinge of envy in his tone:

  "Well, I had more than that; but I had no breakfast this morning."

  "And you did not tell me! But true, you are in a pitiable state; comealong, quick!"

  And he led him toward the restaurant.

  Tremorel reluctantly followed this friend, who had just saved his life.He was conscious of having been surprised in a distressingly ridiculoussituation. If a man who is resolved to blow his brains out is accosted,he presses the trigger, he doesn't conceal his pistol. There was onealone, among all his friends, who loved him enough not to see theludicrousness of his position; one alone generous enough not to torturehim with raillery; it was Sauvresy.

  But once seated before a well-filled table, Hector could not preservehis rigidity. He felt the joyous expansion of spirit which followsassured safety after terrible peril. He was himself, young again, oncemore strong. He told Sauvresy everything; his vain boasting, his terrorat the last moment, his agony at the hotel, his fury, remorse, andanguish at the pawnbroker's.

  "Ah!" said he. "You have saved me! You are my friend, my only friend, mybrother."

  They talked for more than two hours.

  "Come," said Sauvresy at last, "let us arrange our plans. You want todisappear awhile; I see that. But to-night you must write four lines tothe papers. To-morrow I propose to take your affairs in hand, that's athing I know how to do. I don't know exactly how you stand; but I willagree to save something from the wreck. We've got money, you see; yourcreditors will be easy with us."

  "But where shall I go?" asked Hector, whom the mere idea of isolationterrified.

  "What? You'll come home with me, parbleu, to Valfeuillu. Don't you knowthat I am married? Ah, my friend, a happier man than I does not exist!I've married--for love--the loveliest and best of women. You will be abrother to us. But come, my carriage is right here near the door."