CHAPTER XVIII.
VERY often, after his release from prison, Jacques Dantin went to thecorner of the cemetery at Montmartre, where his friend lay. And healways carried flowers. It had become to him, since the terrible strainof his detention, a necessity, a habit. The dead are living! They wait,they understand, they listen!
It seemed to Dantin that he had but one aim. Alas! What had been thewish, the last dream of the dead man would never be realized. Thatfortune which Rovere had intended for the child whom he had no right tocall his own would go, was going to some far-off cousins of whoseexistence the ex-Consul was not even aware perhaps, and whom hecertainly had never known--to some indifferent persons, chancerelatives, strangers.
"I ought not to have waited for him to tell me what his intentions wereregarding his daughter," Dantin often thought. What would become of her,the poor girl, who knew the secret of her birth and who remained silent,piously devoting herself to the old soldier whose name she bore?
One day in February a sad, gray day, Jacques Dantin, thinking of thepast Winter so unhappy of the sad secret grave and heavy, strolledalong toward that granite tomb near which Rovere slept. He recalled thecurious crowd which had accompanied his dead friend to its last restingplace: the flowers; the under current of excitement; the cortege.Silence now filled the place! Dark shadows could be seen here and therebetween the tombs at the end of paths. It was not a visiting day nor anhour usual for funerals. This solitude pleased Jacques. He felt near tohim whom he loved.
Louis-Pierre Rovere. That name, which Moniche had had engraved, evokedmany remembrances for this man who had for a time been suspected ofassassinating him. All his childhood, all his youth, all the past! Howquickly the years had fled, such ruined years. So much of fever, ofagitation--so many ambitions, deceptions, in order to end here.
"He is at rest at least," thought Dantin, remembering his own life,without aim, without happiness. And he also would rest soon, having noteven a friend in this great city of Paris whom he could depend upon topay him a last visit. A ruined, wicked, useless life!
He again bade Rovere good-bye speaking to him, calling him thee and thouas of old. Then he went slowly away. But at the end of a walk he turnedaround to look once more at the place where his friend lay. He saw,coming that way, between the tombs, as if by some cross alley, a womanin black, who was walking directly toward the place he had left. Hestopped, waiting--yes, it was to Rovere's tomb that she was going. Tall,svelte, and as far as Jacques Dantin could see, she was young. He saidto himself:
"It is his daughter!"
The memory of their last interview came to him. He saw his unhappyfriend, haggard, standing in front of his open safe, searching throughhis papers for those which represented his child's fortune. If this washis friend's daughter, it was to him that Rovere had looked to assureher future.
He walked slowly back to the tomb. The woman in black was now kneelingnear the gray stone. Bent over, arranging a bouquet of chrysanthemumswhich she had brought. Dantin could see only her kneeling form and blackdraperies.
She was praying now!
Dantin stood looking at her, and when at last she arose he saw that shewas tall and elegant in her mourning robes. He advanced toward her. Thenoise of his footsteps on the gravel caused her to turn her head, andDantin saw a beautiful face, young and sad. She had blonde hair andlarge eyes, which opened wide in surprise. He saw the same expression ofthe eyes which Rovere's had borne.
The young woman instinctively made a movement as if to go away, to giveplace to the newcomer. But Dantin stopped her with a gesture.
"Do not go away, Mademoiselle. I am the best friend of the one whosleeps here."
She stopped, pale and timid.
"I know very well that you loved him," he added.
She unconsciously let a frightened cry escape her and looked helplesslyaround.
"He told me all," Dantin slowly said. "I am Jacques Dantin. He hasspoken to you of me, I think"----
"Yes," the young woman answered.
Dantin involuntarily shivered. Her voice had the same _timbre_ asRovere's.
In the silence of the cemetery, near the tomb, before that name,Louis-Pierre Rovere, which seemed almost like the presence of his deadfriend, Dantin felt the temptation to reveal to this girl what herfather had wished her to know.
They knew each other without ever having met. One word was enough, onename was sufficient, in order that the secret which united them shouldbring them nearer each other. What Dantin was to Rovere, Rovere had toldMarthe again and again.
Then, as if from the depths of the tomb, Rovere had ordered him tospeak. Jacques Dantin, in the solemn silence of that City of the Dead,confided to the young girl what her father had tried to tell him. Hespoke rapidly, the words, "A legacy--in trust--a fortune" fell from hislips. But the young girl quickly interrupted him with a grand gesture.
"I do not wish to know what any one has told you of me. I am thedaughter of a man who awaits me at Blois, who is old, who loves only me,who needs only me, and I need nothing!"
There was in her tone an accent of command, of resolution, which Dantinrecognized as one of Rovere's most remarkable characteristics.
Had Dantin known nothing, this sound in the voice, this ardent look onthe pale face, would have given him a hint or a suspicion, and haveobliged him to think of Rovere. Rovere lived again in this woman inblack whom Jacques Dantin saw for the first time.
"Then?" asked this friend of the dead man, as if awaiting an order.
"Then," said the young girl in her deep voice, "when you meet me nearthis tomb do not speak to me of anything. If you should meet me outsidethis cemetery, do not recognize me. The secret which was confided to youby the one who sleeps there, is the secret of a dead one whom Iadored--_my mother_; and of a living person whom I reverence--_myfather!_"
She accented the words with a sort of tender, passionate piety, andJacques Dantin saw that her eyes were filled with tears.
"Now, adieu!" she said.
Jacques still wished to speak of that last confidence of the dying man,but she said again:
"Adieu!"
With her hand, gloved in black, she made the sign of the Cross, smiledsadly as she looked at the tomb where the chrysanthemums lay, thenlowering her veil she went away, and Dantin, standing near the graytomb, saw her disappear at the end of an alley.
The martyr, expiating near the old crippled man, a fault of which shewas innocent, went back to him who was without suspicion; to him whoadored her and to whom she was, in their poor apartment in Blois, hissaint and his daughter.
She would watch, she would lose her youth, near that old soldier whoserobust constitution would endure many, many long years. She would payher dead mother's debt; she would pay it by devoting every hour of herlife to this man whose name she bore--an illustrious name, a namebelonging to the victories, to the struggles, to the history ofyesterday--she would be the hostage, the expiatory victim.
With all her life would she redeem the fault of that other!
"And who knows, my poor Rovere," said Jacques Dantin, "thy daughter,proud of her sacrifice, is perhaps happier in doing this!"
In his turn he left the tomb, he went out of the cemetery, he wished towalk to his lodging in the Rue Richelieu. He had only taken a few stepsalong the Boulevard, where--it seemed but yesterday--he had followed(talking with Bernardet) behind Rovere's funeral carriage, when henearly ran into a little man who was hurrying along the pavement. Thepolice officer saluted him, with a shaking of the head, which had in itregret, a little confusion, some excuses.
"Ah! Monsieur Dantin, what a grudge you must have against me!"
"Not at all," said Dantin. "You thought that you were doing your duty,and it did not displease me to have you try to so quickly avenge my poorRovere."
"Avenge him! Yes, he will be! I would not give four sous for CharlesPrades's head to-morrow, when he is tried. We shall see each other incourt. _Au revoir_, Monsieur Dantin, and all my
excuses!"
"_Au revoir_, Monsieur Bernardet, and all my compliments!"
The two men separated. Bernardet was on his way home to breakfast. Hewas late. Mme. Bernardet would be waiting, and a little red andbreathless he hurried along. He stopped on hearing a newsboy announcethe last number of _Lutece_.
"Ask for the account of the trial to-morrow: The inquest by Paul Rodieron the crime of the Boulevard de Clichy!"
The newsboy saluted Bernardet whom he knew very well.
"Give me a paper!" said the police officer. The boy pulled out a paperfrom the package he was carrying, and waved it over his head like aflag.
"Ah! I understand, that interests you, Monsieur Bernardet!"
And while the little man looked for the heading _Lutece_ in capitalletters--the title which Paul Rodier had given to a series of interviewswith celebrated physicians, the newsboy, giving Bernardet his change,said:
"To-morrow is the trial. But there is no doubt, is there, MonsieurBernardet? Prades is condemned in advance!"
"He has confessed, it is an accomplished fact," Bernardet replied,pocketing his change.
"_Au revoir_ and thanks, Monsieur Bernardet."
And the newsboy, going on his way, cried out:
"Ask for _Lutece_--The Rovere trial! The affair to-morrow! Paul Rodier'sinquest on the eye of the dead man!" His voice was at last drowned inthe noise of tramways and cabs.
M. Bernardet hurried on. The little ones would have become impatient,yes, yes, waiting for him, and asking for him around the table at home.He looked at the paper which he had bought. Paul Rodier, in regard tothe question which he, Bernardet, had raised, had interviewed savantsphysiologists, psychologists, and in good journalistic style hadpublished, the evening before the trial, the result of his inquest.
M. Bernardet read as he hastened along the long titles in capitals inlarge head lines.
"A Scientific Problem Apropos of the Rovere Affair!"
"Questions of Medical Jurisprudence!"
"The Eye of the Dead Man!"
"Interviews and Opinions of MM. Les Docteurs Brouardel, Roux, Duclaux,Pean, Robin, Pozzi, Blum, Widal, Gilles de la Tourette"----
Bernardet turned the leaves. The interviews filled two pages at least insolid columns.
"So much the better! So much the better!" said the police officerenchanted. And hastening along even faster, he said to himself:
"I am going to read all that to the children; yes, all that--it willamuse them--life is a romance like any other! More incredible than anyother! And these questions; the unknown, the invisible, all theseproblems--how interesting they are! And the mystery--so amusing!"
JULES CLARETIE of the French Academy; Mrs. Carlton A. Kingsbury,Translator.
The Crime of the Boulevard Page 16
