Le crime d'Orcival. English

by Emile Gaboriau

  XVIII

  A small, fine, chilly rain had succeeded the morning fog; but Sauvresydid not perceive it. He went across the fields with his head bare,wandering at hazard, without aim or discretion. He talked aloud as hewent, stopping ever and anon, then resuming his course. The peasants whomet him--they all knew him--turned to look at him after having salutedhim, asking themselves whether the master of Valfeuillu had not gonemad. Unhappily he was not mad. Overwhelmed by an unheard-of,unlooked-for catastrophe, his brain had been for a moment paralyzed. Butone by one he collected his scattered ideas and acquired the faculty ofthinking and of suffering. Each one of his reflections increased hismortal anguish. Yes, Bertha and Hector had deceived, had dishonored him.She, beloved to idolatry; he, his best and oldest friend, a wretch thathe had snatched from misery, who owed him everything. And it was in hishouse, under his own roof, that this infamy had taken place. They hadtaken advantage of his noble trust, had made a dupe of him. Thefrightful discovery not only embittered the future, but also the past.He longed to blot out of his life these years passed with Bertha, withwhom, but the night before, he had recalled these "happiest years of hislife." The memory of his former happiness filled his soul with disgust.But how had this been done? When? How was it he had seen nothing of it?And now things came into his mind which should have warned him had henot been blind. He recalled certain looks of Bertha, certain tones ofvoice, which were an avowal. At times, he tried to doubt. There aremisfortunes so great that to be believed there must be more thanevidence.

  "It is not possible!" muttered he.

  Seating himself upon a prostrate tree in the midst of Mauprevoir forest,he studied the fatal letter for the tenth time within four hours.

  "It proves all," said he, "and it proves nothing."

  And he read once more.

  "Do not go to-morrow to Petit-Bourg--"

  Well, had he not again and again, in his idiotic confidence, said toHector:

  "I shall be away to-morrow, stay here and keep Bertha company."

  This sentence, then, had no positive signification. But why add:

  "Or rather, return before breakfast."

  This was what betrayed fear, that is, the fault. To go away and returnagain anon, was to be cautious, to avoid suspicion. Then, why "he,"instead of, "Clement?" This word was striking. "He"--that is, the dearone, or else, the master that one hates. There is no medium--'tis thehusband, or the lover. "He," is never an indifferent person. A husbandis lost when his wife, in speaking of him, says, "He."

  But when had Bertha written these few lines? Doubtless some eveningafter they had retired to their room. He had said to her, "I'm goingto-morrow to Melun," and then she had hastily scratched off this noteand given it, in a book, to Hector.

  Alas! the edifice of his happiness, which had seemed to him strongenough to defy every tempest of life, had crumbled, and he stood therelost in the midst of its debris. No more happiness, joys,hopes--nothing! All his plans for the future rested on Bertha; her namewas mingled in his every dream, she was at once the future and thedream. He had so loved her that she had become something of himself,that he could not imagine himself without her. Bertha lost to him, hesaw no direction in life to take, he had no further reason for living.He perceived this so vividly that the idea of suicide came to him. Hehad his gun, powder and balls; his death would be attributed to ahunting accident, and all would be over.

  Oh, but the guilty ones!

  They would doubtless go on in their infamous comedy--would seem to mournfor him, while really their hearts would bound with joy. No morehusband, no more hypocrisies or terrors. His will giving his fortune toBertha, they would be rich. They would sell everything, and would departrejoicing to some distant clime. As to his memory, poor man, it wouldamuse them to think of him as the cheated and despised husband.

  "Never!" cried he, drunk with fury, "never! I must kill myself, butfirst, I must avenge my dishonor!"

  But he tried in vain to imagine a punishment cruel or terrible enough.What chastisement could expiate the horrible tortures which he endured?He said to himself that, in order to assure his vengeance, he mustwait--and he swore that he would wait. He would feign the same stolidconfidence, and resigned himself to see and hear everything.

  "My hypocrisy will equal theirs," thought he.

  Indeed a cautious duplicity was necessary. Bertha was most cunning, andat the first suspicion would fly with her lover. Hector hadalready--thanks to him--several hundred thousand francs. The idea thatthey might escape his vengeance gave him energy and a clear head.

  It was only then that he thought of the flight of time, the rain fallingin torrents, and the state of his clothes.

  "Bah!" thought he, "I will make up some story to account for myself."

  He was only a league from Valfeuillu, but he was an hour and a halfreaching home. He was broken, exhausted; he felt chilled to the marrowof his bones. But when he entered the gate, he had succeeded in assuminghis usual expression, and the gayety which so well hinted his perfecttrustfulness. He had been waited for, but in spite of his resolutions,he could not sit at table between this man and woman, his two most cruelenemies. He said that he had taken cold, and would go to bed. Berthainsisted in vain that he should take at least a bowl of broth and aglass of claret.

  "Really," said he, "I don't feel well."

  When he had retired, Bertha said:

  "Did you notice, Hector?"

  "What?"

  "Something unusual has happened to him."

  "Very likely, after being all day in the rain."

  "No. His eye had a look I never saw before."

  "He seemed to be very cheerful, as he always is."

  "Hector, my husband suspects!"

  "He? Ah, my poor good friend has too much confidence in us to think ofbeing jealous."

  "You deceive yourself, Hector; he did not embrace me when he came in,and it is the first time since our marriage."

  Thus, at the very first, he had made a blunder. He knew it well; but itwas beyond his power to embrace Bertha at that moment; and he wassuffering more than he thought he should. When his wife and his friendascended to his room, after dinner, they found him shivering under thesheets, red, his forehead burning, his throat dry, and his eyes shiningwith an unusual brilliancy. A fever soon came on, attended by delirium.A doctor was called, who at first said he would not answer for him. Thenext day he was worse. From this time both Hector and Bertha conceivedfor him the most tender devotion. Did they think they should thus insome sort expiate their crime? It is doubtful. More likely they tried toimpose on the people about them; everyone was anxious for Sauvresy. Theynever deserted him for a moment, passing the night by turns near hisbed. And it was painful to watch over him; a furious delirium never lefthim. Several times force had to be used to keep him on the bed; he triedto throw himself out of the window. The third day he had a strangefancy; he did not wish to stay in his chamber. He kept crying out:

  "Carry me away from here, carry me away from here."

  The doctor advised that he should be humored; so a bed was made up forhim in a little room on the ground-floor, overlooking the garden. Hiswanderings did not betray anything of his suspicions; perhaps the firmwill was able even to control the delirium. The fever finally yielded onthe ninth day. His breathing became calmer, and he slept. When he awoke,reason had returned. That was a frightful moment. He had, so to speak,to take up the burden of his misery. At first he thought it the memoryof a horrid night-mare; but no. He had not dreamed. He recalled theBelle Image, Jenny, the forest, the letter. What had become of theletter? Then, having the vague impression of a serious illness, he askedhimself if he had said anything to betray the source of his misery. Thisanxiety prevented his making the slightest movement, and he opened hiseyes softly and cautiously. It was eleven at night, and all the servantshad gone to bed. Hector and Bertha alone were keeping watch; he wasreading a paper, she was crocheting. Sauvresy saw by their placidcountenances that he had betrayed nothing. He moved slightly;
Bertha atonce arose and came to him.

  "How are you, dear Clement?" asked she, kissing him fondly on theforehead.

  "I am no longer in pain."

  "You see the result of being careless."

  "How many days have I been sick?"

  "Eight days."

  "Why was I brought here?"

  "Because you wished it."

  Tremorel had approached the bedside.

  "You refused to stay upstairs," said he, "you were ungovernable till wehad you brought here."

  "But don't tire yourself," resumed Hector. "Go to sleep again, and youwill be well by to-morrow. And good-night, for I am going to bed now,and shall return and wake your wife at four o'clock."

  He went out, and Bertha, having given Sauvresy something to drink,returned to her seat.

  "What a friend Tremorel is," murmured she. Sauvresy did not answer thisterribly ironical exclamation. He shut his eyes, pretended to sleep, andthought of the letter. What had he done with it? He remembered that hehad carefully folded it and put it in the right-hand pocket of his vest.He must have this letter. It would balk his vengeance, should it fallinto his wife's hands; and this might happen at any moment. It was amiracle that his valet had not put it on the mantel, as he wasaccustomed to do with the things which he found in his master's pockets.He was reflecting on some means of getting it, of the possibility ofgoing up to his bedroom, where his vest ought to be, when Bertha got upsoftly. She came to the bed and whispered gently:

  "Clement, Clement!"

  He did not open his eyes, and she, persuaded that he was sleeping,though very lightly, stole out of the room, holding her breath as shewent.

  "Oh, the wretch!" muttered Sauvresy, "she is going to him!"

  At the same time the necessity of recovering the letter occurred to himmore vividly than ever.

  "I can get to my room," thought he, "without being seen, by the gardenand back-stairs. She thinks I'm asleep; I shall get back and abed beforeshe returns."

  Then, without asking himself whether he were not too feeble, or whatdanger there might be in exposing himself to the cold, he got up, threwa gown around him, put on his slippers and went toward the door.

  "If anyone sees me, I will feign delirium," said he to himself.

  The vestibule lamp was out and he found some difficulty in opening thedoor; finally, he descended into the garden. It was intensely cold, andsnow had fallen. The wind shook the limbs of the trees crusted with ice.The front of the house was sombre. One window only was lighted--that ofTremorel's room; that was lighted brilliantly, by a lamp and a greatblazing fire. The shadow of a man--of Hector--rested on the muslincurtains; the shape was distinct. He was near the window, and hisforehead was pressed against the panes. Sauvresy instinctively stoppedto look at his friend, who was so at home in his house, and who, inexchange for the most brotherly hospitality, had brought dishonor,despair and death.

  Hector made a sudden movement, and turned around as if he was surprisedby an unwonted noise. What was it? Sauvresy only knew too well. Anothershadow appeared on the curtain--that of Bertha. And he had forcedhimself to doubt till now! Now proofs had come without his seeking. Whathad brought her to that room, at that hour? She seemed to be talkingexcitedly. He thought he could hear that full, sonorous voice, now asclear as metal, now soft and caressing, which had made all the chords ofpassion vibrate in him. He once more saw those beautiful eyes which hadreigned so despotically over his heart, and whose expressions he knew sowell. But what was she doing? Doubtless she had gone to ask Hectorsomething, which he refused her, and she was pleading with him; Sauvresysaw that she was supplicating, by her motions; he knew the gesture well.She lifted her clasped hands as high as her forehead, bent her head,half shut her eyes. What languor had been in her voice when she used tosay:

  "Say, dear Clement, you will, will you not?"

  And now she was using the same blandishments on another. Sauvresy wasobliged to support himself against a tree. Hector was evidently refusingwhat she wished; then she shook her finger menacingly, and tossed herhead angrily, as if she were saying:

  "You won't? You shall see, then."

  And then she returned to her supplications.

  "Ah," thought Sauvresy, "he can resist her prayers; I never had suchcourage. He can preserve his coolness, his will, when she looks at him;I never said no to her; rather, I never waited for her to ask anythingof me; I have passed my life in watching her lightest fancies, togratify them. Perhaps that is what has ruined me!"

  Hector was obstinate, and Bertha was roused little by little; she mustbe angry. She recoiled, holding out her arms, her head thrown back; shewas threatening him. At last he was conquered; he nodded, "Yes." Thenshe flung herself upon him, and the two shadows were confounded in along embrace.

  Sauvresy could not repress an agonized cry, which was lost amid thenoises of the night. He had asked for certainty; here it was. The truth,indisputable, evident, was clear to him. He had to seek for nothingmore, now, except for the means to punish surely and terribly. Berthaand Hector were talking amicably. Sauvresy saw that she was about to godownstairs, and that he could not now go for the letter. He went inhurriedly, forgetting, in his fear of being discovered, to lock thegarden door. He did not perceive that he had been standing with nakedfeet in the snow, till he had returned to his bedroom again; he saw someflakes on his slippers, and they were damp; quickly he threw them underthe bed, and jumped in between the clothes, and pretended to be asleep.

  It was time, for Bertha soon came in. She went to the bed, and thinkingthat he had not woke up, returned to her embroidery by the fire.Tremorel also soon reappeared; he had forgotten to take his paper, andhad come back for it. He seemed uneasy.

  "Have you been out to-night, Madame?" asked he, in a low voice.

  "No."

  "Have all the servants gone to bed?"

  "I suppose so; but why do you ask?"

  "Since I have been upstairs, somebody has gone out into the garden, andcome back again."

  Bertha looked at him with a troubled glance.

  "Are you sure of what you say?"

  "Certainly. Snow is falling, and whoever went out brought some back onhis shoes. This has melted in the vestibule--"

  Mme. Sauvresy seized the lamp, and interrupting Hector, said:

  "Come."

  Tremorel was right. Here and there on the vestibule pavement were littlepuddles.

  "Perhaps this water has been here some time," suggested Bertha.

  "No. It was not there an hour ago, I could swear. Besides, see, here isa little snow that has not melted yet."

  "It must have been one of the servants."

  Hector went to the door and examined it.

  "I do not think so," said he. "A servant would have shut the bolts; herethey are, drawn back. Yet I myself shut the door to-night, anddistinctly recollect fastening the bolts."

  "It's very strange!"

  "And all the more so, look you, because the traces of the water do notgo much beyond the drawing-room door."

  They remained silent, and exchanged anxious looks. The same terriblethought occurred to them both.

  "If it were he?"

  But why should he have gone into the garden? It could not have been tospy on them.

  They did not think of the window.

  "It couldn't have been Clement," said Bertha, at last. "He was asleepwhen I went back, and he is in a calm and deep slumber now."

  Sauvresy, stretched upon his bed, heard what his enemies were saying. Hecursed his imprudence.

  "Suppose," thought he, "they should think of looking at my gown andslippers!"

  Happily this simple idea did not occur to them; after reassuring eachother as well as they were able, they separated; but each heart carriedan anxious doubt. Sauvresy on that night had a terrible crisis in hisillness. Delirium, succeeding this ray of reason, renewed its possessionof his brain. The next morning Dr. R--- pronounced him in more dangerthan ever; and sent a despatch to Paris, saying that he would bedeta
ined at Valfeuillu three or four days. The distemper redoubled inviolence; very contradictory symptoms appeared. Each day brought somenew phase of it, which confounded the foresight of the doctors. Everytime that Sauvresy had a moment of reason, the scene at the windowrecurred to him, and drove him to madness again.

  On that terrible night when he had gone out into the snow, he had notbeen mistaken; Bertha was really begging something of Hector. This wasit:

  M. Courtois, the mayor, had invited Hector to accompany himself and hisfamily on an excursion to Fontainebleau on the following day. Hector hadcordially accepted the invitation. Bertha could not bear the idea of hisspending the day in Laurence's company, and begged him not to go. Shetold him there were plenty of excuses to relieve him from his promise;for instance, he might urge that it would not be seemly for him to gowhen his friend lay dangerously ill. At first he positively refused togrant her prayer, but by her supplications and menaces she persuadedhim, and she did not go downstairs until he had sworn that he wouldwrite to M. Courtois that very evening declining the invitation. He kepthis word, but he was disgusted by her tyrannical behavior. He was tiredof forever sacrificing his wishes and his liberty, so that he could plannothing, say or promise nothing without consulting this jealous woman,who would scarcely let him wander out of her sight. The chain becameheavier and heavier to bear, and he began to see that sooner or later itmust be wrenched apart. He had never loved either Bertha or Jenny, oranyone, probably; but he now loved the mayor's daughter. Her dowry of amillion had at first dazzled him, but little by little he had beensubdued by Laurence's charms of mind and person. He, the dissipatedrake, was seduced by such grave and naive innocence, such frankness andbeauty; he would have married Laurence had she been poor--as Sauvresymarried Bertha. But he feared Bertha too much to brave her suddenly, andso he waited. The next day after the quarrel about Fontainebleau, hedeclared that he was indisposed, attributed it to the want of exercise,and took to the saddle for several hours every day afterward. But he didnot go far; only to the mayor's. Bertha at first did not perceiveanything suspicious in Tremorel's rides; it reassured her to see him gooff on his horse. After some days, however, she thought she saw in him acertain feeling of satisfaction concealed under the semblance offatigue. She began to have doubts, and these increased every time hewent out; all sorts of conjectures worried her while he was away. Wheredid he go? Probably to see Laurence, whom she feared and detested. Thesuspicion soon became a certainty with her. One evening Hector appeared,carrying in his button-hole a flower which Laurence herself had putthere, and which he had forgotten to take out. Bertha took it gently,examined it, smelt it, and, compelling herself to smile:

  "Why," said she, "what a pretty flower!"

  "So I thought," answered Hector, carelessly, "though I don't know whatit is called."

  "Would it be bold to ask who gave it to you?"

  "Not at all. It's a present from our good Plantat."

  All Orcival knew that M. Plantat, a monomaniac on flowers, never gavethem away to anyone except Mme. Laurence. Hector's evasion was anunhappy one, and Bertha was not deceived.

  "You promised me, Hector," said she, "not to see Laurence any more, andto give up this marriage."

  He tried to reply.

  "Let me speak," she continued, "and explain yourself afterward. You havebroken your word--you are deceiving my confidence! But I tell you, youshall not marry her!" Then, without awaiting his reply, she overwhelmedhim with reproaches. Why had he come here at all? She was happy in herhome before she knew him. She did not love Sauvresy, it was true; butshe esteemed him, and he was good to her. Ignorant of the happiness oftrue love, she did not desire it. But he had come, and she could notresist his fascination. And now, after having engaged her affection, hewas going to desert her, to marry another! Tremorel listened to her,perfectly amazed at her audacity. What! She dared to pretend that it washe who had abused her innocence, when, on the contrary, he had sometimesbeen astonished at her persistency! Such was the depth of hercorruption, as it seemed to him, that he wondered whether he were herfirst or her twentieth lover. And she had so led him on, and had soforcibly made him feel the intensity of her will, that he had been fainstill to submit to this despotism. But he had now determined to resiston the first opportunity; and he resisted.

  "Well, yes," said he, frankly, "I did deceive you; I have nofortune--this marriage will give me one; I shall get married." He wenton to say that he loved Laurence less than ever, but that he coveted hermoney more and more every day. "To prove this," he pursued, "if you willfind me to-morrow a girl who has twelve hundred thousand francs insteadof a million, I will marry her in preference to Mademoiselle Courtois."

  She had never suspected he had so much courage. She had so long mouldedhim like soft wax, and this unexpected conduct disconcerted her. She wasindignant, but at the same time she felt that unhealthy satisfactionthat some women feel, when they meet a master who subdues them; and sheadmired Tremorel more than ever before. This time, he had taken a tonewhich conquered her; she despised him enough to think him quite capableof marrying for money. When he had done, she said:

  "It's really so, then; you only care for the million of dowry?"

  "I've sworn it to you a hundred times."

  "Truly now, don't you love Laurence?"

  "I have never loved her, and never shall." He thought that he would thussecure his peace until the wedding-day; once married, he cared not whatwould happen. What cared he for Sauvresy? Life is only a succession ofbroken friendships. What is a friend, after all? One who can and oughtto serve you. Ability consists in breaking with people, when they ceaseto be useful to you.

  Bertha reflected.

  "Hear me, Hector," said she at last. "I cannot calmly resign myself tothe sacrifice which you demand. Let me have but a few days, to accustommyself to this dreadful blow. You owe me as much--let Clement get well,first."

  He did not expect to see her so gentle and subdued; who would havelooked for such concessions, so easily obtained? The idea of a snare didnot occur to him. In his delight he betrayed how he rejoiced in hisliberty, which ought to have undeceived Bertha; but she did not perceiveit. He grasped her hand, and cried:

  "Ah, you are very good--you really love me."