The day passed on,and towards night two housemaids entered the apartment of the foreign gentlemen to prepare his bed.They passed through the salon without observing anything unusual.The traveler's luggage,composed of a large and much-used trunk and a quite new dressing-bag,were there.His dressing-things were arranged on the top of a cabinet.The next day,towards noon,the same housemaids entered the apartment,and finding that the traveler had slept out,they merely replaced the day-covering upon the bed,and paid no attention to the salon.Precisely the same thing occurred in the evening;but on the following day,one of the women having come into the apartment early,and again finding everything intact,began to wonder what this meant.She searched about,and speedily discovered a body,lying at full length underneath the sofa,with the head wrapped in towels.She uttered a scream which brought other servants to the spot,and the corpse of my father--alas!it was he--was removed from the hiding-place in which the assassin had cunningly concealed it.It was not difficult to reconstruct the scene of the murder.A wound in the back of the neck indicated that the unfortunate man had been shot from behind,while seated at the table examining papers,by a person standing close beside him.The report had not been heard,on account of the proximity of the weapon,and also because of the constant noise in the street,and the position of the salon at the back of the ante-room.Besides,the precautions taken by the murderer rendered it reasonable to believe that he had carefully chosen a weapon which would produce but little sound.The ball had penetrated the spinal marrow and death had been instantaneous.The assassin had placed new unmarked towels in readiness,and in these he wrapped up the head and neck of his victim,so that there were no traces of blood.He had dried his hands on a similar towel,after rinsing them with water taken from the carafe;this water he had poured back into the same bottle,which was found concealed behind the drapery of the mantel-piece.Was the robbery real or pretended?My father's watch was gone,and neither his letter-case nor any paper by which his identity could be proved was found upon his body.An accidental indication led,however,to his immediate recognition.Inside the pocket of his waistcoat was a little band of tape,bearing the address of the tailor's establishment.
Inquiry was made there,in the afternoon the sad discovery ensued,and after the necessary legal formalities,the body was brought home.
And the murderer?The only data on which the police could proceed were soon exhausted.The trunk left by the mysterious stranger,whose name was certainly not Rochdale,was opened.It was full of things bought haphazard,like the trunk itself,from a bric-a-brac seller who was found,but who gave a totally different deion of the purchaser from that which had been obtained from the concierge of the Imperial Hotel.The latter declared that Rochdale was a dark,sunburnt man with a long thick beard;the former described him as of fair complexion and beardless.The cab on which the trunk had been placed immediately after the purchase,was traced,and the deposition of the driver coincided exactly with that of the bric-a-brac seller.The assassin had been taken in the cab,first to a shop,where he bought a dressing-bag,next to a linen-draper's where he bought the towels,thence to the Lyons railway station,and there he had deposited the trunk and the dressing-bag at the parcels office.Then the other cab which had taken him,three weeks afterwards,to the Imperial Hotel,was traced,and the deion given by the second driver agreed with the deposition of the concierge.From this it was concluded that in the interval formed by these three weeks,the assassin had dyed his skin and his hair,for all the depositions were in agreement with respect to the stature,figure,bearing,and tone of voice of the individual.This hypothesis was confirmed by one Jullien,a hairdresser,who came forward of his own accord to make the following statement:
On the day in the preceding month,a man who answered to the deion of Rochdale given by the first driver and the bric-a-brac seller,being fair-haired,pale,tall,and broad-shouldered,came to his shop to order a wig and a beard;these were to be so well constructed that no one could recognize him,and were intended,he said,to be worn at a fancy ball.The unknown person was accordingly furnished with a black wig and a black beard,and he provided himself with all the necessary ingredients for disguising himself as a native of South America,purchasing kohl for blackening his eyebrows,and a composition of Sienna earth and amber for coloring his complexion.He applied these so skilfully,that when he returned to the hairdresser's shop,Jullien did not recognize him.The unusualness of a fancy ball given in the middle of summer,and the perfection to which his customer carried the art of disguise,astonished the hairdresser so much that his attention was immediately attracted by the newspaper articles upon "The Mystery of the Imperial Hotel,"as the affair was called.At my father's house two letters were found;both bore the signature of Rochdale,and were dated from London,but without envelopes,and were written in a reversed hand,pronounced by experts to be disguised.He would have had to forward a certain document on receipt of these letters;probably that document was in the letter-case which the assassin carried off after the crime.The firm of Crawford had a real existence at San Francisco,but had never formed the project of making a railroad in Cochin China.The authorities were confronted by one of those criminal problems which set imagination at defiance.It was probably not for the purpose of theft that the assassin had resorted to such numerous and clever devices;he would hardly have led a man of business into so skilfully laid a trap merely to rob him of a few thousand francs and a watch.
Was the murder committed for revenge?
A search into the life of my father revealed nothing whatever that could render such a theory tenable.Every suspicion,every supposition,was routed by the indisputable and inexplicable fact that Rochdale was a reality whose existence could not be contested,that he had been at the Imperial Hotel from seven o'clock in the evening of one day until two o'clock in the afternoon of the next,and that he had then vanished,like a phantom,leaving one only trace behind--ONE ONLY.This man had come there,other men had spoken to him;the manner in which he had passed the night and the morning before the crime was known.He had done his deed of murder,and then--nothing."All Paris"was full of this affair,and when I made a collection,long afterwards,of newspapers which referred to it,I found that for six whole weeks it occupied a place in the chronicle of every day.
At length the fatal heading,"The Mystery of the Imperial Hotel,"disappeared from the columns of the newspapers,as the remembrance of that ghastly enigma faded from the minds of their readers,and solicitude about it ceased to occupy the police.The tide of life,rolling that poor waif amid its waters,had swept on.Yes;but I,the son?How should I ever forget the old woman's story that had filled my childhood with tragic horror?How should I ever cease to see the pale face of the murdered man,with its fixed,open eyes?
How should I not say:"I will avenge thee,thou poor ghost?"Poor ghost!When I read Hamlet for the first time,with that passionate avidity which comes from an analogy between the moral situation depicted in a work of art and some crisis of our own life,Iremember that I regarded the Prince of Denmark with horror.Ah!if the ghost of my father had come to relate the drama of his death to me,with his unbreathing lips,would I have hesitated one instant?
No!I protested to myself;and then?I learned all,and yet Ihesitated,like him,though less than he,to dare the terrible deed.Silence!silence!Let me go back to the facts.
III
I remember little of the succeeding events.All was so trivial,so insignificant,between that first vision of horror and the vision of woe which came to me two years later,that,with one exception,I hardly recall the intervening time.
In 1864,my father died;in 1866,my mother married M.Jacques Termonde.The exceptional period of the interval was the only one during which my mother bestowed constant attention upon me.Before the fatal date my father was the only person who had cared for me;at a later period there was no one at all to do so.Our apartment in the Rue Tronchet became unbearable to us;there we could not escape from the remembrance of the terrible event,and we removed to a small hotel in the Boulevard de Latour-Maubourg.The house had belonged to a painter,and stood in a small garden which seemed larger than it was because other gardens adjoined it,and over-shadowed its boundary wall and greenery.The center of the house was a kind of hall,in the English style,which the former occupant had used as a studio;my mother made this her ordinary sitting-room.
Now,at this distance of time,I can understand my mother's character,and recognize that there was something about her,which,although it was very harmless,led her to exaggerate the outward expression of all her feelings.While she occupied herself in studying the attitudes by which her emotions were to be fittingly expressed,the sentiments themselves were fading away.For instance,she chose to condemn herself to voluntary exile and seclusion after her bereavement,receiving only a very few friends,of whom M.Jacques Termonde was one;but she very soon began to adorn herself and everything around her,with the fine and subtle tastefulness that was innate in her.
My mother was a very lovely woman;her beauty was of a refined and pensive order,her figure was tall and slender,her dark hair was very luxuriant and of remarkable length.No doubt it was to the Greek blood in her veins that she owed the classical lines of her profile,her full-lidded soft eyes,and the willowy grace of her form.Her maternal grandfather was a Greek merchant,of the name of Votronto,who had come from the Levant to Marcielles when the Ionian Islands were annexed to France.
Many times in after years I have recalled the strange contrast between her rare and refined beauty and my father's stolid sturdy form,and my own,and wondered whether the origin of many irreparable mistakes might not be traced to that contrast.But Idid not reason in those days;I was under the spell of the fair being who called me,"My son."I used to look at her with a kind of idolatry when she was seated at her piano in that elegant sanctum of hers,which she had hung with draped foreign stuffs,and decorated with tall green plants and various curious things,after a fashion entirely her own.For her sake,and in spite of my natural awkwardness and untidiness,I strove to keep myself very clean and neat in the more and more elaborate costumes which she made me wear,and also more and more did the terrible image of the murdered man fade away from that home,which,nevertheless,was provided and adorned by the fortune which he had earned for us and bequeathed to us.All the ways of modern life are so opposed to the tragic in events,so far removed from the savage realities of passion and bloodshed,that when such things intrude upon the decorous life of a family,they are put out of sight with all speed,and soon come to be looked upon as a bad dream,impossible to doubt,but difficult to realize.
Yes,our life had almost resumed its normal course when my mother's second marriage was announced to me.This time I accurately remember not only the period,but also the day and hour.
I was spending my holidays with my spinster aunt,my father's sister,who lived at Compiegne,in a house situated at the far end of the town.She had three servants,one of whom was my dear old Julie,who had left us because my mother could not get on with her.
My aunt Louise was a little woman of fifty,with countrified looks and manners;she had hardly ever consented to stay two whole days in Paris during my father's lifetime.Her almost invariable attire was a black silk gown made at home,with just a line of white at the neck and wrists,and she always wore a very long gold chain of ancient date,which was passed under the bodice of her gown and came out at the belt.To this chain her watch and a bunch of seals and charms were attached.Her cap,plainly trimmed with ribbon,was black like her dress,and the smooth bands of her hair,which was turning gray,framed a thoughtful brow and eyes so kind that she was pleasant to behold,although her nose was large and her mouth and chin were heavy.She had brought up my father in this same little town of Compiegne,and had given him,out of her fortune,all that she could spare from the simple needs of her frugal life,when he wished to marry Mdlle.de Slane,in order to induce my mother's family to listen to his suit.
The contrast between the portrait in my little album of my aunt and her face as I saw it now,told plainly enough how much she had suffered during the past two years.Her hair had become more white,the lines which run from the nostrils to the corners of the mouth were deepened,her eyelids had a withered look.And yet she had never been demonstrative in her grief.I was an observant little boy,and the difference between my mother's character and that of my aunt was precisely indicated to my mind by the difference in their respective sorrow.At that time it was hard for me to understand my aunt's reserve,while I could not suspect her of want of feeling.Now it is to the other sort of nature that I am unjust.My mother also had a tender heart,so tender that she did not feel able to reveal her purpose to me,and it was my Aunt Louise who undertook to do so.She had not consented to be present at the marriage,and M.Termonde,as I afterwards learned,preferred that I should not attend on the occasion,in order,no doubt,to spare the feelings of her who was to become his wife.
In spite of all her self-control,Aunt Louise had tears in her brown eyes when she led me to the far end of the garden,where my father had played when he was a child like myself.The golden tints of September had begun to touch the foliage of the trees.Avine spread its tendrils over the arbor in which we seated ourselves,and wasps were busy among the ripening grapes.My aunt took both my hands in hers,and began:
"Andre,I have to tell you a great piece of news."I looked at her apprehensively.The shock of the dreadful event in our lives had left its mark upon my nervous system,and at the slightest surprise my heart would beat until I nearly fainted.She saw my agitation and said simply:
"Your mother is about to marry."
It was strange this sentence did not immediately produce the impression which my look at her had led my aunt to expect.I had thought from the tone of her voice,that she was going to tell me of my mother's illness or death.My sensitive imagination readily conjured up such fears.I asked calmly:
"Whom?"
"You do not guess?"
"M.Termonde?"I cried.
Even now I cannot define the reasons which sent this name to my lips so suddenly,without a moment's thought.No doubt M.Termonde had been a good deal at our house since my father's death;but had he not visited us as often,if not more frequently,before my mother's widowhood?Had he not managed every detail of our affairs for us with care and fidelity,which even then I could recognize as very rare?Why should the news of his marriage with my mother seem to me on the instant to be much worse news than if she had married no matter whom?Exactly the opposite effect ought to have been produced,surely?I had known this man for a long time;he had been very kind to me formerly--they said he spoiled me--and he was very kind to me still.My best toys were presents from him,and my prettiest books;a wonderful wooden horse which moved by clockwork,given to me when I was seven--how much my poor father was amused when I told him this horse was "a double thoroughbred"--"Don Quixote,"with Dore's illustrations,this very year;in fact some new gift constantly,and yet I was never easy and light-hearted in his presence as I had formerly been.When had this restraint begun?I could not have told that,but I thought he came too often between my mother and me.I was jealous of him,I may as well confess it,with that unconscious jealousy which children feel,and which made me lavish kisses on my mother when he was by,in order to show him that she was my mother,and nothing at all to him.Had he discovered my feelings?Had they been his own also?However that might be,I now never failed to discern antipathy similar to my own in his looks,notwithstanding his flattering voice and his over-polite ways.At my then age,instinct is never deceived about such impressions.
Without any other cause than the weakness of nerves to which I had been subject ever since my father's death,I burst into tears.The same thing happened to me sometimes when I was shut up in my room alone,with the door bolted,suffering from a dread which I could not conquer,like that of a coming danger.I would forecast the worst accidents that could happen;for example,that my mother would be murdered,like my father,and then myself,and I peered under all the articles of furniture in the room.It had occurred to me,when out walking with a servant,to imagine that the harmless man might be an accomplice of the mysterious criminal,and have it in charge to take me to him,or at all events to have it in charge to take place.My too highly-wrought imagination overmastered me.I fancied myself,however,escaping from the deadly device,and in order to hide myself more effectually,making for Compiegne.Should I have enough money?Then I reflected that it might be possible to sell my watch to an old watchmaker whom Iused to see,when on my way to the Lycee,at work behind the window of his little shop,with a glass fixed in his right eye.That was a sad faculty of foresight which poisoned so many of the harmless hours of my childhood!It was the same faculty that now made me break out into choking sobs when my aunt asked me what I had in my mind against M.Termonde.I related the worst of my grievances to her then,leaning my head on her shoulder,and in this one all the others were summed up.It dated from two months before.I had come back from school in a merry mood,contrary to my habit.My teacher had dismissed me with praise of my compositions and congratulations on my prizes.What good news this was to take home and how tenderly my mother would kiss me when she heard it!I put away my books,washed my hands carefully,and flew to the salon where my mother was.I entered the room without knocking at the door,and in such haste that as I sprang towards her to throw myself into her arms,she gave a little cry.She was standing beside the mantlepiece,her face was very pale,and near her stood M.Termonde.He seized me by the arm and held me back from her.
"Oh,how you frightened me!"said my mother.
"Is that the way to come into a salon?"said M.Termonde.
His voice had turned rough like his gesture.He had grasped my arm so tightly that where his fingers had fastened on it I found black marks that night when I undressed myself.But it was neither his insolent words nor the pain of his grasp which made me stand there stupidly,with a swelling heart.No,it was hearing my mother say to him:
"Don't scold Andre too much;he is so young.He will improve."Then she drew me towards her,and rolled my curls round her fingers;but in her words,in their tone,in her glance,in her faint smile,I detected a singular timidity,almost a supplication,directed to the man before her,who frowned as he pulled his moustache with his restless fingers,as if in impatience of my presence.By what right did he,stranger,speak in the tone of a master in our house?Why had he laid his hand on me ever so lightly?Yes,by what right?Was I his son or his ward?Why did not my mother defend me against him?Even if I were in fault it was towards her only.A fit of rage seized upon me;I burned with longing to spring upon M.Termonde like a beast,to tear his face and bite him.I darted a look of fury at him and at my mother,and left the room without speaking.I was of a sullen temper,and Ithink this defect was due to my excessive and almost morbid sensitiveness.All my feelings were exaggerated,so that the least thing angered me,and it was misery to me to recover myself.Even my father had found it very difficult to get the better of those fits of wounded feeling,during which I strove against my own relentings with a cold and concentrated anger which both relieved and tortured me.I was well aware of this moral infirmity,and as I was not a bad child in reality,I was ashamed of it.Therefore,my humiliation was complete when,as I went out of the room,M.
Termonde said:
"Now for a week's sulk!His temper is really insufferable."His remark had one advantage,for I made it a point of honor to give the lie to it,and did not sulk;but the scene had hurt me too deeply for me to forget it,and now my resentment was fully revived,and grew stronger and stronger while I was telling the story to my aunt.Alas!my almost unconscious second-sight,that of a too sensitive child,was not in error.That puerile but painful scene symbolized the whole history of my youth,my invincible antipathy to the man who was about to take my father's place,and the blind partiality in his favor of her who ought to have defended me from the first and always.
"He detests me!"I said through my tears;"what have I done to him?""Calm yourself,"said the kind woman."You are just like your poor father,making the worst of all your little troubles.And now you must try to be nice to him on account of your mother,and not to give way to this violent feeling,which frightens me.Do not make an enemy of him,"she added.
It was quite natural that she should speak to me in this way,and yet her earnestness appeared strange to me from that moment out.Ido not know why she also seemed surprised at my answer to her question,"What do you know?"She wanted to quiet me,and she increased the apprehension with which I regarded the usurper--so Icalled him ever afterwards--by the slight faltering of her voice when she spoke to him.
"You will have to write to them this evening,"said she at length.
Write to them!The words sickened me.They were united;never,nevermore should I be able to think of the one without thinking of the other.
"And you?"
"I have already written."
"When are they to be married?"
"They were married yesterday,"she answered,in so low a tone that I hardly heard the words.
"And where?"I asked,after a pause.
"In the country,at the house of some friends."Then she added quickly:"They preferred that you should not be there on account of the interruption of your holidays.They have gone away for three weeks;then they will go to see you in Paris before they start for Italy.You know I am not well enough to travel.I will keep you here until then.Be a good boy,and go now and write."I had many other questions to put to her,and many more tears to weep,but I restrained myself,and a quarter of an hour later,Iwas seated at my dear good aunt's writing-table in her salon.
How I loved that room on the ground floor,with its glass door opening on the garden.It was filled with remembrance for me.On the wall at the side of the old-fashioned "secretary"hung the portraits,in frames of all shapes and sizes,of those whom the good and pious soul had loved and lost.This funereal little corner spoke strongly to my fancy.One of the portraits was a colored miniature,representing my great-grandmother in the costume of the Directory,with a short waist,and her hair dressed a la Proudhon.There was also a miniature of my great-uncle,her son.
What an amiable,self-important visage was that of the staunch admirer of Louis Philippe and M.Thiers!Then came my paternal grandfather,with his strong parvenu physiognomy,and my father at all ages.Underneath these works of art was a bookcase,in which Ifound all my father's school prizes,piously preserved.What a feeling of protection I derived from the portieres in green velvet,with long bands of needlework,my aunt's masterpieces,which hung in wide folds over the doors!With what admiration I regarded the faded carpet,with its impossible flowers,which I had so often tried to gather in my babyhood!This was one of the legends of my earliest years,one of those anecdotes which are told of a beloved son,and which make him feel that the smallest details of his existence have been observed,understood,and loved.In later days I have been frozen by the ice of indifference.And my aunt,she whose life had been lived among these old-fashioned things,how Iloved her,with that face in which I read nothing but supreme tenderness for me,those eyes whose gaze did me good in some mysterious part of my soul!I felt her so near to me,only through her likeness to my father,that I rose from my task four or five times to kiss her,during the time it took me to write my letter of congratulation to the worst enemy I had,to my knowledge,in the world.
And this was the second indelible date in my life.
