IV. "NO! I AM NOT MAD!"
The next day but one after the crime, on the Friday, Louise the cook,who was still terribly upset by the dreadful death of the good mistressin whose service she had been for fifteen years, came down to herkitchen early. It was scarcely daybreak, and the good woman was obligedto light a lamp to see by. With her mind anywhere but on her work, shewas mechanically getting breakfast for the servants and for the visitorsto the chateau, when a sharp knock on the back door made her jump. Shewent to open it, and uttered a little scream as she saw the cocked hatsof gendarmes silhouetted against the wan light of the early morning.
Between the gendarmes were two miserable-looking specimens of humanity.Louise had only opened the door a few inches when the sergeant, who hadknown her for many years, took a step forward and gave her a militarysalute.
"I must ask your hospitality for us and for these two fellows whom wehave taken up to-night, prowling about the neighbourhood," he said.
The dismayed Louise broke in.
"Good heavens, sergeant, are you bringing thieves here? Where do youexpect me to put them? Surely there's enough trouble in the house as itis!"
The gendarme, Morand, smiled with the disillusioned air of a man whoknows very well what trouble is, and the sergeant replied:
"Put them? Why, in your kitchen, of course," and as the servant made asign of refusal, he added: "I am sorry, but you must; besides, there'snothing for you to be afraid of; the men are handcuffed, and we shallnot leave them. We are going to wait here for the magistrate who willexamine them."
The gendarmes had pushed their wretched captives in before them, twotramps of the shadiest appearance.
Louise, who had gone mechanically to raise the lid of a kettle beginningto boil over, looked round at his last words.
"The magistrate?" she said: "M. de Presles? Why, he is here now--in thelibrary."
"No?" exclaimed the sergeant, jumping up from the kitchen chair on whichhe had seated himself.
"He is, I tell you," the old woman insisted; "and the little man whogenerally goes about with him is here too."
"You mean M. Gigou, his clerk?"
"Very likely," muttered Louise.
"I leave the prisoners with you, Morand," said the sergeant curtly;"don't let them out of your sight. I am going to the magistrate. I haveno doubt he will wish to interrogate these fellows at once."
The gendarme came to attention and saluted.
"Trust me, sergeant!"
It looked as if Morand's job was going to be an easy one; the twotramps, huddled up in a corner of the kitchen opposite the stove, showedno disposition to make their escape. The two were utterly different inappearance. One was a tall, strongly built man, with thick hair crownedby a little jockey cap, and was enveloped in a kind of overcoat whichmight have been black once but which was now of a greenish hue, theresult of the inclemency of the weather; he gnawed his heavy moustachein silence and turned sombre, uneasy looks on all, including hiscompanion in misfortune. He wore hobnailed shoes and carried a stoutcudgel. He was more like a piece of the human wreckage one sees in thestreet corners of great cities than a genuine tramp. Instead of acollar, there was a variegated handkerchief round his neck. His name, hehad told the sergeant, was Francois Paul.
The other man, who had been discovered at the back of a farm just as hewas about to crawl inside a stack, was a typical country tramp. An oldsoft felt hat was crammed down on his head, and a shock of rebelliousred and grey hair curled up all round it, while a hairy beard entirelyconcealed all the features of his face. All that could be seen of it wasa pair of sparkling eyes incessantly moving in every possible direction.This second man contemplated with interest the place into which thepolice had conducted him. On his back he bore a heavy sort of wallet inwhich he stowed articles of the most varied description. Whereas hiscompanion maintained a rigid silence, this man never stopped talking.Nudging his neighbour every now and then he whispered:
"Say, where do you come from? You're not from these parts, are you? I'venever seen you before have I? Everybody round here knows me:Bouzille--my name's Bouzille," and turning to the gendarme he said:"Isn't it true, M'sieu Morand, that you and I are old acquaintances?This is the fourth or fifth time you've pinched me, isn't it?"
Bouzille's companion vouchsafed him a glance.
"So it's a habit of yours, is it?" he said in the same low tone; "youoften get nabbed?"
"As to 'often,'" the garrulous fellow replied, "that depends on what youmean by the word. In winter time it's not bad business to go back toclink, because of the rotten weather; in the summer one would rather goeasy, and then, too, in the summer there isn't so much crime; you canfind all you want on the road; country people aren't so particular inthe summer, while in the winter it's quite another thing; so they havedone me down to-night for mother Chiquard's rabbit, I expect."
The gendarme, who had been listening with no great attention, chimed in.
"So it was you who stole the rabbit, was it, Bouzille?"
"What's the good of your asking me that, M'sieu Morand?" protestedBouzille. "I suppose you would have left me alone if you hadn't beensure of it?"
Bouzille's companion bent his head and whispered very low:
"There has been something worse than that: the job with the lady of thishouse."
"Oh, that!" said Bouzille with a gesture of complete indifference. Buthe did not proceed. The sergeant came back to the kitchen and saidsternly:
"Francois Paul, forward: the examining magistrate will hear you now."
The man summoned stepped towards the sergeant, and quietly submitted tobeing taken by the arm, for his hands were fastened. Bouzille winkedknowingly at the gendarme, now his sole remaining confidant, andremarked with satisfaction:
"Good luck! We are getting on to-day! Not too much 'remanded' about it,"and as the gendarme, severely keeping his proper distance, made noreply, the incorrigible chatterbox went on merrily: "As a matter of factit suits me just as well to be committed for trial, since the governmentgive you your board and lodging, and especially since there's a reallybeautiful prison at Brives now." He leaned familiarly against thegendarme's shoulder. "Ah, M'sieu Morand, you didn't know it--you weren'told enough--why, it was before you joined the force--but the lock-upused to be in an old building just behind the Law Courts: dirty! Ishould think it was dirty! And damp! Why once, when I did three monthsthere, from January to April, I came out so ill with the rheumatics thatI had to go back into the infirmary for another fortnight! Gad!" he wenton after a moment's pause during which he snuffed the air around him,"something smells jolly good here!" He unceremoniously addressed thecook who was busy at her work: "Mightn't there perhaps be a bit of ablow out for me, Mme. Louise?" and as she turned round with a somewhatscandalised expression he continued: "you needn't be frightened, lady,you know me very well. Many a time I've come and asked you for any oldthing, and you've always given me something. M'sieu Dollon, too:whenever he has an old pair of shoes that are worn out, well, those aremine; and a crust of bread is what nobody ever refuses."
The cook hesitated, touched by the recollections evoked by the poortramp; she looked at the gendarme for a sign of encouragement. Morandshrugged his shoulders and turned a patronising gaze on Bouzille.
"Give him something, if you like, Mme. Louise. After all, he is wellknown. And for my own part I don't believe he could have done it."
The tramp interrupted him.
"Ah, M'sieu Morand, if it's a matter of picking up trifles here andthere, a wandering rabbit, perhaps, or a fowl that's tired of beinglonely, I don't say no; but as for anything else--thank'ee kindly,lady."
Louise had handed Bouzille a huge chunk of bread which he immediatelyinterned in the depths of his enormous bag.
"What do you suppose that other chap can have to tell Mr. Paul Pry? Hedid not look like a regular! Now when I get before the gentlemen inblack, I don't want to contradict them, and so I always say, 'Yes, mylord,' and they are perfectly satisfied; sometimes they la
ugh and thepresident of the court says, 'Stand up, Bouzille,' and then he gives mea fortnight, or twenty-one days, or a month, as the case may be."
* * * * *
The sergeant came back, alone, and addressed the gendarme.
"The other man has been discharged," he said. "As for Bouzille, M. dePresles does not think there is any need to interrogate him."
"Am I to be punted out then?" enquired the tramp with some dismay, as helooked uneasily towards the window, against the glass of which rain waslashing.
The sergeant could not restrain a smile.
"Well, no, Bouzille," he said kindly, "we must take you to the lock-up;there's the little matter of the rabbit to be cleared up, you know. Comenow, quick march! Take him to Saint-Jaury, Morand!"
The sergeant went back to the library to hold himself at themagistrate's disposal; through the torrential downpour of rain Bouzilleand the gendarme wended their way to the village; and left alone in herkitchen, Louise put out her lamp, for despite the shocking weather itwas getting lighter now, and communed with herself.
"I've a kind of idea that they would have done better to keep that otherman. He was a villainous-looking fellow!"
The sad, depressing day had passed without any notable incident.
Charles Rambert and his father had spent the afternoon with Therese andthe Baronne de Vibray continuously addressing large black-edgedenvelopes to the relations and friends of the Marquise de Langrune,whose funeral had been fixed for the next day but one.
A hasty dinner had been served at which the Baronne de Vibray waspresent. Her grief was distressing to witness. Somewhat futile tooutward seeming, this woman had a very kind and tender heart; as amatter of course she had constituted herself the protector and comforterof Therese, and she had spent the whole of the previous day with thechild at Brives, ransacking the local shops to procure her mourning.
Therese was terribly shocked by the dreadful death of her grandmotherwhom she adored, but she displayed unexpected strength of character andcontrolled her grief so that she might be able to look after the guestswhom she was now entertaining for the first time as mistress of thehouse. The Baronne de Vibray had failed in her attempt to persuadeTherese to come with her to Querelles to sleep. Therese was determinedin her refusal to leave the chateau and what she termed her "post ofduty."
"Marie will stay with me," she assured the kind Baronne, "and I promiseyou I shall have sufficient courage to go to sleep to-night."
So her friend got into her car alone at nine o'clock and went back toher own house, and Therese went up at once to bed with Marie, thefaithful servant who, like Louise the cook, had been with her ever sinceshe was born.
* * * * *
After having read all the newspapers, with their minute and ofteninaccurate account of the tragedy at Beaulieu--for everyone in thechateau had been besieged the previous day by reporters andrepresentatives of various press agencies--M. Etienne Rambert said tohis son simply, but with a marked gravity:
"Let us go upstairs, my son: it is time."
At the door of his room Charles deferentially offered his cheek to hisfather, but M. Etienne Rambert seemed to hesitate; then, as if taking asudden resolution, he entered his son's room instead of going on to hisown. Charles kept silence and refrained from asking any questions, forhe had noticed how lost in sad thought his father had seemed to be sincethe day before.
Charles Rambert was very tired. He began to undress at once. He hadtaken off his coat and waistcoat, and was turning towards alooking-glass to undo his tie, when his father came up to him; with anabrupt movement M. Etienne Rambert put both his hands on his son'sshoulders and looked him straight in the eyes. Then in a stifled butperemptory tone he said:
"Now confess, unhappy boy! Confess to your father!"
Charles went ghastly white.
"What?" he muttered.
Etienne Rambert kept his eyes fixed upon him.
"It was you who committed the murder!"
The ringing denial that the young man tried to utter was strangled inhis throat; he threw out his arms and groped with his hands as if tofind something to support him in his faintness; then he pulled himselftogether.
"Committed the murder? I? You accuse me of having killed the Marquise?It is infamous, hateful, awful!"
"Alas, yes!"
"No, no! Good God, no!"
"Yes!" Etienne Rambert insisted.
The two men faced each other, panting. Charles controlled the emotionwhich was sweeping over him once more, and looking steadily at hisfather, said in tones of bitter reproach:
"And it is actually my own father who says that--who suspects me!"
Tears filled the young fellow's eyes and sobs choked him; he grew whiterstill, and seemed so near collapse that his father had to support him toa chair, where he remained for several minutes utterly prostrated.
M. Rambert paced up and down the room a few times, then took anotherchair and sat down in front of his son. Passing a hand across his browas if to sweep away the horrible nightmare that was haunting him, hespoke again.
"Come now, my boy, my poor boy, let us talk it over quietly. I do notknow how it was, but yesterday morning when I saw you at the station Ihad a presentiment of something: you were haggard, and tired, and youreyes were drawn----"
"I told you before," Charles answered tonelessly "that I had had a badnight: I was over-excited and did not sleep: I was awake the wholenight."
"By Jove, yes!" his father rapped out: "I can believe that! But if youwere not asleep, how do you account for your not hearing anything?"
"Therese did not hear anything either," said Charles after a moment'sreflection.
"Therese's room was a long way off," M. Rambert replied, "while therewas only a thin wall between yours and that of the Marquise. You musthave heard: you did hear! More than that----, oh, my boy, my unhappyboy!"
Charles was twisting and untwisting his hands, and great drops of coldperspiration beaded his brow.
"You are the only single person who thinks I committed such an awfulcrime!" he said, half questioningly.
"The only one?" Etienne Rambert muttered. "Perhaps! As yet! But youought to know that you made a very bad impression indeed upon thefriends of the Marquise during the evening before the crime, whenPresident Bonnet was reading the particulars of a murder that had beencommitted in Paris by--somebody: I forget whom."
"Good heavens!" Charles exclaimed in indignation, "I did not sayanything wrong. Do you mean to say that just because I am interested instories of great criminals like Rocambole and Fantomas----"
"You created a deplorable impression," his father repeated.
"So they suspect me too, do they?" Charles enquired. "But you can't makeaccusations like that," he said, warming up: "you've got to have facts,and proofs." He looked at his father for the sympathy and encouragementof affection. "Listen, papa, I know you will believe me when I swearthat I am innocent; but do you think other people----"
M. Etienne Rambert sat with his head between his hands, wrapped inthought; there was a short silence before the unhappy father replied:
"Unfortunately there is evidence against you," he said at last; "anddamning evidence, too!" he added with a glance at his son that seemed topulverise him. "Terrible evidence! Consider, Charles: the magistrateshave decided, as a result of their investigations, that no one got intothe chateau on the fatal night; you were the only man who slept there;and none but a man could possibly have committed such a horrible crime,such a monstrous piece of butchery!"
"Someone might have got in from outside," the unhappy lad urged, as iftrying to escape from the network in which he was being entangled.
"No one did," Etienne Rambert insisted; "besides, how could you proveit?"
Charles was silent. He stood in the middle of the room, with tremblinglegs and haggard eyes, seemingly stupefied and incapable of coherentthought, vacantly watching his father. With bent head and shouldersbowed as
though beneath a too-heavy load, Etienne Rambert moved towardsthe dressing-room attached to the bedroom.
"Come here," he said in an almost inaudible voice; "follow me."
He went into the dressing-room, and picking up the towels that wereheaped anyhow on the lower rail of the washstand, he selected a verycrumpled one and held it out in front of his son.
"Look at that!" he said in a low, curt tone.
And on the towel, thus held in the light, Charles Rambert saw red stainsof blood. The lad started, and was about to burst into someprotestation, but Etienne Rambert imperiously checked him.
"Do you still deny it? Unhappy, wretched boy, there is the convincing,irrefutable evidence of your guilt! These stains of blood proclaim it.Something always is overlooked! How are you to explain the presence ofthis blood-stained linen in your room? Can you still deny that it isproof positive of your guilt?"
"But I do deny it, I do deny it! I don't understand! I know nothingabout it!" and once more Charles Rambert collapsed into the arm-chair;the unhappy lad was nothing but a human wreck, with no strength to argueor even utter a word.
His father's eyes rested on him, filled with infinite affection andprofoundest pity.
"My poor, poor boy!" the unhappy Etienne Rambert murmured, and added, asif speaking only to himself: "I wonder if you are not entirelyresponsible--if there are circumstances to plead for you!"
"Do you still accuse me, papa? Do you really believe I am the murderer?"
Etienne Rambert shook his head hopelessly.
"Oh, I wish, I wish," he exclaimed, "that for the honour of our name,and for the sake of those who love us, I could prove you had congenital,hereditary tendencies that made you not responsible! Why could not Ihave watched over your upbringing? Why has fate decreed that I shouldonly see my son three times at most in eighteen years, and come home tofind him--a criminal? Oh, if science could but establish the fact thatthe child of a tainted mother----"
"Tainted?" Charles exclaimed; "what do you mean?"
"Tainted with a terrible and mysterious disease," Etienne Rambert wenton: "a disease before which we are powerless and unarmed--insanity!"
"What?" cried Charles, growing momentarily more distressed andbewildered; "what is that, papa? Are my wits going? My mother insane?"And then he added hopelessly: "My God! You must be right! Often andoften I have been amazed by her strange, puzzling looks and behaviour!But I--I have all my proper senses: I know what I am doing!"
"Was it, perhaps, some appalling hallucination," Etienne Rambertsuggested: "some moment of irresponsibility?"
But Charles saw what he meant and cut him short.
"No, no, papa! I am not mad! I am not mad! I am not mad!"
In his intense excitement the young fellow never thought of moderatingthe tone of his voice, but shouted out what was in his mind, shouted itinto the silence of the night, heedless of all but this terriblediscussion he was having with the father whom he loved. Nor did EtienneRambert lower his voice: his son's impassioned protest wrung the retortfrom him:
"Then, Charles, if you are right, your crime is beyond forgiveness!Murderer! Murderer!"
The two men stopped short as a slight sound in the passage caught theirattention. A silence fell upon them that they could not break, and theystood dumbfounded, nervous and overwrought.
The door of the room opened very slowly, and a white form appearedagainst the darkness of the corridor outside.
Robed in a long night-dress, Therese stood there, with hair dishevelled,bloodless lips, and eyes dilated with horror; the child was shaking fromhead to foot; as if every movement hurt her, she painfully raised herarm and pointed to Charles.
"Therese!" Etienne Rambert muttered: "Therese, you were outside?"
The child's lips moved: she seemed to be making a more than humaneffort, and a whisper escaped her lips:
"Yes----"
But she could say no more: her eyes rolled, her whole frame tottered,and then, without sign or cry, she fell rigid and unconscious to thefloor.
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