headerCHAPTER XIV.CRIME.
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In her soul Catherine felt quite positive that Firmin would not dare perpetrate the act he had voluntarily promised to do; still she resolved to keep Savin out that night, if possible. By a grim fatality, however, Savin went abroad on his own account.
When Catherine reached home she found him still sound asleep. Overcome by fatigue, he had dropped into slumber without removing his clothes several hours before. At about five o’clock in the afternoon he awoke with a sudden start, ate a bit of luncheon, and then set to work cleaning his gun, being thus and in other ways engaged until nearly ten o’clock, when without a word he shouldered his weapon and started out of the house.
To Catherine there was something grewsomely suggestive in the departure of the man whom she might never see again alive.
Involuntarily she advanced as though to call him back. But pride, in collusion with baser feelings, conquered her, and the wretched woman lingered with her hand on the door-knob until the sound of his retreating steps had died away and all was still.
Then she sought her bed, but her intention to go to sleep calmly was frustrated. In a short time she beganto weigh her means of defence in case she were complicated in the proposed crime.
The night was characterized by a dry, cold atmosphere. An occasional gust of wind shivered the leaves of the trees, among which the silver gleams of the high-poised moon fantastically played. The stillness would have been continuous but for the shrill interruptions of watchful owls.
Thoughtfully Savin strode on, taking the road which led to the Trinquelin, by a descent into a ravine.
Overcome with a sudden remorse, Catherine left her bed, and opening a window gazed out into the night. After several minutes of unpleasant silence she heard stealthy footsteps approaching, and soon a man’s figure appeared to view. The sight filled Catherine with a double sense of horror. She opened the window and in a loud voice cried: “Firmin, go home!”
But the unresponsive figure only hastened on in the gloom of the oak-trees. Hurrying out of the house, Catherine was bent on overtaking the person ahead of her. As she advanced she gave earnest utterance to the words: “Stop, Firmin! Abandon your object! Pray come back! I am unwilling——”
But the figure had disappeared.
“It is fate,” murmured the young woman, who was shaking like an aspen leaf.
Eleven o’clock sounded. As the night advanced Catherine was torn the more by conflicting emotions. Love and despair grappled her heart. The more she thought of Savin as lost to her forever, the greater seemed her love for him. And yet she could not help but feel that he had humiliated her before the world.
At a little past midnight she heard carriage wheels.The horses’ hoofs clattered over the frozen road, and then passing the cottage at the corner of the wood their echoes grew fainter and fainter until they no longer could be heard. Was her husband’s wounded or death-cold form being borne away in that late-hour vehicle? Catherine asked herself this question with a cold shudder, as she crouched down beside her chamber window and waited. Perchance to distract her thoughts she began to count the branches of the trees in front of the cottage. But this was a vain and mocking pastime. Every rustle of the leaves to her alarmed senses seemed like the report of a gun. Even the creaking of the floor under her weight as she moved startled her. Once more she went to bed, but only to toss about in dire distress.
The terrible situation appalled her; and the more she considered it, the more atrocious seemed the part she was playing. Visions of Savin her husband, he who had protected her against the world, the man to whom she owed everything—wounded and perhaps dying at that very moment—haunted her. And yet, he had humiliated her. Yes; but what a fearful vengeance—that he should die because of a few vehement words!
Two o’clock. O God! Would the night never pass? Perhaps, after all, he was safe. “Firmin is such a coward! Who knows if he would dare carry out his threat? Why do I torment myself about it? When Firmin sees Savin, he will not dare lift his little finger. God be praised! Firmin is a poltroon—thatI know, and why should I fear?”
Half-past two.
“How the hours creep! Oh, what if Firmin should attack him from behind? Yes, that is what he woulddo—the coward! He would take him unawares. AndIam the cause! Oh, no, no! It cannot be!”
Catherine hurriedly dressed herself, determined to seek her husband and end her apprehensive suspense. As she crossed the threshold the air made her shiver and she turned back, and while searching for her shawl she regained a share of her wonted composure.
“After all,” she reflected aloud, “I am foolish. If Firmin, as is probable, becomes frightened and runs home, I shall only get deeper into trouble. At this hour all is settled, one way or the other, but Savin probably is quite safe and uninjured. Firmin is too much of a coward to carry out his threat. And why should I show such an interest, anyway? Why, indeed?”
In a nearly tranquil mood she again seated herself at the window. But her tranquillity did not last long. Soon she was assailed by doubts and emotions that brought fresh tears to her eyes.
“But what if he be dead at this instant? What if he were so far from here that I could not have heard the report?”
A revulsive paroxysm of grief and remorse made her moan piteously.
“Who knows but that he may be dying with no one near to help him?”
How terrible is remorse! Catherine, during those moments of suspense, suffered untold anguish, and when at last she could endure it no longer, she snatched up her wrap and rushed out into the night. The clock tinkled four as she closed the door behind her. Possessed with the one idea of finding her husband, she hurried on, but just as she entered the wood she heard a loud reverberating report.
“O God! I am too late!” cried the distracted woman, as she fell on her knees like a sobbing suppliant. Soon, however, she recovered herself in a measure, but instead of flying to Savin’s side, her one thought was to get home as rapidly as possible.
“They must find me alone and asleep,” she murmured, “when they come to break the news.”
In her confusion it did not occur to her that Savin might be only wounded and that immediate relief might save him. Nor did she dream that anybody could have seen her leave the house—only to return precipitately after the shot was fired, and lock the door, which all night had remained unlocked, behind her.
Mounting the staircase she entered her bed-room and prepared for bed. But her every nerve was on the alert. The ticking of the little clock on the mantelpiece sounded like a cannon in her ears. What a dreadful suspense! Would they never come? In a waiting, listening attitude she seated herself by the window.
“Do I hear footsteps on the walk?” she asked herself. “No, it is only the beating of my heart.”
A death-like soundlessness prevailed.
“Oh, what a demon is that Firmin! I would kill him if he stood before me now,” she exclaimed.
Five o’clock sounded.
“I hear a step on the pebbles. Thank Heaven! somebody is coming. Good God! how my heart throbs. But I must feign sleep or I am lost. They are knocking at the door. Now to play my part. Oh, Holy Mother, forgive my sin! Remorse—no, it is my conscience—makes me cowardly.”
Tremblingly she leaned out of the window and looked.
“God be praised!” she cried. “It is Savin.”
Mad with joy, and penitent as Magdalen, she sped down-stairs, drew the bolt, tore open the door, and seizing Savin’s arm attempted to lead him within.
“At last!” she breathlessly cried. She noticed nothing strange in his appearance, so delighted was she to know that he was living. The gamekeeper surveyed his wife with unsteady eyes. Any other person would have seen that the poor fellow was wounded. Catherine saw nothing of the sort. His expression was awful in its intensity. Convinced that his wife was the cause of his wounds, he had dragged himself home to avenge himself, should he retain sufficient strength. With superhuman effort he had walked the whole distance alone. Blind to everything but the one thought that Savin had been spared to her, she attempted to embrace him.
“Miserable hypocrite!” he shouted. And with a great effort he raised his hand and struck her face.
“So violence and brutality are to be the reward for my penitence. Very well,” she wildly exclaimed, her better feelings again overpowered.
Without hesitation she slammed the door in Savin’s face and turned the key. Losing his balance, Savin uttered a groan as he fell on the steps with a thud.
Again the young woman mounted the staircase in anger.
“Why do I ever try to conciliate him?” she said to herself. “Twice he has repulsed me when I have tried to bring about amiable relations. But I have finished. Let him strike me again if he dares.”
Now that she had seen him safe and well, as she supposed, her anxiety ceased. She reproached herself for having passed the night in worrying. “What a nightI have passed! And all for nothing! But it is over now. I shall never be such a fool again.”
By some strange fatality, each time either of them had made overtures to the other some awkward step on the part of the latter had prevented a reconciliation. Reflecting upon this fact, Catherine became the more incensed. Seated upon the edge of her bed she waited. At about half-past six she heard approaching footsteps. Suddenly an awful shriek was given, and then followed the sound of running feet. Catherine listened with every nerve on the alert. Soon a voice said: “Firmin is the man who dealt this blow—the ruffian!”
“What can have happened?” Catherine asked herself, as she crept to the window and looked out. The heavens away in the east were violet and rose tinted; while Aurora, beautiful as a dream, was ascending the sky.
“He is dead,” said a voice under the window.
“Dead, dead!” repeated Catherine, her eyes dilating with horror. “Merciful heavens! Not dead?”
She vaguely comprehended that they were speaking of her husband. A low murmur of voices arose from the spot where the gamekeeper lay; but the peasants, superstitiously awed, dared not touch the body, and all were speaking in suppressed tones. More than one whispered to his neighbor that Madame Catherine might be able to name the murderer.
“She is a D’Angerolles, you know,” added another, significantly.
Every moment some new-comer joined the crowd which surrounded poor Savin’s body.
“Come, let us go inside,” at last suggested one of the men. But upon trying the door he found it locked,and knocked loudly. Endeavoring to compose herself, Catherine hastily arranged her dress, and crossed the room toward the staircase. In passing before the mirror that surmounted the mantelpiece she involuntarily looked in the glass. By the dim gray light a shadow seemed to rest upon her face.
“My God! what is it?” she cried in terror.
Lighting a candle, she gazed once more into the little glass. In the glimmering, flickering light she saw upon her livid cheek the traces of a bloody hand. Savin’s five fingers, which had been covered with blood from his wound, when he struck his wife, had left their imprint on her face. In a moment more she would have faced the throng with those marks upon her face—by which her husband had branded her as a criminal.
“Look! Madame Catherine has struck a light. She must be coming down,” said Mathieu.
“Hadn’t we better break it to her gently?” suggested somebody.
“Bah!” replied a woman. “She probably knew all about it before we did.”
Meantime Catherine washed away the stains as well as she could, but it seemed to her as though some of them never could be effaced. Down below all wondered why she was so long in coming. At length, after washing her face several times, she descended the stairs.
When she appeared on the threshold, her countenance, mobile and composed, was scrutinized by all, and suspiciously by many. On the doorstep, just as he had fallen, lay poor Savin. Catherine saw him, and a desolate cry escaped her. Falling on her knees she drew his head upon her lap, and with a passionate moan, more of remorse than of despair, she stroked hiscold face. But to the spectators present it seemed but a bit of clever acting, and they manifested signs of distrust of her.
“She is playing arôle,” cried Mathieu, sneeringly, but he was in error. For as she now looked upon his pale dead face, so drawn and still, all hatred of her husband disappeared, and her being was scourged by the thought that he had met his death because of her.
Suddenly a wild hope filled her heart. Leaning over her husband’s prostrate form, she pressed her ear against his breast.
“He still lives!” she cried. “He lives!”
Realizing that her hope was not in vain, her tears ceased to well up in her swollen eyes.
“Help me,” she commanded, as she tried to lift the body in her arms. Several in the crowd came forward to assist her. Her emotion nearly convinced them of her innocence, and only one among them, Andoche, intuitively felt that she was guilty, and yet sincere in her grief.
A mattress was brought from the house and the gamekeeper was carefully placed upon it.
“You, Lucien,” said Catherine, to a little boy of fifteen who was standing near, “you must run to Quarré and bring Monsieur Morris, the doctor, at once.”
When he was removed within, Catherine laved Savin’s wounds. A single discharge of lead had entered the chest on the left side a little below the heart. Profuse bleeding had rendered him insensible, but his heart was still beating.
“He is not dead! No, no! He breathes!” Catherine kept repeating. “Listen, George, don’t you hear him breathe?”
George was a young student of Trinquelin who possessed no little intelligence.
“Yes, he is living,” he declared. So great was her joy at this assurance that all now felt fully convinced of her innocence.
Meanwhile, Andoche, who alone felt undeceived, left the others, determined to follow the trail of blood which indicated the way the wounded man had taken. This trail led him to a little crossway where all signs ceased. At the right a tuft of high shoots had two or three broken branches, and the leaves were scattered. This, then, had been the scene of the assassination. The murderer had posted himself behind the accusing shrubbery and had fired at short range.
Little Lucien returned with the doctor, who at a moment’s notice had mounted his horse, anxious to answer so extraordinary a summons. Already the intelligence had spread with that rapidity so characteristic of bad news, and from Quarré to Trinquelin the matter was being discussed.
It was now broad daylight. Just behind the doctor was observed approaching the Chief of Police and one of his subordinates. A great commotion now prevailed. Since the day of the great stampede no such crowd had collected within a radius of twenty miles. From St. Benoit, from Trinquelin, Bordichon, and all the neighboring villages, people had assembled. When Bruno heard the startling news he entered his home completely prostrated.
“Poor Catherine! Poor little woman!” he cried, in his grief. He did not doubt that she was the cause of Savin’s death, and he was utterly wretched in the consciousness that his love for her neither increased nor diminished with this discovery.
From all sides rose one cry. All were unanimous in their decision: “Firmin is the guilty man.”
When the doctor examined Savin, all looked anxiously for his verdict. At last it came:
“He is not dead, but there is no hope of saving him,” he said, soberly.
Catherine gave one heart-rending shriek and threw herself at the doctor’s feet.
“Oh, save him! Save him, I beseech you!” she cried in anguish.
“My poor woman, I am powerless. He can live but a few moments.”
By this time the gendarmes had entered the yard and were seeking information.
“There are only two men capable of killing Barrau,” said one red-haired old gossip who felt it her duty to say something.
“Who are they?”
“Why, Madame Barrau’s lovers, of course.”
“You mean Firmin?”
“Yes, and Bruno, too.”
“What, young Bruno?”
“Why not?”
At this moment little Sidonie appeared. From the instant she learned of the crime she had been a prey to tormenting doubts. Bruno’s words on the day of the wedding recurred to her mind.
“For her,” he had said, “I would be capable of anything—even of crime.”
“Of crime,” repeated the lame girl, who, though she trembled like a leaf, possessed an unshaken love for Bruno.
She arrived just in time to hear Bruno accused. Aburning desire to defend him filled her soul, but another feeling kept her silent. The moment had not come to take up his defence. When the accusation became formal, then would be her time.
The conversation was continued, everybody having a word to say on the subject.
“Young Bruno,” said Suzanne the bride, “surely he is too honorable to have dreamed of such a thing. Oh, no!”
“That is all very well to say,” returned the red-haired gossip, “but when a man is in love with a coquette, he sometimes comes pretty near being a villain.”
“You are an old scandal-monger, Madame Calasse, permit me to say,” broke in Andoche, who had just returned from his tour of investigation.
“Well, nobody asked your opinion, sir,” she retorted.
“No: I give it unsolicited, and nobody here can prevent me, either.”
“You scoundrel!”
“You viper!”
“Come, come,” interposed Sidonie, indignantly. “Don’t dispute in the presence of death. A poor soul is dying.”
“Pooh, little simpleton! You are a great one to talk. You will have enough to do ifyoustand up for Bruno.”
“That is my affair,” replied Sidonie.
Just then Barrau made a movement. In a sort of convulsion he turned upon his right side.
For a moment the doctor seemed encouraged.
“Perhaps he can name his murderer,” said the Chief of Police.
“There is no need of that. We all know,” ejaculated one of the women.
This statement was greeted with an indecent burst of laughter from Mademoiselle Faillot, who had come into the house, as it seemed, solely for the purpose of destroying by her innuendos the good impression which Catherine had created.
But the Chief of Police, Monsieur Banastre, was a loyal, intelligent soldier, and was endowed with a tact rarely found among men.
“My good woman,” said he to Rosalie, “it is forusto find out the criminal. You need not play the spy.”
“What!” gasped Léocadia, “you do not care for our information, then? Why, the police are supposed to protect——”
“Mademoiselle,” interrupted Banastre, “do not waste your eloquence upon me. Rosalie wishes to imply that the presumable assassin is Firmin, the valet.”
“Certainly,” Léocadia answered.
“Ah, well, as yet we do not know. Everybody says it, doubtless everybody thinks it, but I should prefer to hear from the wounded man.”
“From the dead!” solemnly remarked Dr. Morris.
The two men made a military salute, and the people superstitiously crossed themselves.
Catherine, at the dead man’s side, was weeping bitterly, and praying with a fervor of which she had felt incapable eight days before. It was a sad scene, but Banastre perceived what it was his duty to do.
“Show me the home of Firmin Valeau,” he sternly ordered.
Little Sidonie came forward and pointed out the way.
“You see the little red roof there—quite new?” she asked.
“Is that it?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Thanks, little one.—Come, Plagnolles, we must go.”
With regular tread they started down the slope, followed by many curious peasants. Now that Savin was dead, why should they remain longer here?
But by the time the chief and his assistant entered the little enclosure of which Firmin was proprietor, many had lingered behind to discuss the crime by themselves, and to express their opinions without fear of reprimand.
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