"Love her dearly;you will soon be the only one to love her."If he were the criminal I believed him to be,he was certainly aware that in thus placing my mother between himself and me he was putting in my way the only barrier which I could never,never break down,and I on my side understood clearly,and with bitterness of soul,that the obstacles so placed would be stronger than even the most fatal certainty.What,then,was the good of seeking any further?Why not renounce my useless quest at once?But it was already too late.
X
At the beginning of the summer,six months after my aunt's death,Iwas in exactly the same position with respect to my stepfather as on that already distant day when,maddened with suspicion by my father's letters,I entered his study,to play the part of the physician who examines a man's body,searching with his finger for the tender spot that is probably a symptom of a hidden abscess.
I was full of intuitions now,just as I was at the moment when he passed me in his carriage with his terrible face,but I did not grasp a single certainty.Would I have persisted in a struggle in which I felt beforehand that I must be beaten?
I cannot tell;for,when I no longer expected any solution to the problem set before me for my grief,a grief,too,that was both sterile and mortal,a day came on which I had a conversation with my mother so startling and appalling that to this hour my heart stands still when I think of it.I have spoken of dates;among them is the 25th of May,1879.
My stepfather,who was on the eve of his departure for Vichy,had just had a severe attack of liver-complaint,the first since his illness after our terrible conversation in the month of January.Iknow that I counted for nothing--at least in any direct or positive way--in this acute revival of his malady.The fight between us,which went on without the utterance of a word on either side,and with no witnesses except ourselves,had not been marked by any fresh episode;I therefore attributed this complication to the natural development of the disease under which he labored.
I can exactly recall what I was thinking of on the 25th of May,at five o'clock in the evening,as I walked up the stairs in the hotel on the Boulevard de Latour-Marbourg.I hoped to learn that my stepfather was better,because I had been witnessing my mother's distress for a whole week,and also--I must tell all--because to know he was going to the watering-place was a great relief to me,on account of the separation it would bring about.I was so tired of my unprofitable pain!My wretched nerves were in such a state of tension that the slightest disagreeable impression became a torment.I could not sleep without the aid of narcotics,and such sleep as these procured was full of cruel dreams in which I walked by my father's side,while knowing and feeling that he was dead.
One particular nightmare used to recur so regularly that it rendered my dread of the night almost unbearable.I stood in a street crowded with people and was looking into a shop window;on a sudden I heard a man's step approaching,that of M.Termonde.Idid not see him,and yet I was certain it was he.I tried to move on,but my feet were leaden;to turn my head,but my neck was immovable.The step drew nearer,my enemy was behind me,I heard his breathing,and knew that he was about to strike me.He passed his arm over my shoulder.I saw his hand,it grasped a knife,and sought for the spot where my heart lay;then it drove the blade in,slowly,slowly,and I awoke in unspeakable agony.
So often had this nightmare recurred within a few weeks,that I had taken to counting the days until my stepfather's departure,which had been at first fixed for the 21st,and then put off until he should be stronger.I hoped that when he was absent I should be at rest at least for a time.I had not the courage to go away myself,attracted as I was every day by that presence which I hated,and yet sought with feverish eagerness;but I secretly rejoiced that the obstacle was of his raising,that his absence gave me breathing-time,without my being obliged to reproach myself with weakness.
Such were my reflections as I mounted the wooden staircase,covered with a red carpet,and lighted by stained-glass windows,that led to my mother's favorite hall.The servant who opened the door informed me in answer to my question that my stepfather was better,and I entered the room with which my saddest recollections were connected,more cheerfully than usual.Little did I think that the dial hung upon one of the walls was ticking off in minutes one of the most solemn hours of my life!
My mother was seated before a small writing-table,placed in a corner of the deep glazed projection which formed the garden-end of the hall.Her left hand supported her head,and in the right,instead of going on with the letter she had begun to write,she held her idle pen,in a golden holder with a fine pearl set in the top of it (the latter small detail was itself a revelation of her luxurious habits).She was so lost in reverie that she did not hear me enter the room,and I looked at her for some time without moving,startled by the expression of misery in her refined and lovely face.What dark thought was it that closed her mouth,furrowed her brow,and transformed her features?The alteration in her looks and the evident absorption of her mind contrasted so strongly with the habitual serenity of her countenance that it at once alarmed me.But,what was the matter?Her husband was better;why,then,should the anxiety of the last few days have developed into this acute trouble?Did she suspect what had been going on close to her,in her own house,for months past?Had M.
Termonde made up his mind to complain to her,in order to procure the cessation of the torture inflicted upon him by my assiduity?
No.If he had divined my meaning from the very first day,as Ithought he had,unless he were sure he could not have said to her:
"Andre suspects me of having had his father killed."Or had the doctor discerned dangerous symptoms behind this seeming improvement in the invalid?
Was my stepfather in danger of death?
At the idea,my first feeling was joy,my second was rage--joy that he should disappear from my life,and for ever;rage that,being guilty,he should die without having felt my full vengeance.
Beneath all my hesitation,my scruples,my doubts,there lurked that savage appetite for revenge which I had allowed to grow up in me,revenge that is not satisfied with the death of the hated object unless it be caused by one's self.I thirsted for revenge as a dog thirsts for water after running in the sun on a summer day.I wanted to roll myself in it,as the dog in question rolls himself in the water when he comes to it,were it the sludge of a swamp.I continued to gaze at my mother without moving.Presently she heaved a deep sigh and said aloud:"Oh,me,oh,me!what misery it is!"Then lifting up her tear-stained face,she saw me,and uttered a cry of surprise.I hastened towards her.
"You are in trouble,mother,"I said."What ails you?"Dread of her answer made my voice falter;I knelt down before her as I used to do when a child,and,taking both her hands,I covered them with kisses.Again,at this solemn hour,my lips were met by that golden wedding-ring which I hated like a living person;yet the feeling did not hinder me from speaking to her almost childishly."Ah,"I said,"you have troubles,and to whom should you tell them if not to me?Where will you find anyone to love you more?Be good to me,"I went on;"do you not feel how dear you are to me?"She bent her head twice,made a sign that she could not speak,and burst into painful sobs.
"Has your trouble anything to do with me?"I asked.
She shook her head as an emphatic negative,and then said in a half-stifled voice,while she smoothed my hair with her hands,as she used to do in the old times:
"You are very nice to me,my Andre."
How simple those few words were,and yet they caught my heart and gripped it as a hand might do.How had I longed for some of those little words which she had never uttered,some of those gracious phrases which are like the gestures of the mind,some of her involuntary tender caresses.Now I had what I had so earnestly desired,but at what a moment and by what means!It was,nevertheless,very sweet to feel that she loved me.I told her so,employing words which scorched my lips,so that I might be kind to her.
"Is our dear invalid worse?"
"No,he is better.He is resting now,"she answered,pointing in the direction of my stepfather's room.
"Mother,speak to me,"I urged,"trust yourself to me;let me grieve with you,perhaps I may help you.It is so cruel for me that I must take you by surprise in order to see your tears."I went on,pressing her by my questions and my complaining.What,then,did I hope to tear from those lips which quivered but yet kept silence?At any price I WOULD know;I was in no state to endure fresh mysteries,and I was certain that my stepfather was somehow concerned in this inexplicable trouble,for it was only he and I who so deeply moved that woman's heart of hers.She was not thus troubled on account of me,she had just told me so;the cause of her grief must have reference to him,and it was not his health.
Had she,too,made any discovery?Had the terrible suspicion crossed her mind also?At the mere idea a burning fever seized upon me;I insisted and insisted again.I felt that she was yielding,if it were only by the leaning of her head towards me,the passing of her trembling hand over my hair,and the quickening of her breath.
"If I were sure,"said she at length,"that this secret would die with you and me.""Oh,mother!"I exclaimed,in so reproachful a tone that the blood flew to her cheeks.Perhaps this little betrayal of shame decided her;she pressed a lingering kiss on my forehead,as though she would have effaced the frown which her unjust distrust had set there.
"Forgive me,my Andre,"she said,"I was wrong.In whom should Itrust,to whom confide this thing,except to you?From whom ask counsel?"And then she went on as though she were speaking to herself,"If he were ever to apply to him?""He!Whom?"
"Andre,will you swear to me by your love for me,that you will never,you understand me,never,make the least illusion to what Iam going to tell you?"
"Mother!"I replied,in the same tone of reproach,and then added at once,to draw her on,"I give you my word of honor!""Nor--"she did not pronounce a name,but she pointed anew to the door of the sick man's room.
"Never."
"You have heard of Edmond Termonde,his brother?"Her voice was lowered,as though she were afraid of the words she uttered,and now her eyes only were turned towards the closed door,indicating that she meant the brother of her husband.I had a vague knowledge of the story;it was of this brother I had thought when I was reviewing the mental history of my stepfather's family.I knew that Edmond Termonde had dissipated his share of the family fortune,no less than 1,200,000francs,in a few years;that he had been enlisted,that he had gone on leading a debauched life in his regiment;that,having no money to come into from any quarter,and after a heavy loss at cards,he had been tempted into committing both theft and forgery.Then,finding himself on the brink of being detected,he had deserted.The end was that he did justice on himself by drowning himself in the Seine,after he had implored his brother's forgiveness in terms which proved that some sense of moral decency still lingered in him.The stolen money was made good by my stepfather;the scandal was hushed up,thanks to the scoundrel's disappearance.I had reconstructed the whole story in my mind from the gossip of my good old nurse,and also from certain traces of it which I had found in some passages of my father's correspondence.Thus,when my mother put her question to me in so agitated a way,I supposed she was about to tell me of family grievances on the part of her husband which were totally indifferent to me,and it was with a feeling of disappointment that I asked her:
"Edmond Termonde?The man who killed himself?"She bent her head to answer,yes,to the first part of my question;then,in a still lower voice,she said:
"He did not kill himself,he is still alive.""He is still alive,"I repeated mechanically,and without a notion of what could be the relation between the existence of this brother and the tears which I had seen her shed.
"Now you know the secret of my sorrow,"she resumed,in a firmer,almost a relieved tone."This infamous brother is a tormentor of my Jacques;he puts him to death daily by the agonies which he inflicts upon him.No;the suicide never took place.Such men as he have not the courage to kill themselves.Jacques dictated that letter to save him from penal servitude after he had arranged everything for his flight,and given him the wherewithal to lead a new life,if he would have done so.My poor love,he hoped at least to save the integrity of his name out of all the terrible wreck.Edmond had,of course,to renounce the name of Termonde,to escape pursuit,and he went to America.There he lived--as he had lived here.The money he took with him was soon exhausted,and again he had recourse to his brother.Ah!the wretch knew well that Jacques had made all these sacrifices to the honor of his name,and when my husband refused him the money he demanded,he made use of the weapon which he knew would avail.
"Then began the vilest persecution,the most atrocious levying of black-mail.Edmond threatened to return to France;between going to the galleys here or starving in America,he said,he preferred the galleys here and Jacques yielded the first time--he loved him;after all,he was his only brother.You know when you have once shown weakness in dealing with people of this sort you are lost.
The threat to return had succeeded,and the other has since used it to extort sums of which you have no idea.
"This abominable persecution has been going on for years,but Ihave only been aware of it since the war.I saw that my husband was utterly miserable about something;I knew that a hidden trouble was preying on him,and then,one day,he told me all.Would you believe it?It was for me that he was afraid.'What can he possibly do to me?'I asked my Jacques.'Ah,'he said,'he is capable of anything for the sake of revenge.And then he saw me so overwhelmed by distress at his fits of melancholy,and I so earnestly entreated him,that at length he made a stand.He positively refused to give any more money.We have not heard of the wretch for some time--he has kept his word--Andre he is in Paris!"I had listened to my mother with growing attention.At any period of my life,I,who had not the same notions of my stepfather's sensitiveness of feeling which my dear mother entertained,would have been astonished at the influence exercised by this disgraced brother.There are similar pests in so many families,that it is plainly to the interest of society to separate the various representatives of the same name from each other.At any time Ishould have doubted whether M.Termonde,a bold and violent man as I knew him to be,had yielded under the menace of a scandal whose real importance he would have estimated quite correctly.Then Iwould have explained this weakness by the recollections of his childhood,by a promise made to his dying parents;but now,in the actual state of my mind,full as I was of the suspicions which had been occupying my thoughts for weeks,it was inevitable that another idea should occur to me.And that idea grew,and grew,taking form as my mother went on speaking.No doubt my face betrayed the dread with which the notion inspired me,for she interrupted her narrative to ask me:
"Are you feeling ill,Andre?"
I found strength to answer,"No;I am upset by having found you in tears.It is nothing."She believed me;she had just seen me overcome by her emotion;she kissed me tenderly,and I begged her to continue.She then told me that one day in the previous week a stranger,coming ostensibly from one of their friends in London,had asked to see my stepfather.He was ushered into the hall,and into her presence,and she guessed at once by the extraordinary agitation which M.
Termonde displayed that the man was Edmond.The two brothers went into my stepfather's private room,while my mother remained in the hall,half dead with anxiety and suspense,every now and then hearing the angry tones of their voices,but unable to distinguish any words.At length the brother came out,through the hall,and looked at her as he passed by with eyes that transfixed her with fear.
"And the same evening,"she went on,"Jacques took to his bed.
Now,do you understand my despair?Ah,it is not our name that Icare for.I wear myself out with repeating,'What has this to do with us?How can we be spattered by this mud?'It is his health,his precious health!The doctor says that every violent emotion is a dose of poison to him.Ah!"she cried,with a gesture of despair,"this man will kill him."To hear that cry,which once again revealed to me the depth of her passion for my stepfather,to hear it at this moment,and to think what I was thinking!
"You saw him?"I asked,hardly knowing what I said."Have I not told you that he passed by me,there?"and with terror depicted in her face,she showed me the place on the carpet.
"And you are sure that the man was his brother?""Jacques told me so in the evening;but I did not require that;Ishould have recognized him by the eyes.How strange it is!Those two brothers,so different;Jacques so refined,so distinguished,so noble-minded,and the other,a big,heavy,vulgar lout,common-looking,and a rascal--well,they have the same look in their eyes.""And under what name is he in Paris?"
"I do not know.I dare not speak of him any more.If he knew that I have told you this,with his ideas!But then,dear,you would have heard it at some time or other;and besides,"she added with firmness,"I would have told you long ago about this wretched secret if I had dared!You are a man now,and you are not bound by this excessively scrupulous fraternal affection.Advise me,Andre;what is to be done?"
"I do not understand you."
"Yes,yes.There must be some means of informing the police and having this man arrested without its being talked of in the newspapers or elsewhere.Jacques would not do this,because the man is his brother;but if we were to act,you and I,on our own side?I have heard you say that you visit M.Massol,whom we knew at the time of our great misfortune;suppose I were to go to him and ask his advice?Ah!I must keep my husband alive--he must be saved!I love him too much!"Why was I seized with a panic at the idea that she might carry out this project,and apply to the former Judge of Instruction--I,who had not ventured to go to his house since my aunt's death for fear he should divine my suspicions merely by looking at me?What was it that I saw so clearly,that made me implore her to abandon her idea in the very name of the love she bore her husband?
"You will not do this,"I said;"you have no right to do it.He would never forgive you,and he would have just cause;it would be betraying him.""Betraying him!It would be saving him!""And if his brother's arrest were to strike him a fresh blow?If you were to see him ill,more ill than ever,on account of what you had done?"I had used the only argument that could have convinced her.
Strange irony of fate!I calmed her,I persuaded her not to act--I,who had suddenly conceived the monstrous notion that the doer of the murderous deed,the docile instrument in my stepfather's hands,was this infamous brother--that Edmond Termonde and Rochdale were one and the same man!
XI
The night which followed that conversation with my mother remains in my memory as the most wretched I had hitherto endured;and yet how many sleepless nights had I passed,while all the world around me slept,in bitter conflict with a thought which held mine eyes waking and devoured my heart!I was like a prisoner who has sounded every inch of his dungeon--the walls,the floor,the ceiling--and who,on shaking the bars of his window for the hundredth time,feels one of the iron rods loosen under the pressure.He hardly dares to believe in his good fortune,and he sits down upon the ground almost dazed by the vision of deliverance that has dawned upon him."I must be cool-headed now,"said I to myself,as I walked to and fro in the smoking-room,whither I had retired without tasting the meal that was served on my return.
Evening came,then the black night;the dawn followed,and once more the full day.Still I was there,striving to see clearly amid the cloud of suppositions in which an event,simple in itself (only that in my state of mind no event would have seemed simple),had wrapped me.
I was too well used to these mental tempests not to know that the only safety consisted in clinging to the positive facts,as though to immovable rocks.
In the present instance,the positive facts reduced themselves to two:first,I had just learned that a brother of M.Termonde,who passed for dead,and of whom my stepfather never spoke,existed;secondly,that this man,disgraced,proscribed,ruined,an outlaw in fact,exercised a dictatorship of terror over his rich,honored,and irreproachable brother.The first of these two facts explained itself.It was quite natural that Jacques Termonde should not dispel the legend of the suicide,which was of his own invention,and had saved the other from the galleys.It is never pleasant to have to own a thief,a forger,or a deserter,for one's nearest relation;but this,after all,is only an excessively disagreeable matter.
The second fact was of a different kind.The disproportion between the cause assigned by my stepfather and its result in the terror from which he was suffering was too great.The dominion which Edmond Termonde exercised over his brother was not to be justified by the threat of his return,if that return were not to have any other consequence than a transient scandal.My mother,who regarded her husband as a noble-minded,high-souled,great-hearted man,might be satisfied with the alleged reason;but not I.It occurred to me to consult the Code of Military Justice,and Iascertained,by the 184th clause,that a deserter cannot claim immunity from punishment until after he has attained his forty-seventh year,so that it was most likely Edmond Termonde was still within the reach of the law.
Was it possible that his desire to shield his brother from the punishment of the offense of desertion should throw my stepfather into such a state of illness and agitation?I discerned another reason for this dominion--some dark and terrible bond of complicity between the two men.What if Jacques Termonde had employed his brother to kill my father,and proof of the transaction was still in the murderer's possession?No doubt his hands would be tied so far as the magistrates were concerned;he had it in his power to enlighten my mother,and the mere threat of doing this would suffice to make a loving husband tremble,and tame his fierce pride.
"I must be cool,"I repeated,"I must be cool;"and I put all my strength to recalling the physical and moral particulars respecting the crime which were in my possession.It was my business now to try whether one single point remained obscure when tested by the theory of the identity of Rochdale with Edmond Termonde.The witnesses were agreed in representing Rochdale as tall and stout,my mother had described Edmond Termonde as a big,heavy man.
Fifteen years lay between the assassin of 1864,and the elderly rake of 1879;but nothing prevented the two from being identical.
My mother had dwelt upon the color of Edmond Termonde's eyes,pale blue like those of his brother;the concierge of the Imperial Hotel had mentioned the pale blue color and the brightness of Rochdale's eyes in his deposition,which I knew by heart.He had noticed this peculiarity on account of the contrast of the eyes with the man's bronzed complexion.Edmond Termonde had taken refuge in America after his alleged suicide,and what had M.Massol said?I could hear him repeat,with his well-modulated voice,and methodical movement of the hand:"A foreigner,American or English,or,perhaps,a Frenchman settled in America."Physical impossibility there existed none.
And moral impossibility?That was equally absent.In order to convince myself more fully of this,I took up the history of the crime from the moment at which my father's correspondence concerning Jacques Termonde became explicit,that is to say,in January,1864.
