My mother had gone out immediately after announcing me, to attend to some small matters relative to the well-being of her dear invalid.My stepfather questioned me upon the ballot at the club which he had assigned as a pretext for his wish to see me.I sat with my elbow on the marble top of the table and my forehead resting in my hand; although I did not catch his eye I felt that he was studying my face, and I persisted in looking fixedly into the half-open drawer where a small pocket-pistol, of English make, lay side by side with his watch, and a brown silk purse, also made for him by my mother.What were the dark misgivings revealed by the presence of this weapon placed within reach of his hand and probably habitually placed there? Did he interpret my thoughts from my steady observation? Or had he, too, let his glance fall by chance upon the pistol, and was he pursuing the ideas that it suggested in order to keep up the talk it was always so difficult to maintain between us? The fact is that he said, as though replying to the question in my mind: "You are looking at that pistol, it is a pretty thing, is it not?" He took it up, turned in about in his hand, and then replaced it in the drawer, which he closed."I have a strange fancy, quite a mania; I could not sleep unless I had a loaded pistol there, quite close to me.After all, it is a habit which does no harm to anyone, and might have its advantages.If your poor father had carried a weapon like that upon him when he went to the Imperial Hotel, things would not have gone so easily with the assassin."This time I could not refrain from raising my eyes and seeking his.
How, if he were guilty, did he dare to recall this remembrance?
Why, if he were not, did his glance sink before mine? Was it merely in following out an association of ideas that he referred thus to the death of my father; was it for the purpose of displaying his entire unconcern respecting the subject-matter of our last interview; or was he using a probe to discover the depth of my suspicion? After this allusion to the mysterious murder which had made me fatherless, he went on to say:
"And, by-the-bye, have you seen M.Massol again?""No," said I, "not since the other day."
"He is a very intelligent man.At the time of that terrible affair, I had a great deal of talk with him, in my capacity as the intimate friend of both your father and mother.If I had known that you were in the habit of seeing him latterly, I should have asked you to convey my kind regards.""He has not forgotten you," I answered.In this I lied; for M.
Massol had never spoken of my stepfather to me; but that frenzy which had made me attack him almost madly in the conversation of the other evening had seized upon me again.Should I never find the vulnerable spot in that dark soul for which I was always looking? This time his eyes did not falter, and whatever there was of the enigmatical in what I had said, did not lead him to question me farther.On the contrary, he put his finger on his lips.Used as he was to all the sounds of the house, he had heard a step approaching, and knew it was my mother's.
Did I deceive myself, or was there an entreaty that I would respect the unsuspecting security of an innocent woman in the gesture by which he enjoined silence?
Was I to translate the look that accompanied the sign into: "Do not awaken suspicion in your mother's mind, she would suffer too much;"and was his motive merely the solicitude of a man who desires to save his wife from the revival of a sad remembrance.
She came in; with the same glance she saw us both, lighted by the same ray from the lamp, and she gave us a smile, meant for both of us in common, and fraught with the same tenderness for each.It had been the dream of her life that we should be together thus, and both of us with her, and, as she had told me at Compiegne, she imputed the obstacles which had hindered the realization of her dream to my moody disposition.She came towards us, smiling, and carrying a silver tray with a glass of Vichy water upon it; this she held out to my stepfather, who drank the water eagerly, and, returning the glass to her, kissed her hand.
"Let us leave him to rest," she said, "his head is burning."Indeed, in merely touching the tips of his fingers, which he placed in mine, I could feel that he was highly feverish; but how was I to interpret this symptom, which was ambiguous like all the others, and might, like them, signify either moral or physical distress? Ihad sworn to myself that I would KNOW; but how? how?
I had been surprised by my stepfather's having expressed a wish to see me during his illness; but I was far more surprised when, a fortnight later, my servant announced M.Termonde in person, at my abode.I was in my study, and occupied in arranging some papers of my father's which I had brought up from Compiegne.I had passed these two weeks at my poor aunt's house, making a pretext of a final settlement of affairs, but in reality because I needed to reflect at leisure upon the course to be taken with respect to M.
Termonde, and my reflections had increased my doubts.At my request, my mother had written to me three times, giving me news of the patient, so that I was aware he was now better and able to go out.On my return, the day before, I had selected a time at which I was almost sure not to see anyone for my visit to my mother's home.And now, here was my stepfather, who had not been inside my door ten times since I had been installed in an apartment of my own, paying me a visit without the loss of an hour.My mother, he said, had sent him with a message to me.She had lent me two numbers of a review, and she now wanted them back as she was sending the yearly volume to be bound; so, as he was passing the door, he had stepped in to ask me for them.I examined him closely while he was giving this simple explanation of his visit, without being able to decide whether the pretext did or did not conceal his real motive.His complexion was more sallow than usual, the look in his eyes was more glittering, he handled his hat nervously.
