"The cowardly assassin," I continued, "yes, the coward, because he dared not commit the crime himself, had carefully calculated all the circumstances of the murder; but he had reckoned without certain little accidents, for instance, that his brother would keep the three letters he had received, the first two at New York, the last at Liverpool, and which contained instructions relating to the stages of this clandestine journey.Neither had he taken into account that the son of his victim would grow up, would become a man, would conceive certain suspicions of the true cause of his father's death, and would succeed in procuring overwhelming proof of the dark conspiracy.Come, then," I added fiercely, "off with the mask! M.Jacques Termonde, it is you who had my unhappy father killed by your brother Edmond.I have in my possession the letters you wrote him in January, 1864, to induce him to come to Europe, first under the false name of Rochester and afterwards under that of Rochdale.It is not worth your while to play the indignant or the astonished with me--the game is up."He had turned frightfully pale; but his arms still remained crossed, and his bold eyes did not droop.He made one last attempt to parry the straight blow I had aimed at him, and he had the hardihood to say:
"How much did that wretch Edmond ask as the price of the forgery which he fabricated in revenge for my refusal to give him money?""Be silent, you--" said I still more fiercely."Is it to me that you dare to speak thus--to me? Did I need those letters in order to learn all? Have we not known for weeks past, I, that you had committed the crime, and you, that I had divined your guilt? What I still needed was the written, indisputable, undeniable proof, that which can be laid before a magistrate.You refused him money?
You were about to give him money, only that you mistrusted him, and chose to wait until the day of his departure.You did not suspect that I was upon your track.Shall I tell you when it was you saw him for the last time? Yesterday, at ten o'clock in the morning, you went out, you changed your cab first at the Place de la Concorde, and a second time at the Palais Royal.You went to the Grand Hotel, and you asked whether Mr.Stanbury was in his room.Afew hours later I, myself, was in that same room.Ah! how much did Edmond Termonde ask from me for the letters? Why, I tore them from him, pistol in hand, after a struggle in which I was nearly killed.
You see now that you can deceive me no more, and that it is no longer worth your while to deny."I thought he was about to drop dead before me.His face changed, until it was hardly human, as I went on, on, on, piling up the exact facts, tracking his falsehood, as one tracks a wild beast, and proving to him that his brother had defended himself after his fashion, even as he had done.He clasped his hands about his head, when I ceased to speak, as though to compress the maddening thoughts which rushed upon him; then, once more looking me in the face, but this time with infinite despair in his eyes, he uttered exactly the same sentence as his brother had spoken, but with quite another expression and tone:
"This hour too was bound to come.What do you want from me now?""That you should do justice on yourself," I answered."You have twenty-four hours before you.If, to-morrow at this hour, you are still living, I place the letters in my mother's hands."Every sort of feeling was depicted upon his livid face while Iplaced this ultimatum before him, in a firm voice which admitted of no farther discussion.I was standing up, and I leaned against the large table; he came towards me, with a sort of delirium in his eyes as they strove to meet mine.
"No," he cried, "no, Andre, not yet! Pity me, Andre, pity me! See now, I am a condemned man, I have not six months to live.Your revenge! Ah! you had no need to undertake it.What! If I have done a terrible deed, do you think I have not been punished for it?
Look at me, only look at me; I am dying of this frightful secret.
It is all over; my days are numbered.The few that remain, leave, oh, leave them to me! Understand this, I am not afraid to die; but to kill myself, to go away, leaving this grief to her whom you love as I do! It is true that, to win her, I have done an atrocious deed; but say, answer, has there ever been an hour, a minute since, in which her happiness was not my only aim? And you would have me leave her thus, inflict upon her the torment of thinking that while I might have grown old by her side, I preferred to go away, to forsake her before the time? No, Andre--this last year, leave it to me! Ah, leave it to me, leave it to us, for I assure you that Iam hopelessly ill, that I know it, that the doctors have not hidden it from me.In a few months--fix a date--if the disease has not carried me off, you can come back.But I shall be dead.She will weep for me, without the horror of that idea that I have forestalled my hour, she who is so pious! You only will be there to console her, to love her.Have pity upon her, if not upon me.
See, I have no more pride towards you, I entreat you in her name, in the name of her dear heart, for well you know its tenderness.
